Chapter Fifty-One
Aleksei
Today is the day.
I tighten my tie with practiced precision, checking that my appearance betrays none of the chaos churning within me.
The silk is smooth under my fingers, the crisp white of my shirt unmarred, the tailored lines of my suit sharp as a blade.
Each detail is intentional, a facade meticulously crafted.
I cannot afford weakness, not today. Not in front of Bobik.
The past few days with Stella and Bobik have felt surreal, like breathing in a bubble of borrowed time.
A fragile illusion too beautiful to be real, too fleeting to last. Happiness is a luxury I’m not certain I’ve earned.
But today, there’s no time to dwell on such things.
Today brings us back to reality like a fist to the jaw.
My son’s operation looms ahead like a shadow I cannot outrun.
As I climb the stairs toward his ward, my steps echo against the sterile white walls, louder than they ought to be.
With every floor I ascend, I feel the weight in my chest grow heavier, my body betraying the calm I’m trying so desperately to project.
When I finally reach the double doors to his wing, I pause, gripping the metal handle.
The coolness of it bites into my palm, grounding me for a moment.
I breathe in deeply, eyes closing for just a heartbeat before I step into the space that has been his sanctuary — and his prison.
The air smells faintly of antiseptic, sharp but familiar.
Bobik’s main carer, Nurse Anna, moves efficiently about the room, packing his essentials.
His clothes are neatly folded, his favorite books stacked precisely beside the worn tablet he spends hours on.
I note the care she’s taken in arranging everything, and gratitude stirs weakly beneath my anxiety.
“Papa!” My son’s voice cuts through the hum of the medical machines, bright and bursting with an energy that pulls my attention immediately.
I turn toward him, and there he is — my brave little boy, beaming up at me from his wheelchair.
His skinny legs are tucked neatly beneath him, his small hands clutching the armrests as if holding himself back from leaping out of the chair through sheer enthusiasm alone.
He’s already dressed and ready, wearing the new sweater Stella picked for him, and his excitement practically vibrates off him.
My heart clenches painfully at the sight.
I force a smile, though my face feels stiff and unnatural. “Dobraye utro, malysh,” I say, crossing the room in measured strides. My voice comes out smooth, but inside, my composure is crumbling. I ruffle his dark hair, soft as feathers beneath my hand. “Are you ready?”
“Yes!” he exclaims, throwing his arms up as if preparing to take flight.
“Dr. Malhotra said I might be able to feel my toes after the first phase! Can you imagine, Papa ? Toes!” He wiggles them as best he can, though they remain unresponsive beneath the blanket covering his legs.
Despite this, his eyes shine with a fierce, untainted hope that slices straight through me.
I swallow hard and nod. “That would be wonderful, syn. ” My words sound steady, but they echo hollowly in my ears. Inside, I feel as though I’m teetering on the edge of breaking.
Please, God. The thought forces its way through the walls of my mind, heavy and desperate. Let this work. Let my son walk.
But if that prayer goes unanswered… I would make any deal — any bargain — to see Bobik run one day. I would surrender my soul to the devil himself if it meant freeing my son from the chair that has bound him for so long.
“We’ll play football together soon!” Bobik chatters on, his voice high and bright, drawing me from my spiraling thoughts.
His hands move animatedly as he continues describing the future he can see so clearly — one filled with running, jumping, and all the simple joys he’s been denied.
As he dreams aloud, I busy myself checking his bags, ensuring that nothing was forgotten.
The mundane task gives my hands something to do, a lifeline to cling to amid my storming thoughts.
“Papa?” His voice slips into a softer tone, pulling my gaze back to him.
I turn and find his eyes on me again — steady, serious, far too perceptive for a ten-year-old.
It’s a look that sees me far more clearly than I care to be seen.
“Are you worried?” he asks, head tilted, his expression open and curious.
The question stills me for a moment. A lie — it would be easy. And yet, looking at him, I know I can’t. He’s endured more truth in his short life than most adults ever will. He deserves better than a false mask.
“Yes, malysh. ” I force myself to answer, my voice tight. “A little.”
To my surprise, his small hand reaches for mine, his fingers wrapping around mine with a firmness that belies his delicate frame. “It’s okay to be scared, Papa ,” he says, his voice so full of quiet wisdom that my breath catches. “But Dr. Malhotra is the best, right? You made sure of that.”
A sharp, surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it, roughened by the lump in my throat. “When did you become so wise, synok ?”
“I learned from you,” he says with a grin so pure it feels like a balm over my fraying edges. His hand squeezes mine. “And soon we’ll play football together! You’ll see!”
Fuck, this kid.
And I do see it — so vividly it hurts. The image of my son kicking a ball, running freely across green grass, laughing with an abandon he has never truly known. I turn away quickly, pretending to busy myself with his things, the weight of that hope pressing down on me too heavily to bear.
“ Da, ” I whisper tightly. “Soon.”
The drive to the hospital passes in a haze of Bobik’s voice filling the car, a lifeline I cling to.
He talks endlessly, explaining the way the neural AI works as though it’s a bedtime story, lacing every word with a passion that soothes and devastates me all at once.
My son — a ten-year-old boy — understands technology better than some seasoned engineers, and I marvel at his boundless curiosity even as the thought creeps in, unbidden: Will this curiosity still be here tomorrow if something goes wrong?
Nyet.
It can’t go wrong.
I crush the thought ruthlessly, focusing instead on the sound of his chatter, memorizing the sound of his laughter.
We arrive at the hospital faster than I expect, and the private wing gleams ahead — polished glass and stainless steel reflecting the brightness of the sunlight.
My men are already stationed at the entrance, their presence a silent reassurance, though they can do nothing for the battle waging inside me.
