Chapter Eighteen
Aleksei
The punching bag swings wildly as I land another blow.
My knuckles burn despite the wraps, skin splitting beneath the protective layers. I welcome the pain. It’s clean. Simple. Unlike the mess I’ve created.
I throw another punch, harder this time. The chain creaks overhead, threatening to give way. In my mind, I see Novikov’s face again— the shock in his eyes as his head hit the porcelain sink. The sound. That wet, final crack that ended his life and started a war.
My fist connects again with the punching bag. Again. And again.
Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes. My lungs burn. My muscles scream. Still not enough to drown out the thoughts.
I grab the bag to steady it, resting my forehead against the leather for a moment. The gym’s silence wraps around me, broken only by my ragged breathing. Six hours since Novikov died. Four since I returned to Blackwood Manor. Almost three since I started punishing my body in this room.
My phone vibrates on the nearby bench. I check the screen— cleanup crew. Time to be the Pakhan again.
“Speak,” I answer, voice clipped.
“Scene is clean.” The voice on the other end is equally terse. “Security footage wiped. Witnesses handled.”
“Police?”
“Ruling it an accident. Slipped and hit his head. Medical examiner confirmed.”
I nod, though he can’t see me. “The staff?”
“Paid off and silenced. No one saw anything unusual.”
“Good. Double the usual payment.” I end the call without waiting for acknowledgment.
One problem managed. A dozen more to go.
I dial Sasha next, unwrapping my hands as the phone rings.
“It’s done,” he says immediately. “To anyone who asks, you were at dinner with the Mexican attaché when it happened. Three witnesses will confirm if needed.”
“And the body?”
“Being processed now. The family’s been notified. Sofia is flying in from Monaco.”
Sofia. The daughter I left at the altar. The woman whose hatred started this chain of events. Of course she’s coming home, now that daddy’s gone.
“Watch her,” I tell him. “She’s smarter than her father.”
“Already on it. And Aleksei…” He hesitates. “Novikov’s people will suspect.”
“Let them. They can’t prove anything.”
“They don’t need proof to start a war.”
I toss the bloodied hand wraps into the trash. “Then we prepare for war.”
The call ends. I stand in the center of my private gym, surrounded by equipment worth more than most people’s homes. Machines designed to push the human body to its limits. To create the illusion of control.
I head to the shower, stripping off sweat-soaked clothes as I go. The water hits my skin, scalding hot, washing away the physical evidence of my exertion. It does nothing for the weight in my chest.
Novikov knew about Bobik. Someone close to me betrayed that secret. Someone I trust.
The list is short: Diana. Vasya. Sasha. Dr. Malhotra.
And Stella.
No. Not Stella. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
But the doubt lingers as I dress in fresh clothes. Black track pants. Gray T-shirt. Bare feet against the cool floor. Casual attire for a man who committed murder hours ago.
I leave the gym, heading toward the Left Wing where Stella has been staying.
The manor feels emptier than usual as my footsteps echo in the long corridor that connects the two buildings.
The staff have been given the night off— fewer witnesses to my state of mind, fewer eyes to notice if something’s wrong.
I knock on Stella’s door. No answer.
I knock again, harder this time. “Stella?”
Silence.
What the fuck?
I shove the door open and look inside. The room is dim, curtains pulled shut. Stella lies on the bed, still dressed in the loose cotton dress she wore this morning. Her eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling.
She doesn’t acknowledge my presence.
I move closer, studying her face for signs of distress. Her expression is blank, eyes vacant. The only sign of life is the slight rise and fall of her chest with each breath.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “Stella.”
Nothing.
My gaze drops to her swollen belly, the curve pronounced beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Our child. Due any day, according to Dr. Malhotra.
My daughter.
I place my hand gently on her stomach, feeling for movement. “Is the baby—?”
She pushes my hand away, the first sign of awareness since I entered the room.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, frowning.
No answer. Just that vacant stare at the ceiling.
Blyad!
Is she sick?
The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I try again, leaning closer. “Stella, what’s going on?”
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me. Her stillness is unnerving. I touch her arm, but she flinches as if my touch burns her.
This is fucking bullshit.
“Are you feeling okay? Is it the baby?” I ask, pushing down a surge of anxiety.
Finally, she turns her head to look at me. Her eyes are cold, distant. There’s something in them I can’t quite read— fear? Anger? Confusion? Whatever it is, I don’t fucking like it.
“I have to get out of here,” she says, her voice flat and emotionless.
Khrén yey!
The hell she is!
“That’s not an option. It’s not safe for you or the baby. She could come any moment.”
She doesn’t respond, just turns her gaze back to the ceiling. I sit there, mind reeling. What the fuck happened? Everything was fine last night, and now…
Last night.
Her warm body pressed against mine. Her sighs in my ear as I moved inside her. The way she whispered my name. And then, in the early hours, her screams as she woke from a nightmare she couldn’t— or wouldn’t— describe.
Had something happened then? Some memory resurfacing?
“Stella.” I keep my voice gentle, though every instinct is urging me to shake the truth out of her. “Did you remember something? About your past?”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. Her eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, as if the answers are written there in a language only she can read.
