Chapter Forty-One
Aleksei
I study James Whitmore’s carefully neutral expression across his mahogany desk, noting the slight tension in his jaw that betrays his discomfort.
The man has always been a snake, but a predictable one. Until now.
“I appreciate your concerns, Aleksei.” He smooths his hands over his desk calendar. “But you understand the delicacy of these matters. The administration has certain… expectations regarding ethical sourcing.”
Ethical sourcing.
What the fuck?
I lean forward, keeping my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest. “Interesting timing, James. Especially given our decade-long arrangement regarding such… delicacies.”
“Times change.” He adjusts his tie; there’s a tremor in his fingers. “The public demands greater transparency. Child labor allegations are particularly damaging in today’s climate.”
Motherfucker!
I keep my gaze level. “Allegations supplied by Gianni Maranzano, no doubt.” I watch his slight flinch confirm my suspicion. “The same Maranzano whose factories employ children as young as eight.”
“I can’t comment on other contractors’ practices.” His eyes shift to his computer screen, avoiding direct contact.
My hands itch to grab him by that perfectly knotted tie and extract the truth, but I maintain my position. “Ten years of clean inspections, James. Ten years of meeting every specification. Now, suddenly, there are concerns?”
“The committee has received compelling evidence—”
“ Blyad ,” I cut him off, my control slipping. “We both know this has nothing to do with evidence.”
A bead of sweat forms at his temple. Good. Let him sweat.
“These decisions involve multiple departments,” he hedges. “My influence is limited.”
I recognize the lie in every carefully chosen word. The rage in my chest threatens to explode, but I keep it contained. Barely. This practiced diplomatic dance disguises a simple truth — he’s already sided with Maranzano.
I shift tactics, letting a hint of sympathy enter my voice. “How’s Katherine doing these days?”
His eyes narrow at the mention of his daughter. “Ah. I was wondering when we’d get to this.” He leans back in his seat, his hands folded together on the desk in front of him. “Actually, she’s made a brave decision to go public with her struggles.”
What?
“Tomorrow’s papers will carry our press release detailing her battle with addiction.” He threads his fingers together. “My PR people anticipate that the response will be overwhelmingly positive. The public appreciates transparency, seeing real families face real challenges.”
My jaw tightens. The old snake has turned even his daughter’s addiction into political capital.
“My people believe it will help humanize my image.” His lips curl into a cool smile. “Show I’m not just another heartless politician, but a father supporting his child through difficult times.”
I remember the photos of Katherine passed out in her car, the cocaine residue on her dashboard. What was meant to be leverage has become his strength.
But I’m not finished. I reach into my jacket, withdrawing a slim folder.
“Speaking of transparency,” I tap the folder against my knee. “I’ve been reviewing some interesting property records. Your funds in the Caymans… the ones that don’t appear on any of your disclosure forms?”
I watch Whitmore’s face, expecting at least a flicker of concern. Instead, his smile widens.
“Ah yes, those funds.” He reaches for a leather portfolio on his desk. “I’ve been meaning to discuss my latest humanitarian initiative. The paperwork was just finalized this afternoon, but it’s been in the pipeline for some time.”
He slides several documents across the desk. Clean, official transfers into a variety of charitable foundations and sustainable development projects. All perfectly legitimate. All impossible to attack without looking like I’m opposing children’s hospitals and renewable energy.
Clever bastard.
“I’ve always believed in giving back,” he continues smoothly. “These investments will create lasting positive change in communities that need it most.”
And probably funnel back to his fat coffers, the fucker.
My fingers tighten imperceptibly on the folder. He’s been preparing for this, moving his money into untouchable positions. What I thought was my trump card has been transformed into evidence of his philanthropic nature.
“Of course, there’s still much work to be done.” He closes the portfolio with a satisfied pat. “But I’m proud to be part of the solution rather than the problem.”
The smug certainty in his tone makes my blood boil, but I keep my expression neutral. I’ve been outplayed — for now. The rage simmers beneath my skin, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it.
