Chapter Thirty-Seven
Aleksei
I stalk in the direction of my office, still tasting Stella on my lips.
My body hums with residual pleasure, but something else gnaws at me. The way she yielded, how completely she surrendered — it awakens something primal I’ve fought to keep buried.
Get it together, mudak.
I clench my fists. The punishment was necessary. She needs to learn boundaries, to understand the consequences of disobedience. But the intensity of my response… that wasn’t just about teaching her a lesson.
“ Blyad .” I run a hand over the bristles along my jawline, remembering how she trembled beneath me. The sound of her begging. The way she—
My phone rings. It’s the nurse. “Mr. Tarasov? Bobik is asking for you.”
My son’s name snaps me back to reality. I straighten my shoulders, forcing thoughts of Stella from my mind. This is exactly why I don’t allow emotional entanglements. They’re a distraction.
But as I head toward the hidden staircase, the truth burns in my gut — I lost control. For those moments in her room, I wasn’t the calculated Pakhan teaching a lesson. I was a man consumed by need.
I tap my security code into the panel, the hidden door sliding open. Time to focus on what really matters.
My son needs me.
The hidden door slides shut behind me with a soft hiss. I enter my code again, double-checking the security panel’s red light. No chances. Not with Bobik.
My footsteps echo up the staircase, each step taking me further from the man who just dominated Stella. Up here, I’m not the Bratva boss. Not the weapons dealer. Just a father trying his best. Bobik’s papa .
The stairs open into a warmly lit hallway. Bobik’s artwork lines the walls — his latest fascination with marine biology evident in carefully drawn whales and octopi. The security panel by his door requires another code.
The lock disengages with a click. I roll my shoulders, letting the tension drain.
I push open Bobik’s door, and my heart lightens at how his face brightens at the sight of me. He’s propped up in bed, surrounded by marine biology books and his tablet.
“Is everything alright, syn? ” I look around the room; nothing seems to be out of order.
“Yes.” He nods almost shyly. “I wanted to show you what I found.” He waves me over, patting the edge of his bed. “Did you know octopuses have three hearts?”
I settle beside him, careful not to disturb his arrangement of books. “Three hearts? That’s impressive.”
“And their blood is blue!” His eyes shine with enthusiasm, but I catch the slight tremor in his voice. The same tremor I’ve heard since Olga’s passing.
“ Neveroyatno .” I pick up one of his books, letting him guide me through the pages. “Tell me more.”
He launches into a detailed explanation about the lifecycle of a squid, but his hands fidget with his blanket — a tell-tale sign that he’s masking deeper emotions.
“Are you hungry?” I check my watch. “It’s past lunchtime.”
“Can we have pelmeni ?” His voice softens. “Like Mama used to make?”
The request squeezes my chest. “Of course, malysh . I’ll have the kitchen prepare them right away.”
I text the kitchen staff, then turn back to find Bobik staring at his hands. “Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Mama can see my drawings from heaven?”
I swallow hard, reaching for his small hand. “Every single one, malysh . She must be very proud of you.”
His fingers tighten around mine. We sit in comfortable silence until a gentle knock announces lunch. The aroma of pelmeni fills the room as I help him arrange his tray.
“Will you stay?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
“ Konechno .” I pull up a chair. “Someone needs to learn more about these three-hearted creatures.”
His smile, though tinged with sadness, is genuine. We eat together, his voice growing stronger as he shares more ocean facts, each bite of his mother’s favorite dish a bittersweet comfort.
I notice Bobik’s gaze drifting to his window as he finishes the last pelmen . The afternoon sun turns the garden gold, making the pool shimmer like polished glass.
“Papa…” His voice carries that hopeful tone that always twists my gut. “Could we maybe go outside? Just for a little while?”
My jaw clenches. The back garden is secure and enclosed, surrounded by twelve-foot walls and constant surveillance. But the risk—
“Please?” He sets down his fork. “I’ve been reading about photosynthesis. And I want to see how the sun affects different plants.”
“ Syn , you know it’s not safe.” The words come automatically, the same response I’ve given a hundred times.
His shoulders slump slightly, but he rallies. “We could go when it’s darker? No one would see then.”
I run a hand over my jaw, security protocols and evacuation routes cycling through my mind.
“I promise I’ll be careful.” His voice drops low. “I just… I miss feeling the wind.”
Blyad.
I study my son’s face — Olga’s gentle features mixed with my determination. He’s been trapped up here since she passed, watching life through windows while processing his mother’s death.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “Just for a while.”
His entire face lights up. “ Pravda? Really?”
“Under strict conditions.” I hold up my hand before his excitement can build further. “We come in the moment I say so. No arguments.”
He nods eagerly, already reaching for his wheelchair controls. “Can we go by the roses? Mama always said they smell sweetest at this time of day.”
My chest tightens. “ Da , malysh . We can check the roses.”
I guide Bobik’s wheelchair through a hidden hallway out of the manor and down toward a private section of the gardens.
The security cameras track our movement, but I scan the perimeter anyway.
Old habits. The walls cast long shadows in the fading light, but they’re not tall enough to ease my paranoia.