I stand up, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “I’ll come back later,” I say softly, trying not to sound as anxious as I feel. “Try to rest.”
As the door clicks shut behind me, my mind races through possibilities. She was fine yesterday.
And now she’s a stranger. A shell.
I pull out my phone again, dialing Dr. Malhotra. He answers on the third ring, voice clipped and professional.
“Mr. Tarasov. What can I do for you?”
“It’s Stella.” I pace the hallway outside her room. “Something’s wrong. She’s… not responding. Barely speaking. When she does, she says she needs to leave.”
“Has she experienced any physical symptoms? Pain, bleeding, contractions?”
“No. Nothing like that. She’s just… gone. Mentally.”
He sighs, the sound crackling through the connection. “As I explained this morning, Ms. Fermont’s condition is complex. The brain doesn’t heal in a linear fashion. She may experience periods of dissociation or withdrawal.”
“This isn’t withdrawal,” I snap. “This is like she’s become a different person overnight.”
“Memory loss can manifest in unexpected ways, especially as pregnancy hormones fluctuate. The approaching delivery could be triggering subconscious anxieties.”
His clinical tone grates on my nerves. “So, what do I do?”
“Be patient. Give her space. Monitor for any physical symptoms that might indicate complications with the pregnancy. If those occur, bring her to the hospital immediately.”
“That’s it? Wait and see?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Tarasov. The mind heals at its own pace.”
Blyad’, shtó za otvét?
What the hell kind of answer is that? Always talking in fucking circles.
I end the call, resisting the urge to throw the phone against the wall. Useless. All of it.
I can handle a murder cleanup. I can handle the Russian mob. I can handle million-dollar weapons deals with dictators and warlords. But I can’t handle my pregnant woman not fucking talking to me.
The helplessness burns like acid in my chest.
I head to my office, unlocking the cabinet where I keep the good vodka.
The bottle is heavy in my hand— Beluga Gold Line, imported directly from St. Petersburg.
I pour three fingers into a crystal tumbler and drink it in one swallow.
The fire in my throat matches the one in my chest, distracts me a little, but not for long.
The second glass I take to the window, staring out at the darkening grounds of Blackwood Manor. Security lights illuminate the perimeter, creating pools of harsh white light against the shadows. Beyond the walls, Los Angeles sprawls, oblivious to the war brewing in its midst.
The old man’s death might seem like it’s been handled, but Sasha is right. His people don’t need proof to confirm their suspicions. Novikov’s men will move soon. They’ll start with questions and then investigations. Eventually, they’ll come to the correct conclusion. I need to be ready.
But how can I prepare for war when my own home feels like enemy territory?
I pour a third glass, drinking more slowly this time. The alcohol dulls the edges of my anxiety, though it does nothing for the core of it.
Something’s happened to Stella. Something beyond the physical trauma, beyond the memory loss. Something that’s turned her against me .
If someone hurt her while my back was turned, I’ll find them. I’ll make them suffer. But what if the enemy is inside her head, where I can’t reach?
I’ve seen men beg for their lives before I killed them. That felt like power. This feeling— watching Stella slip away without understanding why— this is true helplessness.
The bottle is half empty by the time I sink into my desk chair. My thoughts circle like vultures, searching for weakness. For answers.
Could she have learned about Novikov? Impossible. No one knows except Sasha and the cleanup crew, and they wouldn’t talk. Could she have remembered something about her past? About my connection to her father’s death?
Or is it simpler than that? Is she finally seeing me for what I am— a killer, a criminal, a man whose hands are stained with blood?
Fuck.
I pour another drink, staring at the clear liquid as if it holds answers. The silence of the manor presses in around me, emphasizing my isolation. Stella in her room, lost in her own mind. Bobik in his suite, unaware of all that’s happening below. Diana at her apartment, oblivious.
All my family under my protection, yet none of them truly with me in this moment.
My hand tightens around the glass. This is fucking bullshit, goddammit. I’m the motherfucking Pakhan , for fuck’s sake. I don’t do helpless.
Yet here I sit, drinking alone, while the woman carrying my daughter stares at the ceiling and plans her escape.
The irony doesn’t elude me. For years, I’ve kept people at a distance. Relationships were liabilities. Emotions were weaknesses to be exploited. I built walls and surrounded myself with weapons and guards.
Then Stella arrived, and somehow, she slipped past every carefully constructed defense I’ve erected. Made me feel things I’d forgotten were possible. Made me want things I’d never allowed myself to want.
And now, when I finally let someone matter— truly matter— she’s slipping away without explanation.
I drain the glass, the vodka no longer burning. My phone remains silent. No updates from Sasha. No calls from the cleanup crew. No answers about what’s happening with Stella.
Just silence and questions and the unfamiliar weight of helplessness settling into my bones.
Tomorrow, I’ll be the Pakhan again. I’ll prepare for war with Novikov’s organization. I’ll protect what’s mine with ruthless efficiency.
But tonight, I’m just a man watching his world unravel, powerless to stop it.
The bottle empties. The night deepens. And somewhere in the Left Wing, Stella stares at the ceiling, a stranger in the body of the woman I’ve come to need.
But she’s slipping away from me.