Chapter Ten
Aleksei
I drive through the hospital gates, hands tight on the steering wheel.
The Bentley purrs beneath me, but I barely notice the smooth ride. My thoughts are fixed on one thing: bringing my son home.
“We will have him up and running, Mr. Tarasov. Trust me.” Malhotra’s words echo in my head, his voice confident and reassuring when we spoke yesterday. But today, as I park in the private section reserved for VIPs, I’m not exactly optimistic.
Running.
Right.
I stop myself from snorting in disgust.
The hospital’s gleaming facade looms before me, all glass and steel and false promises. I’ve spent too many hours within these antiseptic walls, waiting for miracles that never materialized. My jaw tightens as I exit the car, straightening my suit jacket out of habit rather than necessity.
Inside, the staff recognize me immediately. They should— I’ve paid enough to own a wing of this place. A nurse leads me through corridors I know by heart now, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor. The sound grates on my nerves, but I keep my expression neutral.
Kontrol’ eto vse. Control is everything.
When I reach Bobik’s room, Dr. Malhotra is already there, clipboard in hand, speaking quietly to my son.
They both look up when I enter, and something in Bobik’s smile makes my chest tighten painfully.
The raw hope in his eyes hits me hard. He’s so small against the white hospital sheets, dark hair tousled, his thin arms resting on top of the blanket.
For a moment, I see his mother in the curve of his cheek, and the memory claws at me.
“Papa!” His voice brightens the sterile room more effectively than the fluorescent lights overhead. The sound reverberates through my chest, cutting through the antiseptic smell and medical machinery hum.
I nod curtly to Malhotra before moving to Bobik’s side, my footsteps heavy against the polished floor. I adjust my cuffs— a tense habit I despise but cannot seem to break. My father’s hands used to fidget the same way before his rages. The comparison makes my jaw clench.
“Papa!” His face lights up, pale but animated. The shadows under his eyes have lessened since yesterday. “Dr. Malhotra says I can go home today.” He’s hopeful and expectant, waiting for my reaction like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“That’s right,” I say, moving to his side and ruffling his dark hair gently.
“Everything’s ready for you, synok .” I force my voice to remain steady, businesslike.
The relief flooding through me at his improved condition is an unfamiliar weakness I refuse to display.
My hand lingers on his head a moment too long, betraying me despite my best efforts.
I withdraw it quickly, adjusting my cufflinks again as I straighten to my full height beside his bed.
Malhotra nods at me, his expression carefully composed beneath the fluorescent lights of the room.
“We’ve prepared all the medications and instructions for home care. The follow-up appointment is scheduled for next week.” His voice maintains that clinical precision that both reassures and irritates me.
I appreciate his thoroughness— it’s why I hired him— but his detachment sometimes makes me want to grab him by his pristine lab coat and demand he acknowledge what this means.
My son is coming home. Bobik is finally well enough to leave this sterile prison.
I pay little attention to Malhotra. My focus is entirely on Bobik, still confined to the wheelchair that was supposed to be temporary. The experimental treatment was meant to be his liberation— his chance to run, to play, to live like other children. Instead, we’re right back where we started.
I swallow the lump in my throat. Vulnerability isn’t something I’m used to, but between Bobik and Stella, I’m turning into some kind of pussy.
Pizdets!
“Let’s get you home, synok ,” I manage; my voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat.
The discharge process passes in a blur of paperwork and medical jargon.
I sign where directed, listen to instructions I already know by heart, and focus on keeping my expression neutral.
Inside, rage simmers—at the doctors who promised miracles, at the technology that failed, at myself for believing.
As I push Bobik’s wheelchair out of the hospital, I grasp the handles too tightly.
Each step is a reminder of his shattered hopes.
The sun is too bright, the air too fresh, mocking the heaviness in my chest. All the fucking money in the world, and I can’t give him the one thing most people take for granted.
I struggle to keep my emotions and my anger in check, conscious of my son’s presence.
Keep it together, dolboyob.
Not here.
Not now.
I help Bobik into the car, folding his wheelchair and stowing it in the trunk. The routine is familiar— too familiar. It wasn’t supposed to be like this anymore.
Once we’re on the road, silence fills the car. I adjust the rearview mirror, catching glimpses of my son gazing out the window. He looks tired, his eyes shadowed, but there’s still that spark in him— that stubborn light I’ve always admired.
“Dad,” Bobik’s voice breaks the silence, small but steady. “It’s okay. I’m fine, really.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror, surprised by the strength I see there. My son, my brave boy, is trying to console me. Blyad . I should be the one consoling him, not the other way around. He’s been through hell— surgery, recovery, the crushing disappointment— yet here he is, worried about me.
“I know you are,” I say. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
He smiles at that, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. “Stronger than you?”
“Much stronger,” I confirm, and I mean it. This child has faced more challenges in his ten years than most men face in a lifetime, and he’s done it with a strength that humbles me.
