Chapter Fourteen
Aleksei
Breakfast on the terrace has become my one concession to leisure.
The quiet helps settle my mind before diving into the day’s chaos. No phone calls. No violence. Just coffee and the morning breeze.
The sun warms my face as I survey my domain. Twenty acres of prime real estate sprawling below the cliff. Gardens manicured to perfection. Olympic pool glinting like polished sapphire. Mine. All of it bought with blood and bullets.
I sip my coffee, savoring the bitter bite. My chef’s pastries sit untouched. Old habits die hard. Growing up in the Bratva, being trained for survival, makes a man suspicious of plenty.
Birds sing in the jacaranda trees. A hummingbird hovers near the flowering vines. Peaceful. Almost enough to make a man forget what he is.
The sound of footsteps on marble breaks the spell.
Sasha appears at the terrace door, hesitating. His face tells me everything before he opens his mouth. Something’s wrong.
“Speak,” I say, setting down my cup.
He approaches, jaw tight. “Problem with Fermont.”
I straighten, appetite gone. “What kind of problem?”
“He’s dead.”
The words land like a punch to the sternum. “ Chto? What happened?”
Sasha shifts his weight. Not like him to show discomfort. “Plan was proceeding. Team was in position. Target returned home unexpectedly. Spotted our men. Panicked. Tried to escape.”
“And?”
“Crashed his car half a block from his house. Impact killed him instantly.”
Coffee turns to acid in my stomach. Ten years of searching. Ten years plotting the perfect revenge. And the bastard dies in a fucking car crash?
“You’re telling me he got spooked and killed himself before we could touch him?”
“ Da . He took a corner too fast. Car flipped. Hit a pole.”
I slam my fist on the table. China rattles. Coffee sloshes over the rim. “He was supposed to suffer like Bobik suffers! He was supposed to live knowing what he did!”
The hummingbird darts away, startled by my outburst. Everything falls silent.
“I’m sorry, boss. It was out of our hands.”
“Out of your fucking hands?” I snarl. “Bunch of fucking incompetent pizdas! How hard could it fucking be to cripple one fucking doctor?” My voice is rising. I pull in a breath and get myself together. “Any other casualties?” The question comes out clipped, controlled.
“Wife was home. Unharmed physically. Hysterical when police arrived.”
At least there’s that. I’ve never had a taste for killing women. Not even the wife of the man who crippled my son.
I pace the length of the terrace, mind racing. Dead means complications. Dead means police investigations. Dead means questions I don’t need asked.
“Blyad!” I spit. “Clean it up. Make it look like an accident.”
“Already working on it. But...” Sasha hesitates. “She was screaming about murder when officers arrived. Several witnesses.”
Perfect. A hysterical widow crying conspiracy. Just what I need.
I pull out my phone, scrolling to a contact saved under “Maintenance.” Three rings before he answers.
“Tarasov.” Captain Mendez’s voice carries the permanent weariness of a cop on the take. “It’s early.”
“We have a situation. Tomas Fermont. Car accident on Cedar Avenue.”
A beat of silence. “I’m familiar with the case.”
“Make it clean. Accident report. Toxicology showing alcohol.”
“There were witnesses, Tarasov. His wife is claiming—”
“Grief makes people irrational. She’s in shock. Confused.” I keep my voice even. “The report will show he lost control of his vehicle. Nothing more.”
Mendez sighs. “This’ll cost you.”
“Double the usual. Transfer within the hour.”
“Triple. This is high-profile. Doctor in an affluent neighborhood.”
My jaw clenches. “Fine. But I want the file closed by the end of the week.”
“What about the ME’s office?”
“Handle it. That’s what I pay you for.” I end the call before he can negotiate further.
Sasha waits, impassive as ever. Over a decade at my side have taught him when to speak and when to disappear into the background.
“Contact Viktor at Channel Six,” I instruct. “Get ahead of the story. Tragic accident. Respected doctor. Perhaps hint at fatigue from overwork. Something sympathetic.”
“ Da , boss. Anything else?”
