Chapter Twenty-Three
Aleksei
My phone vibrates against the desk, Bobik’s name lighting up the screen. Work can wait.
“ Papa !” His excitement bursts through the speaker. “The new controls arrived for my chair. They’re incredible!”
The edge of my mouth lifts. “Show me.”
Through video, I watch him demonstrate the voice commands, his dark eyes sparkling as the chair responds to each instruction. His small hands gesture animatedly while explaining the technical specifications.
“The neural interface adapts to my thought patterns. Soon I won’t need voice commands at all.”
“ Molodets .” Pride wells in my chest. At 10, he already understands technology better than most adults. “I’ll come see it in person.”
“Really? When?”
I check the time. “Give me an hour.”
His grin mirrors his mother’s — the only thing Olga ever gave him besides life itself. The call ends, and I grab my keys, already dreading what I’ll find at the house.
The drive gives me too much time to think. Olga’s appearance at our last meeting haunts me — hollow cheeks, sallow skin, far too thin. She brushed off my questions about doctors, but there’s something wrong. I know it.
I scowl as I think about it. Bobik needs his mother, damaged spine or not. The thought of him losing her…
I press harder on the accelerator, the Bentley’s engine purring as I weave through traffic. Numbers scroll through my head — doctors to call, specialists to fly in, whatever it takes. Olga won’t accept help easily, her stubborn pride matching mine. But for Bobik’s sake, I’ll find a way.
The familiar streets of Olga’s affluent neighborhood approach. Here, away from the Bratva’s eyes, I can be just a father visiting his son. No weapons, no business, no blood. Just my son’s smile and his endless curiosity about the world.
I go through the security gates and reach the front door. It opens before I can knock. Olga’s gaunt frame fills the doorway, and my stomach clenches. Dark circles ring her eyes, her cheekbones sharp enough to cast shadows.
“Hello, Aleksei.” She tugs her cardigan tighter, but it only emphasizes her bony shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” I step closer, scanning her face. “You look—”
“It’s just early menopause.” She waves off my concern with a thin hand. “The doctor says it’s normal to feel tired.”
Bullshit. I’ve seen enough lies to recognize this one. Her eyes drop away too quickly, her shoulders too tense. Whatever’s wrong, she’s hiding it deliberately.
“Which doctor?”
“Aleksei, please.” She sighs. “I don’t need you interrogating—”
“ Papa! Come see!” Bobik’s voice rings out from inside, bright with excitement.
Olga seizes the interruption, stepping back to let me pass. “He’s been practicing with the controls all morning.”
I want to grab her arm, force answers about her health, but Bobik’s wheelchair hums as he maneuvers into view. His face lights up at the sight of me, and for now, I let Olga’s secrets slide. My son needs this moment more than I need answers.
But I won’t let it go. Whatever’s going on with Olga’s, I’ll find out. If she won’t tell me willingly, there are other ways to get medical information.
I follow Bobik into his room, taking in the familiar sight of science textbooks stacked on every surface. His latest obsession — quantum mechanics — fills an entire shelf. Not typical reading for a 10-year-old, but my son has never been typical.
“Look what I learned, Papa .” Bobik wheels to his desk, picking up a model of DNA. His small fingers trace the double helix. “Did you know our genes can be modified using CRISPR technology? The applications for medical treatment are fascinating.”
My chest tightens as he launches into a detailed explanation of genetic manipulation. The words flow effortlessly — terms and descriptions that go straight over my head. His mind works at a level that makes me both proud and ache for what could have been.
“Want to play chess?” He sets aside the model, already reaching for the board. “I’ve been studying new strategies.”
I pull up a chair as he arranges the pieces. His movements are precise, methodical. Just like his approach to everything else.
“Queen’s Gambit?” He raises an eyebrow, making his first move with confidence.
I study the board, recognizing the complex opening he’s chosen. Most children his age would go for simple attacks, but Bobik thinks five moves ahead. As we trade pieces, he explains the mathematical probability of each potential outcome.
When he takes my bishop with a subtle move I didn’t see coming, his eyes light up. Not with triumph, but with pure satisfaction at getting it right.
My king falls into his carefully laid trap, leaving no escape.
“Checkmate, Papa .” He beams with happiness.
Pride swells in my chest as I tip over my king. Most fathers might feel stung losing to their little kid. But watching Bobik’s mind work — it’s better than any victory.
“Pretty good, malysh .” I lean back, studying the final position. “You saw the whole combination from the start?”
