Chapter Twenty-Five
Aleksei
It’s been hours since Stella left my room, and since then, there’s been no word from her.
So I do what I always do and bury myself in work.
James Whitmore sits across from my desk, his expensive suit unable to hide the slight paunch of middle age. His eyes dart occasionally to the security monitors on the wall behind me, betraying his discomfort at being in my home.
“The Secretary is pleased we could resume our arrangement,” he says, the smoothness of a career politician in his voice. “The, ah, unfortunate situation with Mr. Novikov created quite a disruption.”
I allow myself a small smile. “Indeed. Unfortunate.”
Whitmore shifts in his chair. We both know what happened, though neither will acknowledge it directly. Sergei Novikov slipped in a bathroom, hit his head, and died. A tragic accident that just happens to benefit me enormously.
“These terms are acceptable,” I say, signing each contract with a sense of smug satisfaction that I don’t bother to hide. “I assume delivery schedules remain as previously discussed?”
“Yes. The first shipment is expected within thirty days.” He accepts the signed contracts, sliding them into his briefcase with visible relief.
Our business is concluding, which means he can leave.
“I should mention that Katherine sends her regards. The Oxford scholarship has been… transformative for her.”
The scholarship Novikov arranged to buy Whitmore’s loyalty. Now Whitmore returns to me, but ensures his daughter keeps her prize. Smart man.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” I stand, signaling the end of our meeting. “Vasya will handle the technical specifications with your team.”
Whitmore rises, extending his hand. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Tarasov.”
The lie comes easily to him. It’s never a pleasure doing business with me, but it is profitable. For both of us.
I watch through the security feed as Sasha escorts him from the property. When his car disappears through the gates, I pour myself a small measure of vodka. Not to celebrate— it’s too early for that— but to mark the moment.
Novikov’s death was unplanned. Messy. A complication I didn’t need. But the results… the results have been excellent. Five Pentagon contracts. Three European distributors returning to the fold. Banking restrictions mysteriously lifted.
The business empire stabilizes. The balance of power shifts back in my favor.
I pull out my phone and dial Vasya.
“The contracts are signed,” I tell him when he answers.
“All five?” I can hear the click of his keyboard in the background.
“All five. Better terms than before.”
A low whistle. “Whitmore didn’t waste time crawling back.”
“He follows the money.” I lean back in my chair, swirling the vodka. “Have the Swiss accounts been unfrozen?”
“As of this morning. Looks like Novikov’s associates are retreating.”
There’s a pause, the silence heavy with unasked questions. Finally, Vasya speaks again, his voice dropping lower.
“What happened to Novikov, Aleksei?”
I take a sip of vodka, considering my answer. Vasya isn’t asking if I’m responsible— he knows me too well for that. He’s asking for details he doesn’t need.
“An unfortunate accident,” I repeat the official line.
Another pause. “Sofia will be looking for answers.”
The mention of her name triggers a flicker of something like guilt. Not for her father— Novikov deserved his fate— but for Sofia herself. Once my fiancée, now my enemy. Another complication I’ll need to handle.
“Let her look.” I dismiss the concern. “If she pushes too hard, maybe she’ll hit her head in a public toilet, too. Accidents happen all the time.”
Vasya chuckles. “Glad to hear that you haven’t lost your edge, brat . I was worried that new pussy of yours had softened you.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “Watch your mouth, Vasya.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, then changes the subject. “How’s the baby?”
“My daughter has my temper, apparently.” I smile. “She screams the house down when she’s hungry.”
“God help us all,” Vasya mutters, but I hear the affection in his voice. “Another stubborn Tarasov is exactly what the world needs.”
“Better than another tech nerd like her uncle,” I counter.
“This tech nerd kept your ass out of prison a dozen times mudak .”
The familiar insult feels like comfort. Vasya and I have our differences, but the bond remains unbreakable. Blood and shared history binding us together.
“I’ll be back in Los Angeles next week,” he continues. “Try not to kill anyone important before then.”
“No promises.”
The call ends with his laugh echoing in my ear. I finish the vodka and set the glass aside, feeling more settled than I have in weeks.
I head to the gym, needing physical exertion to channel the restless energy success always brings. The space is a testament to precision and control— weights arranged by size, equipment meticulously maintained, not a towel out of place. My sanctuary.
I push myself harder than usual, driving my body to its limits. Bench press. Pull-ups. Core work that leaves my muscles burning. Sweat soaks through my shirt as I move to the punching bag, landing combinations with enough force to make the chain creak overhead.
Physical pain clears the mind. Focuses the thoughts. Burns away doubt.
With each punch, I catalog the day’s victories. The contracts. The accounts. The retreating enemies. The daughter growing stronger each day. The son safely hidden from my enemies, his treatments progressing well. The woman who knows my darkest secret and hasn’t run.
Yet.
That final thought breaks my rhythm. I steady the bag, breathing hard, sweat dripping from my face. Stella knows I killed her father. Knows why. Accepts the reason, perhaps, but acceptance isn’t forgiveness.
I grab a towel and wipe my face, checking the time. Nearly noon. I should shower, return to work, check on Polina.
