Chapter Twenty-Eight
Aleksei
I’ve picked out socks with more forethought than I’ve given this journey.
Which is none, whatsoever.
The plane’s controls vibrate beneath my hands as I push the Gulfstream to its limits, cutting through Russian airspace without proper clearance. My mind races faster than the aircraft, thoughts colliding madly.
Your mother… she’s alive.
My father’s words echo in an endless loop, destroying twenty years of certainty. Twenty years of hating him for a murder he didn’t commit. Twenty years of grieving a woman who wasn’t dead.
Vostok.
The name alone brings up images from whispered Bratva legends— a Soviet relic where the mentally ill share corridors with political prisoners, where experimental treatments continue behind closed doors, where people disappear.
Where my mother has spent two decades of her life.
I left California hours after my father’s revelation.
No explanations, no preparations, no goodbyes.
Diana’s calls went unanswered. Stella’s questions about my sudden departure received vague reassurances about “business matters.” Sasha’s concerns about security protocols dismissed with a curt order to guard the manor.
The Bratva Pakhan leaves no loose ends, makes no impulsive moves, plans three steps ahead. Yet here I am, flying into the Russian wilderness on nothing but my drunken father’s word.
“ Bezumiye. Polnoye bezumiye, mat’ yego ,” I mutter. This is a complete fucking madness.
The navigation system alerts me to my approach.
Below, the Kolyma region unfolds— endless white broken by dark stretches of forest and the occasional scar of human settlement.
This is Russia’s forgotten corner, a place where Stalin sent those he wished to erase, where winters kill as efficiently as bullets, where isolation itself becomes a prison wall.
I land at a private airstrip owned by a Bratva associate who asks no questions when enough money changes hands. The desolate landing strip appears suddenly through the snow-laden clouds, little more than a crude gash carved into the wilderness.
Yuri Popov— a man who’d sell his own mother for the right price— greets me with a curt nod as I disembark.
No paperwork, no customs, no record of my arrival.
This is how business is conducted in the forgotten corners of my homeland: with cash, silence, and the unspoken threat of what happens to those who break either.
The cold hits like walking into a wall of solid ice as I exit the aircraft— minus forty degrees, the kind of bone-deep cold that freezes lungs and crystalizes eyelashes. My breath forms clouds that the wind immediately shreds.
A driver waits with a Soviet-era UAZ, its engine running continuously to prevent freezing. He nods once, accepting the thick envelope I offer without counting its contents.
“Vostok,” I tell him in Russian. “ Bystryy. Fast as possible.”
“Three hours,” he replies, gesturing to the passenger seat. “If roads are clear.”
We drive in silence through what locals call the Valley of Frozen Shadows.
The landscape deserves the melodramatic name— jagged mountains loom beneath heavy clouds, their peaks disappearing into gray nothingness.
Stunted trees bend permanently from relentless wind, their branches reaching southward, searching for sun.
Nothing survives here without becoming twisted. Deformed. Adapted to harshness.
What has twenty years in this wilderness done to my mother?
Halfway to Vostok, the driver stops to refuel at an isolated outpost— a cluster of weather-beaten buildings huddled against the elements. While he fills the tank, I stand in the biting wind, staring at the endless white horizon.
For twenty years, I’ve been tormented by the certainty of her death. The possibility of her life is somehow more terrifying.
What if my father lied? What if this journey leads nowhere? What if she’s there but broken beyond recognition? What if she doesn’t remember me? What if she does?
Questions without answers. Emotions without outlets. The kind of bullshit I’ve spent my adult life eliminating.
I could turn back. Return to California. To business. To Stella and Polina. To the life I’ve built on the foundation of believing my mother was murdered.
Instead, I climb back into the UAZ when the driver signals. The choice is already made. Has been since I heard those impossible words from my father’s lips.
We continue through deepening desolation until a structure appears on the horizon— a massive concrete complex sprawling across a barren hillside.
Watchtowers punctuate a perimeter fence topped with razor wire.
The Soviet star still crowns the main building, though its red paint has mostly flaked away, leaving rust-colored marks in the metal.
Vostok Institute for Mental Health and Rehabilitation.
“ Podozhdi zdes’. Wait here,” I tell the driver as we approach the main gate. “I may be several hours.”
He nods, settling back in his seat. Men in this region understand waiting. Winter teaches patience through survival.
The first checkpoint is manned by bored guards who straighten when I approach.
I offer identification— not my real passport, but one of several alternatives I keep for situations requiring discretion.
Along with it, I slide across a stack of rubles thick enough to make the senior guard’s eyes widen slightly.
“I’m here to see Dr. Reznikov,” I say. “He’s expecting me.”