I stare out at the perfect blue of my swimming pool. “Monitor police channels. Any chatter about suspicious circumstances, I want to know.”
Sasha nods. “And the widow?”
I consider this. “Leave her. She’ll be dismissed as traumatized. If she becomes problematic... we’ll reassess.”
“Understood.” He turns to leave. When Sasha’s footsteps fade, I sink back into my chair. The pastries have gone cold. The coffee tastes like ash.
Ten years hunting Tomas Larkin — no, Fermont.
Ten years imagining the moment I’d watch realization dawn on his face.
The moment he’d understand exactly who I was and why I’d come.
The fear when he realized what awaited him.
Not death — that would be too merciful. But the same helplessness he inflicted on my son.
The same lifetime of dependence. Of limitations.
I’d pictured everything. All the years of misery he’d face.
All wasted because the coward couldn’t handle a car.
The irony isn’t lost on me. The man who damaged my son’s spine dies from a broken neck. Poetic, in its way. But hollow.
Justice isn’t just about death. Death is easy. Over in an instant. I wanted him to live. To endure. To understand the full weight of what he’d done.
I pick up my coffee cup, surprised to find my hand steady despite the rage churning inside. Self-control always was my greatest weapon.
The sunlight seems harsher now, the peaceful morning tainted. I’d waited a decade for proper vengeance. Patient. Calculating. Only to have it snatched away by chance.
My phone vibrates. A text from Mendez: “Wheels in motion. ME on board. Report will show elevated blood alcohol levels.”
At least that’s handled. The official story: respected doctor has a few drinks, crashes car, tragic accident. Case closed.
But not for me. Never for me.
I scroll through my phone, finding the folder labeled “B.” The photos load — my son in his various wheelchairs over the years. Age three, strapped into a contraption that swallowed his tiny body. Age seven, finally able to control a motorized version. Last week, mastering the new high-tech model.
My brilliant boy, ruined by that fuck-up of a doctor.
And now that doctor is dead. Not suffering. Not living with the consequences. Just gone.
I set the phone down and stare at my hands. These hands have killed men. Tortured them. Broken them. But they couldn’t deliver the one thing I truly wanted — justice for Bobik.
The sun climbs higher, burning away the morning mist. From here, I can see my security team patrolling the perimeter. Keeping me safe. Keeping my secrets locked away.
Bobik remains the biggest secret of all. Hidden from the world for his protection. The sole vulnerability in my armored existence.
If anyone discovered him — discovered what he means to me — they’d use him. Hurt him. That’s why no one can know. Not Sofia. Not the Bratva council. No one except Diana and a handful of trusted men.
I light a cigarette, letting smoke fill my lungs. A rare indulgence these days. The nicotine does nothing to calm the storm inside me.
Fermont dead. The perfect revenge plan shattered. The careful groundwork of the past decade rendered useless in a single moment of panic.
I exhale slowly, watching smoke dissipate into nothing. Like my plans. Like my justice.
My phone vibrates again. Mendez: “Wife sedated at Memorial. Son disappeared from hospital. Daughter staying with mother.”
Son and daughter. I’d known Fermont had children, of course. Part of basic intelligence. But they’d been secondary considerations. Collateral, not targets.
I type back: “Keep me informed.”
Maybe there’s still something to be salvaged here. The doctor’s dead, but his legacy remains. His family. His reputation.
No. I shake my head, disgusted with myself. The children aren’t responsible for their father’s sins. I’ve never been the kind of monster who punishes innocents for their parents’ mistakes.
I think of Bobik again, the way his face lit up when I brought him the new books on dinosaurs. His eager explanations of extinction theories, hands gesturing excitedly while his legs lay useless beneath the blanket.
My son will never run. Never climb. Never stand on his own two feet to face the world.
All because of Tomas Fermont’s drunken incompetence.
“ Chert voz’mi! ” I slam my fist down on the table again.
The rage I’ve contained all morning erupts. I sweep everything off the table — plates, cups, silverware — sending it crashing across the terrace. Shards of porcelain scatter like shrapnel. Coffee stains the pristine tiles.
