Chapter Twenty-Three
Aleksei
Blyad.
So she knows.
The champagne turns bitter on my tongue. I set the glass down carefully, buying seconds to think. To calculate.
What am I supposed to tell her? If I lie, I’ll be an even bigger piece of shit than she already thinks I am. Then I already am. Not to mention she wouldn’t believe me. The truth is written all over my face— I can feel it in the way my jaw has locked, in the sudden stillness of my body.
Lying would just push her away more. Maybe permanently.
Pizdets.
I look at Stella— really look at her. The mother of my daughter. The woman who somehow broke through defenses I spent decades building. Her eyes are wide, waiting, already glistening with tears she’s fighting to hold back.
I have no choice.
I must tell her the truth and bear the consequences.
“It’s true,” I say, voice steady despite the chaos in my chest. “I did.”
Her sharp intake of breath cuts through the silence. She hadn’t expected honesty. Had prepared for denials, for manipulation, for the dance of lies most men would attempt.
I am not most men.
She stands abruptly, moving away from me, one hand pressed against her mouth as if physically holding back words— or perhaps screams. I remain seated, giving her space, watching as the reality settles over her.
Tears slide silently down her cheeks. Not the dramatic sobbing I’ve seen in movies, but the quiet devastation of someone whose worst fears have been confirmed.
“Are you ready to hear the story behind it?” I ask finally. “It may change the way you look at your father.”
Her head snaps up, anger flashing through the grief. “Don’t you dare try to justify—”
“I’m not justifying anything,” I interrupt. “Just offering context. The full truth.”
She pulls further away, wrapping her arms around herself. “There’s nothing you can say or do to make this better,” she says hoarsely. “Nothing.”
“I would never try, Stella. There’s no way to make this thing better. But listen anyway.”
She’s stiff, her body radiating emotion. But she nods.
I take a deep breath. This story has lived inside me, festering like an untreated wound. Now I’m about to lance it, with no guarantee the infection won’t kill what’s between us.
“Some background first, before I tell you what happened,” I say.
“Don’t think you can wheedle your way out of this with some kind of sob story,” she says sharply.
“I don’t. But you need to understand some things about how it all began.
” I take a breath as I figure out how to put it all into context.
“I had a short relationship with Olga, Bobik’s mother.
After we went our separate ways, she called me one day to say she was pregnant.
I was twenty-four at that time, and I had just become Pakhan in the Bratva.
It was a difficult time. I had just exiled my father to Siberia, and the organization was in upheaval. ”
“Siberia? Why?” she asks, the question seeming to surprise her.
“He ruined our childhood.” The words come out flat, stripped of the emotion they deserve. Because talking about the man… merely thinking about that time opens old wounds that have never really healed. “And he killed our mother.”
Her eyes widen, but I continue before she can interrupt. This part needs to be said quickly, like ripping off a bandage.
“My mother disappeared one day and never came back. Diana was devastated. But if either of us dared to ask where she was or when she was coming back, we got beaten. Sometimes with fists, sometimes with whatever was nearby— belt, bottle, chair leg.”
“No!” She shakes her head. “What kind of person would do that to their own children?”
“He was not a good man.” I keep my voice matter-of-fact, though the memories still burn.
“The years passed, and I did my best to protect Diana from the worst of it, but that just turned his hate toward me. I never forgave him. Technically, my elder brother, Vasya, who had been sent away for his studies, was going to be Pakhan as the firstborn son, but it was never truly in his nature. He’s an introvert, an IT genius, so we shared the tasks: he does the technology behind all the operations, and I took on the active role as Pakhan .
The first thing I did was get the old bastard out of my sight for good. ”
I pause, gathering my thoughts. Stella has moved to the window, staring out at the night, but I know she’s listening. Her posture is rigid, attentive despite her distress.
“So there I was, unmarried, with my firstborn son on the way, who could be my rightful heir when the time came, even if I wasn’t married to his mother.
I had decided that I would never be like my father.
I planned to raise my boy so he would want for nothing.
That he would always know how important he was to me. ”
I look down at my hands, surprised to find them clenched into fists. I deliberately relax them.
“As Pakhan , my finances were good, so I paid for the best medical care for Olga. The pregnancy went well. We agreed that after the birth, Olga and I would separate amicably, but I would remain in the baby’s life— she understood my lifestyle wasn’t compatible with raising a child together.”
I reach for my champagne again, needing something to occupy my hands. “But here comes the catch. The private doctor I had paid for during the pregnancy fell ill with a contagious virus and couldn’t attend the delivery. He sent his colleague as a replacement.”
Stella is frowning. “Aleksei, this is all very fascinating, but I don’t see how it has anything to do with what you did.”
I pause, letting the silence build for what comes next.
“His replacement was Tomas Larkin.”
Stella’s eyes go wide. “My father,” she whispers.
“Yes. Your father.” I meet her gaze directly. “And he was drunk. Not plastered, but enough to lose focus.”