I park in the reserved spot and exhale slowly, steadying my hands before I step out.
Dr. Malhotra greets us personally, his calm confidence reassuring. “Ah, young Mr. Tarasov! Ready for your big adventure?”
“More than ready,” Bobik declares. “I’ve been studying the procedure. The neural interface is fascinating!”
“Indeed, it is.” Dr. Malhotra’s eyes crinkle with genuine warmth. “Perhaps you can explain it to your father while we get you settled?” The doctor winks at me as Bobik launches into yet another explanation of neurons and synapses.
The private suite exceeds even my exacting standards. State-of-the-art monitoring equipment fills one wall, while the other features a large window overlooking the city. Everything speaks of cash well spent — the best care money can buy for my son.
I help transfer Bobik to the hospital bed while nurses bustle around, checking vitals and starting preliminary procedures. He continues his excited explanation of the technology, his hands moving animatedly as he speaks.
“And see, Papa ? The AI learns from my brain signals, creating new neural pathways. It’s like… like teaching my spine to talk to my legs again!”
I nod, struggling to focus on his words rather than the IV being inserted into his arm. “Very impressive, syn . You understand it better than I do.”
“That’s because you’re old,” he teases, then winces slightly as the nurse adjusts something. I tense, but he waves off my concern. “I’m fine. Just a pinch.”
Dr. Malhotra returns with forms requiring my signature. Legal documents acknowledging risks, consenting to procedures. Each signature feels like signing away a piece of my soul.
“We’ll begin prepping him for surgery in about twenty minutes,” he explains gently. “You can stay until then.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Bobik reaches for my hand again.
“ Papa? Will you tell me about when I was little? Before the chair?”
The request catches me off guard. “What do you want to know?”
“Did I ever try to walk? What were my first words?”
I settle into the chair beside his bed, old memories flooding back. “You were always moving, always curious. You started trying to crawl before you could even sit up properly.”
I don’t tell him that there’d been no chance that his tiny legs would ever support him. That he’d be destined to drag himself around until we’d helped him adjust to a chair.
Instead, I focus on the highlights. “You were advanced in so many ways. The doctors were amazed.”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
“ Da malysh . Your mother could barely keep up with you. And your first word? Kniga — book. Even then, you loved learning.”
He smiles, squeezing my hand. “Tell me more”
So, I do. I tell him about his first attempts at rolling over, his fascination with anything mechanical, how he would babble in a mix of Russian and English. Each memory is precious, painful, filled with what-ifs and might-have-beens.
Too soon, Dr. Malhotra returns. “It’s time.”
Bobik’s grip on my hand tightens momentarily. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”
“Of course, syn . I won’t leave.”
He nods bravely. “I love you, Papa .”
The words hit me so hard that I feel like the wind has been knocked from me. I grit my teeth to keep the hurt from coloring my expression.
“I love you too, malysh .” I lean down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “ Ya lyublyu tebya .”
I stand frozen as they wheel my son away, my feet rooted to the pristine hospital floor despite every instinct screaming to follow. The squeak of the gurney’s wheels echoes down the sterile corridor, each sound driving the knife deeper into my chest.
Bobik turns his head, giving me one last brave smile before they round the corner. My hands clench into fists, nails biting into my palms. The pain helps to ground me, keeps me from charging after them like my body demands.
Dr. Malhotra’s team moves with practiced efficiency, their quiet murmurs and the soft beeping of monitors fading as they take my son further away. I track their progress through the small window in the swinging doors, watching until even their shadows disappear.
“ Blyad ,” I mutter, running a hand over my face.
The tremor in my fingers betrays my carefully maintained composure.
I’ve faced down rival Bratvas, survived assassination attempts, built an empire from nothing — yet watching my ten-year-old son being wheeled into surgery reduces me to this shaking mess.
A nurse approaches cautiously. “Mr. Tarasov? The waiting area is this way.”
I nod stiffly, allowing her to guide me to a private room. The luxury surroundings — plush chairs, tasteful artwork, fresh coffee — mock the anxiety churning in my gut. My security detail takes up position outside, ensuring my privacy while I wrestle with this helplessness.
The clock on the wall ticks away seconds that feel like hours. Eight hours of surgery ahead. Eight hours of not knowing if my son will wake up with a chance at walking or if I’ve gambled his life on experimental technology.
I pace to the window, staring unseeing at the city below. The sun catches on glass buildings, too bright, too normal for a moment as important as this. Somewhere in this building, doctors are cutting into my son’s spine, threading experimental AI components through his nervous system.
“Chert,” I growl under my breath. I can’t stand around here waiting like this. I have to do something.
I force myself to walk out, each step feeling like lead. The corridor seems endless. My security detail maintains a respectful distance as I make my way to the parking garage.
Inside my car, the carefully maintained control finally shatters.
Wetness burns my eyes, spilling heat down my cheeks. A sound escapes me — half sob, half growl — raw and primal. My fists clench on the steering wheel until my palms throb and my knuckles crack.
Chertov Urod!
I haven’t spilled a tear since I was a child, since the day my mother disappeared, and even then, it was restrained. But now the tears want to burst out, years of suppressed fear, hope, and love breaking through my defenses.
“Pozhaluysta,” I whisper to whatever god might be listening. “Please, let him walk.”
The leather steering wheel creaks under my grip as another wave of raw emotion crashes over me. I’ve killed men, ruined lives, forged an empire on violence and fear. But in this moment, I am simply a father, terrified of losing the most precious thing in my world. My son.
I let the tears come, knowing that soon I’ll rebuild my walls, and return to being the strong, controlled Pakhan everyone expects. But for now, in the privacy of my car, I allow myself this moment of vulnerability.
For Bobik.
For the son who deserves so much more than the broken man fate gave him for a father.