“How… admirable,” I say, my voice carrying just a hint of ice. The word tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Are you here to discuss these matters with me? Because I believe the discussion regarding the arms contract is concluded. I hope you understand that my hands are tied.” His eyes are cool. The fucker knows I can’t work around this.
At least he thinks I can’t.
The solution crystallizes in my mind as I observe him for a moment. Gianni Maranzano has signed his own death warrant. My hands unclench as cold certainty replaces hot rage.
“I understand completely.” I rise smoothly, adjusting my cuffs. “These things happen in business.”
James blinks, clearly thrown by my sudden shift in demeanor. He doesn’t realize he’s just witnessed a man choosing murder over negotiation. The decision settles in my chest like a sheet of ice.
“Perhaps we can revisit this in the future,” he offers, standing to match my movement.
I nod, already mentally calculating how quickly Sasha can come up with a plan to neutralize Maranzano without drawing attention to ourselves. The Italian’s ego will make him easy to find — he’s never been one for subtlety or discretion.
“Of course.” I extend my hand, gripping his slightly too hard. “Thank you for your time, James.”
His relief is tangible as I turn to leave. He thinks he’s managed this confrontation well. He has no idea of the wheels he just set in motion.
As soon as I’m back at the hotel, I press Sasha’s contact and begin issuing orders. Some problems require diplomatic solutions. Others need a more permanent approach.
Once finished, I walk up to the window. The Peninsula suite offers a panoramic view of DC’s skyline, but I barely notice it as I pour myself three fingers of whiskey.
The amber liquid burns, doing little to dull my rage at Whitmore’s betrayal.
Ten years of partnership destroyed by Maranzano’s maneuvering.
My phone vibrates. Dr. Malhotra’s name lights up the screen.
“Mr. Tarasov.” His crisp Oxford accent carries unmistakable excitement. “I’ve just received the preliminary results from Bobik’s latest tests.”
I grip the phone tighter. “Go on.”
“The spinal regeneration markers are incredibly promising. The new treatment protocol…” He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “Well, to put it simply, it’s exceeding our most optimistic projections.”
The whiskey glass freezes halfway to my mouth. “What exactly are you saying?”
“With the right combination of AI-guided therapy and targeted stem cell treatments, we could be looking at significant mobility improvements within months.”
My chest tightens. “Define significant.”
“Partial weight-bearing might be possible.” His voice carries carefully measured optimism. “Perhaps even assisted walking with proper support.”
I set the glass down, moving to the window. The city lights blur as I process his words. Walking. My son might walk.
“The risks?” I keep my voice steady despite the hope threatening to crack through.
“Present but manageable. The expense will be high; around the ten million mark. But the AI modeling suggests—”
“Cost is no object,” I cut him off. “Whatever he needs.”
“Of course.” There’s a smile in his voice. “I’ll have the full protocol ready for your review by morning.”
I end the call, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The rage at Whitmore and Maranzano recedes, replaced by possibilities I’d never dared consider. Bobik standing. Taking steps. The image fills my chest with unfamiliar warmth.
I grab my phone again, fingers already typing the transfer authorization to Dr. Malhotra’s research facility. Ten million dollars. The amount barely registers — I’d pay ten times that to see my son walk.
My hands shake slightly as I complete the transaction. The screen blurs, and I blink hard, surprised to find moisture in my eyes.
Fuck.
I haven’t cried since… since my mother disappeared.
The memory of Bobik’s face during our badminton game fills my mind — his pure joy at simply being outside, playing like any normal child. And now… now he might actually walk.
Bozhe moy.
I swallow down the tightness in my throat. All these years of protecting him, hiding him away. Every decision driven by the need to keep him safe from those who would see him as weak. But he’s never been weak. Never.
The transfer confirmation pings.
Done.
I stare at the zeros, remembering the day the doctors first told me about his injury. The way Olga wept while I stood there, frozen, unable to process that my son would never walk. The rage that followed, the hunt for the doctor who fled.
But now…
“ Blyad .” My voice comes out rough. I curl my hands into fists, fighting for control. This isn’t like me. Emotions are weakness. Emotions are what get you killed in this business.
Yet all I can think about is Bobik taking his first steps.
But if it doesn’t work?