“ Papa , look!” Bobik points to a monarch butterfly landing on a nearby rose. His excitement makes my hands tighten on the wheelchair handles. Too loud. But there’s no one to hear except the guards I trust with my life — and his.
“Here.” I stop at a small clearing between the roses and a marble fountain. The spot offers clear sightlines in all directions while keeping us concealed from the main house. The fountain’s gentle splash will mask our conversation.
Perfect.
“Can we stay here for a bit?” Bobik asks, his head tilted back to catch the sunlight on his face.
I position his chair so he can see both the roses and the koi pond beyond the fountain. Close enough to the house for a quick retreat if needed, but far enough that he can pretend, just for a moment, that he’s not a prisoner in his own home.
The spot is defensible. Protected. As safe as anywhere can be in my world.
“ Papa , did you know birds play games?” Bobik tracks a sparrow’s path with eager eyes. “I read about it. They have special movements, like a dance.”
“ Da? ” I settle onto a nearby bench.
“Like badminton, but with feathers and beaks instead of rackets.” His hands move animatedly as he explains.
“Birds who play tennis.” I chuckle.
“Not tennis, badminton.” He looks around us. “I bet we could play over there if we had a net. And rackets.”
“You want to play badminton? Now?” I frown at him.
This kid.
He nods eagerly. “I bet it would be good for me, too, Papa.” He flexes a puny bicep. “I could build my muscles… like you.”
Jesus.
“Can we do it?” His eyes sparkle. “Can we?”
I exhale a deep breath. “ Da , malysh . Let’s play one of these bird games of yours.” I reach for my phone, getting Sasha. “We need a badminton set.”
“A what?”
“You heard me. There’s a strip mall a few blocks away. There’s a sports store there. They should have such a thing. Send a man.” I end the call. Bobik is grinning from ear to ear. The grin is still there twenty minutes later when Sasha’s man arrives carrying a large box.
As the men set up the makeshift court, I help Bobik position his wheelchair at an angle that gives him the best reach, showing him how to grip the racket properly. His determined expression mirrors my own as he practices a few swings.
“Like this, Papa ?”
“Almost.” I adjust his grip slightly. “Try to keep your wrist loose.”
We start with gentle volleys, the shuttlecock arcing lazily between us. Each time Bobik makes contact, his face lights up with triumph. I find myself matching his enthusiasm, calling out encouragement.
“Good hit, syn! ”
The shuttlecock sails past me, and I exaggerate my dive to catch it. Bobik’s laughter rings out, pure and unrestrained. When was the last time I heard him laugh like that?
“Did you see that, Papa ? I got you!”
“Lucky shot.” I grin, sending the shuttlecock back in a high arc.
Bobik wheels himself into position, tongue poking out in concentration. The racket connects with a satisfying thwack. Back and forth we go, our movements falling into an easy rhythm.
Bobik’s laughter echoes across the lawn as I miss another shot, this time genuinely caught off guard by his improving aim. The sound wraps around me like a warm blanket, pushing away thoughts of business, betrayal, and blood.
“You’re getting slow, Papa !” he teases, readying his racket for another volley.
I retrieve the shuttlecock, shaking my head with mock indignation. “Slow? We’ll see about that, malysh .”
His giggles fill the air again as we resume our game, the setting sun painting everything in soft gold. In this moment, nothing exists beyond the arc of the shuttlecock and the joy in my son’s eyes.
The shuttlecock sails past my shoulder again. I make a show of stumbling, drawing another burst of delighted laughter from Bobik.
“That’s five points for me, Papa !” He pumps his small fist in the air, racket dangling forgotten in his other hand. “ Ya vyigrayu! I’m winning!”
“Only because I let you.” I wink, retrieving the shuttlecock from a rose bush. The thorns snag my sleeve, but I barely notice. My focus is entirely on my son’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
This is what normal fathers do, isn’t it?
Play games with their children in the backyard, pretend to lose, celebrate their victories.
For a moment, I can almost forget about the armed guards patrolling the perimeter, the security cameras tracking our every move, the weight of the Glock pressed against my back.
“Ready?” I hold up the shuttlecock.
Bobik adjusts his grip on the racket just as I showed him, his face pinched in concentration. The expression is pure Olga — the mother he lost so recently.
“ Da, Papa ! Serve it high!”
I comply, sending the shuttlecock in a gentle arc. Bobik wheels himself into position with growing confidence, his movements more fluid after a little practice. The racket connects again.
“Did you see that?” His eyes shine with pride. “Right over the net!”
“ Molodets , syn .” I return the shot. “Your aim is getting better.”
He catches the shuttlecock without hitting it back. “Papa?” He looks a little anxious. “Can we do this again tomorrow?”
A lump forms in my throat, and then I find myself nodding. “Of course, malysh . It’s a date.” I wink and then laugh out loud as he lobs a shot at me.
Another rally begins, our movements falling into an easy rhythm. No Bratva politics here. No medical equipment or hidden doors. Just a father and son playing a game in the afternoon sun, sharing something pure and uncomplicated.
For these precious moments, we’re just us.