Chapter Twelve
Aleksei
I lean back in my leather chair, eyes fixed on the bank of monitors displaying feeds from throughout the manor.
My attention is drawn to the screen showing Bobik’s apartment, where Stella sits cross-legged on the floor beside his wheelchair.
They’re bent over what looks like a board game, Bobik’s face animated as he explains something, hands moving expressively.
Stella watches him with rapt attention, nodding and smiling at all the right moments.
The sight stirs something unexpected in my chest. My son and the mother of my unborn daughter, forming a bond that seems to transcend her fractured memory.
Bobik hasn’t connected this easily with anyone since his mother died.
Even with Diana, who loves him fiercely, there’s always been a reserve.
But with Stella, he’s open, animated, unguarded.
I zoom in slightly, studying their interaction.
Bobik is demonstrating something with the game pieces, his eyes bright with enthusiasm.
Stella laughs at something he says, her head tilting back, exposing the elegant line of her throat.
Even through the grainy security footage, her beauty is striking— more so now with the flush of pregnancy softening her features.
Her condition is becoming more noticeable each day.
The gentle swell of her belly is visible even through the loose dress she wears.
I wonder if Bobik has noticed, if he’s connected the dots.
Probably not. For all his brilliance with scientific concepts, he’s still a child in many ways, innocent to the complexities of adult relationships.
Sometimes, I envy him.
I’ll need to tell him soon about the baby. About his sister. The thought of a daughter still feels surreal, like something that’s happening to someone else— someone more deserving of such a miracle.
God knows I don’t.
Stella reaches out to ruffle Bobik’s hair, the gesture so natural it makes my breath catch.
She doesn’t remember her life before the accident, yet somehow, she remembers how to love my son.
Malhotra’s explanation plays in my mind: her factual memory is compromised, but her emotional memory remains intact.
She may not remember meeting Bobik, but she remembers how she feels about him.
I switch to another camera feed, this one showing the corridor outside my office.
Empty. Good. What I’m doing— watching them like this— feels invasive even to me, a man who has built his empire on knowing everything that happens within his domain.
But I need to be certain. Need to see for myself that she’s not just pretending, that her affection for Bobik is genuine.
It is. Even through the clinical lens of surveillance, that much is clear.
My phone buzzes with a message from Diana: “Bobik’s medication in 30 minutes. Should I interrupt?”
I type back quickly: “No. Let them finish. I’ll bring it up myself.”
Diana’s response is immediate: “Are you sure? You’ve been avoiding them together.”
I ignore this. My sister knows me too well sometimes.
I turn back to the monitors, switching to the feed from Stella’s bedroom.
Empty now, of course, but I find myself studying the space she occupies when alone.
The bed is neatly made, pillows arranged with precision.
Books stack the nightstand— medical texts, neuroscience journals, a few novels.
Signs of an ordered mind trying to make sense of disorder.
And when she makes sense of it, she’s going to remember who she is.
The daughter of Tomas Larkin. The man whose negligence crippled my son. The man whose death I ordered.
Blyad!
My hand tightens around the crystal tumbler on my desk.
Will this secret torture me till the day I die?
Whatever the case, Stella must never know.
Never discover that her father’s “accident” was my retribution for what he did to Bobik.
The thought of her finding out, of seeing the hatred in those green eyes that have finally begun to soften when they look at me— it’s unbearable.
I drain the vodka in one burning swallow, welcoming the heat as it blazes down my throat. The empty glass makes a heavy sound as I set it down on the polished desk. I must ensure there’s no possibility of her uncovering the truth.
The security system chimes, alerting me that Bobik and Stella’s game has ended.
On screen, I watch as she helps him gather the pieces, their heads bent close together in conversation.
She says something that makes him laugh, the sound inaudible through the surveillance system but clearly delightful from the way his whole face lights up.
I switch off the monitor, suddenly unable to watch anymore. This stolen intimacy feels wrong, even for me. I’m not a man who typically concerns himself with moral boundaries, but this— spying on them in their unguarded moments— crosses a line I didn’t realize I’d drawn.
I scrub a hand over my face, rolling my shoulders.
The tension building in my muscles demands release.
I head to my private gym, a state-of-the-art facility tucked away in the basement of the Right Wing.
The space is filled with gleaming equipment and mirrored walls, designed for efficiency rather than comfort. No distractions, nothing but the work.
I change into my workout clothes and attack the treadmill first, setting it to a punishing incline.
My feet pound against the belt as I push myself harder, faster, sweat already beginning to bead along my hairline.
Physical exertion has always been my most effective form of meditation— the only time my mind truly quiets is when my body is screaming.
Today, though, thoughts continue to circle like vultures. Stella. Bobik. Larkin’s death. The fragile peace we’ve established in the manor, built entirely on her memory loss. What happens when— if— she finds out the truth?
I increase the speed, my breath coming harder now.
The rhythmic pounding of my feet against the treadmill drowns out everything but the most persistent thought: I cannot lose her.
Not now. Not when I’ve finally found something worth protecting beyond my family, beyond the Bratva, beyond even my own survival.