He nods, already setting up the pieces again. “The probability of success increased by 47% once you moved your knight to f3. It opened the diagonal I needed.”
Bozhe moy.
This kid.
A knock at the door interrupt his explanation.
A security guard puts his head in. “Doc’s here, boss.”
I frown, not expecting the interruption. “Send him in.”
Dr. Malhotra enters, his presence immediately shifting the energy in the room. Bobik’s excitement about chess fades, replaced by the familiar tension that comes with medical discussions.
“Mr. Tarasov.” Malhotra nods respectfully. “I was in the area and thought I’d come by. It’s time for Bobik’s three-month checkup.”
“Go ahead,” I tell him.
I lean back in my chair, watching Malhotra’s hands move with practiced efficiency over Bobik’s spine. Every touch, every measurement carries weight. The doctor’s expression remains neutral, but I catch the slight furrow of his brow when testing the lower vertebrae.
Olga hovers nearby, her bony fingers twisting the hem of her cardigan.
Our eyes meet briefly — her worry mirrors my own, though neither of us speaks it aloud.
Bobik chatters through the examination, explaining black hole theory to Malhotra, who responds with appropriate interest while continuing his work.
“Can you feel this?” Malhotra presses various points along Bobik’s legs.
“No change from last time,” Bobik reports clinically, as if discussing someone else’s body. “Sensation stops at the L4 vertebra.”
My jaw clenches. He shouldn’t know these terms, shouldn’t discuss his condition with such detachment. But that’s my son — processing everything through the lens of science, even his own paralysis.
“Good flexibility in the upper body,” Malhotra notes, helping Bobik sit up straight. “The new chair is helping with posture.”
Relief washes over Olga’s face, her shoulders dropping slightly. But I notice how Malhotra avoids my direct gaze. He’s found something he doesn’t want to discuss in front of Bobik.
“All finished,” Malhotra announces with forced cheerfulness. “You’re doing very well, Bobik.”
The words should comfort me. Instead, they set off warning bells — the kind that have kept me alive in this business. Doctors, like criminals, have tells when they’re hiding something.
I straighten in my chair, already planning how to get Malhotra alone. Whatever he’s not saying, I need to know. No matter how bad it might be.
I catch Malhotra’s subtle head tilt toward the door. After ruffling Bobik’s hair and promising to return soon, I follow the doctor outside.
The walk to his car feels endless. Each step increases the weight in my gut — that familiar sensation before bad news drops. Malhotra’s shoulders are too stiff, his pace too measured. The doctor’s usual Oxford-educated confidence has vanished.
“What aren’t you telling me?” My voice comes out harsh in the quiet street.
Malhotra turns, his dark eyes meeting mine briefly before dropping away. “Mr. Tarasov, perhaps we should—”
“Here. Now.”
He swallows hard, tugging at his collar. Most men would piss themselves facing my tone, but Malhotra’s known me long enough to push past the fear.
“ Blyad! ” I spit. “Tell me, for fuck’s sake. Is Bobik-?”
“It’s not Bobik.” His jaw works. “I went over the test results the oncologist sent through. Olga’s.”
“She did the tests?” I’m surprised. She’s been so set against cooperating in any way.
He nods. “It doesn’t look good, sir. The blood samples…” Malhotra pulls in a breath. “Her white cell count is severely elevated.”
My teeth grind together. “Stop dancing around it.”
“Stage four lymphoma. Aggressive. It’s spread to her—”
The rest of his words fade into white noise. Lymphoma . Cancer. Stage four.
A fucking death sentence.
My little boy is about to lose his mama.
“How long?” The words scrape my throat.
“Without treatment? Not long. Days? Weeks?” Malhotra’s clinical tone cracks. “With aggressive chemotherapy, we might—”
“Arrange it. Whatever it costs.”
“Sir, she’s refusing treatment. Says she doesn’t want Bobik to see her suffer through—”
My fist connects with the car door, the dull thud echoing down the quiet street. Stubborn suka . Always putting Bobik first, even now.
Yebat’!
Why the fuck didn’t she tell me?
“Make her understand.” I grab Malhotra’s collar, yanking him closer. “You’re her doctor. Convince her.”
“I’ve tried.” He doesn’t flinch, used to my outbursts after years of treating Bobik. “She’s made her choice.”
Choice? What fucking choice is there when Bobik needs his mother?
The familiar rage builds — the kind that usually ends in blood. But violence won’t fix this. Can’t beat cancer into submission or threaten it away.
For the first time since taking control of the Bratva, I feel utterly powerless.