I need to focus. The treatment isn’t guaranteed. There are risks. But for the first time in ten years, there’s real hope.
I pour another whiskey. My mind keeps cycling between Dr. Malhotra’s words and thoughts of my unborn child. Two children. One fighting to walk, one not yet breathing air.
The city lights blur as I stare out of the window. Will this child be healthy? Will he run and play while his brother watches from his wheelchair? Or will the treatment work, letting them chase each other through the gardens?
“ Pizdets .” I haven’t allowed myself to imagine Bobik walking in years. The hope feels dangerous, like a weapon that could tear me apart if I let it.
My hand drifts to my phone, my thumb suddenly hovering over the surveillance app.
Stella.
She sleeps peacefully in her wing, one hand curved protectively over her stomach. Our child grows there, cell by cell, spine forming with terrifying delicacy. The thought makes my chest tight.
The whiskey glass dangles forgotten from my fingers as I imagine both children together.
Sleep feels impossible. The hope churning in my chest is too bright, too sharp. Every time I close my eyes, I see my children together. The possibility of both of them whole and healthy fills my mind like smoke, impossible to grasp or dismiss.
But I need to stay focused. Nothing is certain. Bobik’s treatment might fail. The pregnancy might… No. I won’t even think it. I’ve arranged the best prenatal care available. Every precaution will be taken.
I push away from the window, abandoning thoughts of my usual night run. These thoughts have left me too raw, too exposed. I need the comfort of control right now.
I look at the surveillance app again. Stella’s peaceful form fills my screen, her chest rising and falling in the soft glow of moonlight. One hand still rests protectively over her stomach, sheltering our child even in sleep.
“ Zaychik ,” I murmur, studying the lines of her body through the feed. The camera quality is excellent — I can see every detail, from her slightly parted lips to the way her hair spreads across the pillow.
My thumb traces the outline of her face on the screen. She looks vulnerable like this, all her usual defiance softened by sleep. The sight stirs something possessive in my chest, drowning out the lingering effects of hope and whiskey.
This is better than running. Here, in this moment, I can watch over what’s mine without revealing any weakness. Without letting emotion cloud my judgment.
I switch camera angles, checking the security of her wing. Everything remains exactly as it should be — locked down, controlled, safe. The certainty of it steadies me, washing away the dangerous softness of earlier thoughts.
This is what I do best. Control. Protect. Keep my world in perfect order.
Stella shifts in her sleep, drawing my attention back to her feed. I can’t afford such weakness, not with Maranzano’s threat still looming. Not with Whitmore’s betrayal still fresh.
The cameras provide distance. Safety. They let me watch without risking the dangerous pull she seems to have on me. This is enough.
This is control.
I pull up Stella’s browsing history, scanning the timestamps and URLs. Medical journals. Research papers on fetal development. Pregnancy nutrition guides. My lips curve slightly — she’s taking this seriously.
Good.
I lean back in my chair, scrolling through her searches.
No attempts to contact anyone. No social media.
Just endless scientific articles and academic papers.
The level of detail in her research impresses me.
She’s not just skimming headlines; these are dense medical texts that would give most people headaches.
“ Khorosho .” I nod, satisfied.
The biomarker data shows she’s following the diet plan too. Even her exercise routine stays within the prescribed limits.
I didn’t expect this level of dedication. This willing immersion in protecting what’s mine.
I set the phone down, rubbing my temples. Hours of surveillance footage, and I’m still watching. This isn’t like me. I don’t obsess over women — they’re a distraction, a liability.
But Stella…
“ Blyad .” I’m clearly fixated on her and it’s becoming a problem. I don’t do emotional attachments. They’re messy, unpredictable. Yet here I am, watching her breathe through security feeds like some lovesick teenager.
Control is slipping through my fingers. The carefully maintained walls I’ve built over decades are cracking. Between Bobik’s treatment, the business threats, and this… this thing with Stella, I can’t seem to find my usual cold focus.
“ Pizdets .” The word tastes rough on my tongue. I’m losing my edge, letting emotions cloud my judgment. And the worst part?
Some small, traitorous part of me doesn’t want to stop it.