Twenty minutes later, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, clarity strikes like lightning. I need to eliminate any possibility of the investigation being reopened. Need to ensure that all traces linking me to Larkin’s death are erased permanently.
I cool down, towel off, and reach for my phone. Vasya answers on the second ring.
“ Brat ,” he greets me, his voice carrying the familiar background noise of keyboards clicking. My brother, always working, always connected to his networks.
“Listen, Vasya. I need you to make sure there is absolutely no chance that Tomas Larkin’s death will ever be investigated again,” I say bluntly. Vasya and I have never needed social niceties between us.
There’s a pause, the clicking stops. “What made you worried about it so suddenly?” he asks. “The investigation was closed and marked as an accident.”
I hesitate, reaching for my water bottle and taking a long drink while weighing how much to reveal. Vasya is the only person in my world besides Diana who knows about Bobik, about the real reason behind my vendetta against Larkin. But he doesn’t know about Stella’s connection to it all.
“It’s complicated,” I say finally, leaning against the mirrored wall of the gym.
“Complicated? How?”
“I’ve found the woman I want to spend my life with.”
There’s a choking sound. “What?” he says. It’s interesting to hear so much surprise in my brother’s usually impassive voice.
“You heard me.” I set my bottle down, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Yes, but…” He stops, as if considering what to say next. “So soon after Sofia?”
Bozhe moy!
Is he fucking serious?
“You think I cared about that stupid bitch, mudak? ” I shake my head. “Anyway, I knew her before the wedding,” I say, drying sweat from my brow with a towel. “Sofia was a mistake. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Stella is here with me, pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Vasya blurts. “ Da ty chto? ”
“Do I need to explain to you what pregnant means, Vasya?” I snort. “She’s having my child.”
“Well… uh… Pozdravlyayu, brat ,” he says. “Congrats. I guess.”
“You can congratulate me when she agrees to marry me.” I push away from the wall and move through the room, skirting training equipment.
“Marry you?” Vasya is still incredulous. “But what about Bobik?”
“She’s met Bobik. They’re crazy about each other.”
“Then what’s the problem? Why are you worrying about the investigation?” he asks.
I rub my eyes, blinking as the sweat on my fingers stings them. “Because she’s Tomas Larkin’s daughter.”
The silence that follows is heavy with implication. When Vasya finally speaks, his voice has dropped to a near-whisper. “ Blyad ,” he says with feeling. “That could be a problem.”
“Exactly.” I run a hand over the small bristles along my jawline, feeling the tension building at the base of my skull.
This investigation into Larkin has been consuming my thoughts, but I can’t afford mistakes.
Not with Stella involved. Not with what’s at stake for Bobik.
“I want every piece of information triple-checked. Nothing can tie back to us.”
“ Konechno. I’ll go through the data again just to be on the safe side.”
“ Khoroshiy ,” I say, relief washing through me. If anyone can ensure digital ghosts stay buried, it’s my brother. “I need this to be airtight, Vasya. No loose ends.”
“Consider it done,” he says, and I can already hear the clicking resume, faster now. “I’ll call when it’s finished.”
I end the call and return to my office, drawn back to the surveillance monitors. Stella is no longer with Bobik. The feed from her room shows her lying on her bed, a heavy science book propped on her knees. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, one hand absently stroking her belly as she reads.
Something coils in my chest at the sight— a sensation I’m still not accustomed to. Desire, yes, that’s familiar enough. But this other feeling, this tenderness that borders on vulnerability… it’s dangerous. Weakness in my world gets you killed.
And yet…
My feelings for her are stronger now than before her memory loss. Before, she was a challenge, a conquest, the mother of my child. Now, seeing her rediscover the world, watching her form genuine connections despite her shattered memory— it’s awakened something in me that I never thought I’d feel.
I switch off the monitor and move to the window, gazing out over the manicured grounds of the manor. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the symmetrical gardens. In the distance, the lights of Los Angeles begin to twinkle to life.
My empire. My domain. Everything I’ve built through blood and cunning.
And my greatest fear? That I’ll destroy it all myself.
And worse… that I’m going to be like my father, Rodion.
The thought surfaces unexpectedly, another demon I can never fully exorcise.
I see him in my nightmares sometimes— stumbling drunk through our childhood home in St. Petersburg, fists raised, eyes wild with rage.
I hear my mother’s muffled cries, feel Diana trembling against me as we hide in the closet, praying the bastard won’t find us.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, eyes closed against the memories.
The chill seeps into my skin, grounding me in the present when the past threatens to drag me under.
My breath creates a small fog on the smooth surface— proof that I’m still here, still breathing, still fighting the ghosts that haunt me.
Behind my eyelids, I see flashes of that cramped closet, Diana’s small hand clutched in mine, both of us shaking in the darkness while our father’s roars echoed through a home that should have been a safe haven.
No. I will never be like him.
I could never do to Stella what he did to my mother. Couldn’t inflict that kind of terror, that systematic destruction of spirit. I may be a monster in many ways— a killer, a criminal, a man who’s built his life on violence and control— but not that kind of monster.
Never that kind.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders where muscle fatigue is starting to set in. There’s work to be done. A son to protect. A woman to win. A child on the way.
And secrets to keep buried, no matter the cost.