She shakes her head in automatic denial, but I can see doubt creeping in. “That’s not possible. My father didn’t drink. He was a professional.”
“Everyone has secrets, Stella.” I keep my tone level, even though this is a subject that gets my blood boiling.
“The labor didn’t go smoothly. It went on for too long and, eventually, Olga needed help— she couldn’t push anymore.
The baby was in distress, and forceps had to be used. That’s when everything went wrong.”
I look away, the memory still raw after all these years. The frantic beeping of monitors. Olga’s screams. The metallic smell of blood filling the delivery room.
“My son’s spine was damaged because your father mishandled the forceps. His hands were unsteady. His judgment impaired.”
“No.” Stella’s eyes go even wider. “That can’t be right. He wouldn’t—”
“He was drunk, Stella. He’d been drinking, and he didn’t have full control of his reflexes.”
“No! He… he… Oh, my God…” Stella’s face crumples. She buries it in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I want to go to her, to offer comfort, but I know my touch would be unwelcome. The man who killed her father has no right to dry her tears.
“Our child was in intensive care for months,” I continue, voice dropping lower. “My perfect baby boy. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on my worst enemy— seeing their newborn attached to machines, being told that even if he survived, he’d be in a wheelchair all his life.”
I stand, needing to move, to get rid of some of the tension coiling inside me.
“I tried to fix it,” I continue. “Got in the best experts, spent a fortune on the best treatments. There was nothing they could do for him. The damage was permanent. He would never have a normal life.”
Stella makes a small sound in the back of her throat but doesn’t say anything.
So, I continue. “When business expanded to the West Coast and I moved to Los Angeles, I moved Olga and the baby too, so my son could have a father nearby. I know what it feels like to have an asshole for a father, and I didn’t want that for my boy.”
Stella lowers her hands, face streaked with tears but composed enough to ask, “So you had my father killed because of a medical accident?”
“No.” I meet her eyes. “My plan was to have your father injured because he was drunk during a delivery, and permanently disabled my son. I wanted him to experience what he’d done— to spend the rest of his life unable to walk, dependent on others. To know what he’d sentenced my boy to.”
Her breath catches. “But he died.”
“He wasn’t supposed to. My men were sent to hurt him, not kill him.
” As I say it, I imagine it doesn’t sound like much consolation, but it is what it is.
The truth. “Your father got in his car and took off at high speed, with my men in pursuit. That’s when he crashed.
” No excuse, just fact. “He died instantly. It wasn’t the plan, but I can’t say I mourned the outcome. ”
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “And my mother? What about her? Did you ever think for a moment about what it would do to her? To lose the man she loved?” She makes a choking sound. “She killed herself, Aleksei!
“I know,” I say, still not trying to apologize. “Her suicide was… unexpected. Unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary?” She nearly chokes on the word. “You took her husband from her!”
“A husband who was drinking on the job. Who destroyed my son’s future through negligence.” My voice hardens despite my efforts to remain calm. “Your father never faced consequences for what he did. He fled to America, changed your family name, and built a new life, while my son will never walk.”
She turns away, shoulders shaking. I give her the space to process, to grieve. To hate me if she needs to.
After what feels like an eternity, she speaks again, voice raw. “Why keep Bobik hidden? If this was about justice for him, why not acknowledge him publicly?”
The question cuts deeper than she knows.
“I had to keep him a secret because I have enemies, and they would not hesitate to use him against me.” I move to the security monitor, checking the feed from the nursery where Polina sleeps peacefully.
“In the Bratva, having a disabled son is seen as a weakness. A vulnerability.”
“So you’re ashamed of him.” The accusation hangs between us.
“No!” I shake my head. “Never. I keep him hidden to protect him. The same reason that I now have guards watching Polina day and night. The same reason I’ve kept you within these walls since you came back to me.”
I approach her slowly, stopping when I see her tense. “I failed to protect my boy once. I won’t fail again. Not with him, not with Polina, not with you.”
Stella sinks into a chair, the weight of these revelations clearly overwhelming her. “All this time… my father… your son…” She looks up suddenly. “Does Diana know? About my father’s involvement?”
“Yes. She and Vasya know everything.”
“And they never told me.”
“It wasn’t their story to tell.” I move closer, cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal. “It was mine.”
She doesn’t pull away when I kneel before her chair, though she doesn’t meet my eyes either. “I won’t ask for your forgiveness, Stella. What I did— having your father hurt, which led to his death— I can’t take it back. Wouldn’t take it back, even if I could.”
Her eyes flash to mine, anger reigniting.
“But I need you to understand something,” I continue. “Your father wasn’t the saint you believed him to be. And I’m not just the monster you now think I am. We’re both more complicated than that.”
She stares at me for a long moment, her face a battlefield of conflicting emotions.
I wait for her to respond, knowing what’s at stake here.
My family. Fractured, complicated, but mine.
Whatever happens next, I’ll protect them. All of them. Even if Stella never forgives me. Even if she hates me forever.
Some prices are worth paying.