The violence brings no relief. Just emptiness. The hollow acknowledgment that some wounds can never be healed. Some debts never truly paid.
I rake a hand through my hair, breathing hard. This isn’t like me. I don’t lose control. Ever.
Control is the one commodity I refuse to surrender. Not to my enemies. Not to my allies. Not even to myself.
I straighten my shoulders, adjusting my collar. By the time the housekeeper arrives to clean the mess, my expression is back to its usual mask of cool indifference.
“Accident,” I tell her, already walking away.
Inside my office, I pour a finger of vodka. Not my usual morning routine, but nothing about this day is usual. The liquor burns a familiar path down my throat.
I settle behind my desk, pulling up the news on my tablet.
Nothing yet about Fermont. Too recent. By tomorrow, the story will break — tragic accident claims beloved family doctor.
Brief mentions of his philanthropy and dedicated service.
Perhaps a quote from a tearful patient. All very tasteful. All carefully sanitized.
No mention of his drunken negligence in St. Petersburg. No mention of the life he ruined with his unsteady hands.
I close the tablet, unable to stomach the sanitized fiction already taking shape. The world will mourn a healer while my son remains prisoner to a body that betrayed him before he could even take his first breath.
The vodka offers no comfort, but I drink it anyway. Tradition, I suppose. Russians marking both tragedy and triumph with the same clear poison.
My phone rings. Diana’s name flashes on the screen.
“Brother.” Her voice carries that mix of affection and exasperation only she can manage. “Sasha tells me there’s been a development.”
I grunt acknowledgment. “The doctor’s dead.”
“I see.” A pause. “Not according to plan, then.”
“No. The coward crashed his car running away.”
“And this upsets you because...?”
I close my eyes. Diana always cuts through my defenses. “He was supposed to suffer, Dee. Live as Bobik lives.”
Her voice softens. “And would that have helped Bobik?”
The question catches me off-guard. “It would have been justice.”
“Justice and vengeance aren’t the same thing, Alyosha. You know that.”
I don’t respond. Can’t respond.
“Bobik needs his father. Not some twisted revenge fantasy.”
“Don’t.” The warning in my voice would make any other person retreat. Not my sister.
“The doctor’s dead. It’s over. Focus on what matters — your son. His future.”
The words land with precision, as her words always do. Diana, my mirror image, the only person who’s known me from the beginning. Who knows the boy I was before I became the man I am.
“You’re right,” I say finally. “As fucking usual.”
“Of course I am.” She hesitates. “Have you told Sofia yet? About Bobik?”
The question renews my irritation. “No. And I won’t.”
“Aleksei—”
“We’ve discussed this. Sofia will never know about my son.”
“She’s to be your wife.”
“She’s to be my business arrangement.” I drain the last of the vodka. “Nothing more.”
Diana sighs, but doesn’t push further. “Let’s speak later, brat . Try to move past this.”
The call ends, leaving me alone with thoughts I’d rather not examine. Diana’s right. The doctor’s death changes nothing for Bobik. His struggles remain the same. His needs unaltered.
Yet something persists — this nagging sense of incompletion. Of justice denied.
I push away from the desk, suddenly restless. The walls of my office, usually a sanctuary, now feel confining. I need movement. Action.
My security detail falls in step as I exit the house, heading for the garage. No destination in mind. Just the need to be moving.
Behind the wheel of the Bentley, hands gripping the leather, I find a measure of calm. Control. Direction.
I drive without conscious thought, the powerful engine responding to the slightest touch. Out the gates, down the winding coastal road. Away from the mansion. Away from the morning’s failures.
Tomas Fermont is dead. My decade-long hunt concluded not with the satisfaction of justice, but with the hollow echo of an accident report.
Yet somehow, I know this isn’t truly finished. The story that began in that St. Petersburg delivery room continues. The consequences radiating outward like ripples in water.
Fermont escaped my justice. But the waves he set in motion continue to spread, touching lives he’ll never know were connected to his.
Including mine.