Instead, I head outside, drawn by the warm Los Angeles sunshine. The pool gleams turquoise between the two wings of Blackwood Manor, the water perfectly still in the windless day. I’m halfway to the outdoor shower when I notice her.
Diana sits at one of the poolside tables, a teacup clutched in her hands. Her posture is wrong— hunched, defensive. Her hair, normally immaculate, hangs loose and uncombed around her face. She wears the same clothes as yesterday, wrinkled now from sleep.
Something is very wrong.
“Dee?” I approach cautiously, using her childhood nickname. “What’s happened?”
She looks up, and the expression on her face stops me cold. Fear. Raw, unfiltered fear I haven’t seen since we were children hiding from our father’s drunken rage.
“Aleksei.” Her voice cracks on my name. “I tried to call you last night. Your phone—”
“I was busy until late,” I say, moving closer.
“Busy?” she chokes out bitterly. “ Ser’yozno? Seriously? I tried to call you a dozen times. Even the guards called. No answer.”
“I should have taken more care, sestra .” Something cold settles in my gut at the sight of her distress. Diana never breaks like this. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, hands trembling around the coffee cup. “Father is here.”
The words hit so hard that I freeze mid-step. Memories flash unbidden— belt buckles, pain, my mother’s screams.
“What?” The single syllable comes out rough, like gravel being crushed underfoot.
“Father is here.” She looks up at me, eyes red-rimmed from crying or lack of sleep. Probably both. “He arrived last night.”
For a moment, I can’t process what she’s saying. It doesn’t make sense. Our father is in Siberia. Has been for over a decade. Exiled to a remote village with enough money to drink himself to death but not enough to return. For years, I’d told myself that he’d chosen the path to death.
“That’s impossible,” I say flatly.
Diana laughs, a brittle sound with no humor. “That’s what I thought when the guards called me to the gate and I found him standing there.”
I move to her side, crouching to meet her eyes. “Diana, are you sure it wasn’t a dream? A hallucination? You’ve been working too hard; maybe—”
“He’s in the spare bedroom of the Left Wing,” she interrupts. “I put him there last night when you didn’t answer your phone. He was… He needed rest.”
The proximity to Stella and Polina sends a jolt of alarm through me. To Bobik in his secure quarters.
“You let him stay in the manor? Near my family?” I bark.
“What was I supposed to do?” Her voice rises slightly. “Leave him on the doorstep? Have security throw out our own father?”
“Yes,” I snap. “Exactly that.”
She flinches, and I immediately regret my tone. This isn’t her fault. She was spared the worst of his abuse because I took it for her. Maybe she doesn’t remember him the way I do. But no, I know that’s not true.
“I’m sorry,” I say, gentler now. “You did what you thought was right. But Dee, he can’t stay here. He can’t know about Bobik, about Stella, about Polina.”
“I know.” She sets the teacup down with deliberate care, ceramic clattering as her hand trembles. “I didn’t tell him anything. Just gave him a room and said you’d speak with him today.”
I stand, mind racing through implications, contingencies, threats. “How did he find us? How did he even get to Los Angeles?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say much.” She hesitates. “Aleksei, he’s… he’s not well.”
“Drunk?” The familiar anger rises, memories of childhood beatings, of my mother’s tears, of Diana’s muffled sobs from the next room.
“No. Not drunk.” She shakes her head. “Just looks like shit. I couldn’t bring myself to ask him about it.”
The information should bring satisfaction. Instead, it brings confusion. Why come here now, after all these years? Why seek out the son who exiled him, the daughter he neglected?
“I’ll go see him.” I straighten, decision made. “Where is he now?”
“Probably sleeping after the trip.” Her shoulders rise into a graceful shrug.
“I haven’t been to check on him. After he got settled, I came out here and…
tried to relax.” She glances down at the overflowing ashtray on the side table where the remains of half a dozen joints have been stubbed out.
My sister’s numbed herself with enough weed to cripple an elephant.
I offer my hand, pulling her to her feet. “Go to your suite. Rest. I’ll handle this.”
She hesitates. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing drastic.” I soften the words with a brief hug— physical affection that doesn’t come naturally to me, but that Diana needs. “Just find out why he’s here and get him somewhere else. Quickly.”
She nods against my shoulder, the tension in her body easing slightly. “Be careful, Aleksei. He’s still our father.”
I force myself not to snort in disgust. Father . A title he never deserved.
“Go rest,” I repeat, releasing her. “I’ll call you later.”
I watch her walk toward her apartment in the Left Wing, shoulders still hunched, movements uncertain. Seeing her this way— diminished, frightened— reignites the protective rage I’ve carried since childhood.
No one hurts my sister. Not even our father.
Especially not our father.
I watch her leave, not moving until she disappears into the building.
The satisfaction of the morning’s business success has evaporated, replaced by cold focus.
My father is here, in my home, near my family.
Near Bobik, whose existence must remain secret at all costs.
Near my brand-new daughter and my woman.
My woman. I don’t care how confused she might be about us right now, that much remains a simple truth.
And I will rip him to pieces before he raises a hand to any of them.
Even if he doesn’t, I’m going to let him know that he is not welcome. Never will be. Whatever brought Rodion Tarasov back from fucking Siberia, he won’t find redemption here.
Only the consequences of his actions, delivered by the son he failed to break.