As we turn onto the private road leading to Blackwood Manor, Bobik perks up visibly. His eyes brighten as the familiar landscape comes into view— the manicured gardens, the symmetrical buildings of the estate, the long rectangular pool glittering in the sunlight.
“Finally!” he exclaims, pressing his face closer to the window. “I’ve missed home so much.”
Home.
The word hits differently when spoken by my son. This place— this fortress I built with blood money and brutal negotiations— becomes something else when I see it through his eyes. Something almost sacred.
I park near the entrance to the Left Wing, where Bobik’s rooms are located. As I help him into his wheelchair, he’s already chattering excitedly about his plans.
“Can we stop by the library first? I want to see if the new astronomy books came. And I need to check my computer— I was in the middle of a simulation when we left for the hospital. Oh! And I want to show Stella my new telescope model.”
His enthusiasm is infectious, lifting some of the weight from my shoulders. “One thing at a time, synok ,” I say, unable to suppress a small smile. “Let’s get you settled first.”
Inside, the manor is quiet and cool, a contrast to the sterile brightness of the hospital.
Diana has prepared everything meticulously— fresh linens on Bobik’s bed, his favorite books arranged on the nightstand, a small vase of sunflowers brightening the room.
My sister understands what my son needs, even when I struggle to articulate it myself.
I settle Bobik in his specially designed apartment in the attic of the Left Wing, making sure he’s comfortable.
The space has been customized for his needs— wider doorways for his wheelchair, ramps instead of steps, technology within easy reach.
Despite being hidden away for his safety, the rooms are filled with light and color, a sanctuary rather than a prison.
“Chess?” he suggests, gesturing toward the ornate board set up by the window. It’s our ritual, one of the few normal father-son activities we can share.
I nod, settling into the chair across from him.
We play in companionable silence, the familiar rhythm of the game soothing us both. I watch his face as he considers each move, his brow furrowed in concentration. He’s brilliant, my son— his mind sharp and quick despite all the limitations his body had imposed upon him.
He captures my queen with a move I should have anticipated, his eyes lighting up with triumph.
“Checkmate in three,” he announces.
I examine the board, recognizing the trap he’s set.
“Well played,” I concede, knocking over my king in surrender. He wins most of our games these days, his strategic thinking outpacing mine. Pride swells in my chest, alongside a twisting ache.
Hours pass as we talk about everything and nothing— his science projects, a documentary he watched in the hospital, a new theory about black holes he’s been reading about.
We carefully avoid discussing the failed operation or what comes next.
Today is about being home, about finding our footing again.
Eventually, I notice his energy flagging, exhaustion creeping into his pinched features despite his attempts to hide it.
“You should rest, synok, ” I say, rising from my chair. The fact that he doesn’t argue is proof enough that he’s reaching his limits.
I help him wheel his chair from behind the chess table and then accompany him to his bedroom. The hallway feels longer than usual as I guide him, one hand resting protectively on the back of his chair. When we reach his room, I carefully maneuver him beside the bed and lift him into it.
“I can do it, Papa ,” he says, straining to get beneath the covers.
I stand silently as I watch his thin arms trembling as he struggles to lift his legs up, first one, and then the other, a hand beneath each calf.
Finally, he looks up at me, his lips pursing.
“Okay, maybe a little help.” He says it with a smile, but I can see the sadness behind his eyes.
This homecoming was supposed to be different.
“You’re tired, malysh .” I lift him in my arms and rest him back against the pillows, hating how small and fragile he feels. “You’ve been through a lot. You need a bit of time to rest, that’s all.”
He gives a nod but says nothing as I straighten his pillows, making sure they support his small frame properly. As hard as he’s working to hide his disappointment, I can feel it radiating from him. I lean down and brush my lips over his forehead.
As I turn to leave, he catches my hand, his small fingers wrapping around mine with surprising strength.
“Papa,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine directly. “We’ll be okay. This isn’t the end.”
Something shifts in my chest— a tightness I’ve carried since the operation loosening slightly. I squeeze his hand gently, marveling at his resilience. This child, who has every reason to be bitter and angry at the world, chooses hope instead.
“You’re right, malysh ,” I manage to say. “We’ll be okay.”
He hesitates, then asks the question that’s clearly been on his mind. “Where is Stella?”
I consider my answer. “She’s been resting. But you’ll see her soon.”
“I’d like that.” He smiles. “I’d like to see her all the time, Papa . She is staying with us for good, right?”
The question gives me pause. Stella’s situation is complicated— her memory loss, her discovery of her parents’ fate, the tentative truce we’ve established. I don’t want to burden Bobik with these complexities, not when he’s just returned home and needs stability.
“Yes,” I say simply, meeting his hopeful gaze. “She is.”
“That’s good,” he says softly. “I like her.” His expression is hopeful, and I’m reminded that it was only months ago that he lost his mother. He’s faced so much in his short life. Too much.
“Don’t worry,” I say firmly, injecting confidence into my words. “Stella’s not going anywhere.”
I just hope she feels as pleased about this as Bobik does.