A lie, but delivered with enough confidence to create doubt. The guard makes a show of examining my documents while his partner makes a phone call. Money disappears into pockets. Gates open. The first barrier falls.
The administrative building smells of cabbage, disinfectant, and the particular mustiness of papers stored too long in damp conditions. A woman with hair pulled so tightly it seems to stretch her features sits behind a desk, typing on an outdated computer.
“I need to see Dr. Reznikov,” I repeat, placing another stack of rubles beside her keyboard. “Family matter.”
Her fingers pause. Eyes flick to the money, then to my face. “Name?”
“Andreev.” Another alias. “Tell him it concerns a long-term patient. Maria Tarasova.”
Something flickers across her features— recognition, perhaps. She lifts a phone, speaks quietly, listens, then nods to herself.
“Third floor. Room 312. Sergei will escort you.”
A security officer materializes, leading me through corridors that grow progressively cleaner and better maintained as we ascend. The third floor houses administration— the domain of those who control rather than those who are controlled.
Room 312 features a heavy wooden door with a brass nameplate: Dr. Mikhail Reznikov, Director. My escort knocks, receives permission to enter, then steps aside as I brush past him.
The office beyond is surprisingly modern compared to the rest of the facility— leather furniture, contemporary art, a computer that wasn’t manufactured during the Soviet era.
Behind a substantial desk sits a man in his mid-sixties, gray hair swept back from a broad forehead, brown eyes studying me through rectangular glasses.
His expression suggests a lifetime of calculating risk versus reward.
“Mr. Andreev.” He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “An unexpected visit.”
I remain standing. “I prefer Tarasov.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Aleksei Tarasov. The prodigal son returns to his homeland.”
“You know who I am.”
“I make it my business to know the names of powerful men.” He removes his glasses, polishing them with a handkerchief. “Particularly those with connections to my patients.”
“Maria Tarasova.”
“Ah.” He replaces his glasses, folding his hands on the desk. “Now I understand the visit.”
“Is she here?”
“That depends on what you’re offering for the information.”
I’ve spent enough time in Russia to understand the dance. I remove an envelope from my jacket, placing it on his desk without comment. He doesn’t touch it, merely glances at its thickness.
“Patient confidentiality is a serious matter,” he says, though his tone suggests otherwise.
I add a second envelope. His lips twitch in what might be a smile.
“Maria Tarasova was committed in 2003,” he says finally. “Diagnosis: delusional disorder with paranoid features.”
“Who committed her?”
“Her husband. Rodion Tarasov. With supporting documentation from a Dr. Petrov.”
“And the real reason?” I ask, knowing psychiatric diagnoses in Russia often disguise political inconveniences.
Reznikov shrugs. “I believe she witnessed something. Something concerning enough that certain parties felt she should be… contained.”
“What did she witness?”
“That information would require a much more substantial conversation.” His eyes flick meaningfully to the envelopes.
I add a third. His smile widens.
“I don’t know the specifics,” he admits. “Those details aren’t in her file. But it involved your father and several high-ranking officials who have since died or disappeared.”
“And who would those officials be?” I press.
His shoulders hike. “That is a matter I have no knowledge of.”
I absorb this, filing it away for later examination. “Her condition now?”
“Remarkably stable, considering her circumstances.” He leans back in his chair. “Your mother is… resilient. She functions well enough to participate in our work program.”
“Work program?”
“Patients with practical skills contribute to the institute’s operations. Kitchen work, laundry, basic maintenance. It provides structure, purpose.” He adjusts his glasses. “Your mother was always an excellent cook. She now runs our kitchen.”
The casual mention of my mother’s cooking— something so normal, so domestic— hits with unexpected force. I remember Sunday mornings, the smell of blini , her humming as she moved around our kitchen. Before everything shattered.
“I want to see her.”
Reznikov checks his watch. “Fortunate timing. Dinner preparation is underway. I can arrange an observation, but direct contact requires paperwork, approvals—”
éto blyad’ neveroyátno.
It doesn’t fucking end.
I place a fourth envelope on his desk, thicker than the others. “Expedite the paperwork.”
He considers the offer, then nods once. “Wait here.”
When he leaves, I move to the window overlooking the compound.
From this height, the full scope of Vostok becomes clear— a series of interconnected buildings surrounded by emptiness.
No nearby towns. No accessible roads except the one I arrived on.
No possibility of escape, even if one survived the cold.
A perfect prison disguised as a hospital.
I’ve spent decades building power, yet in this frozen corner of Russia, I’m reduced to begging and bribing for the simple right to see my own mother. I bite back my frustration, reminding myself of why I’m doing this.
Reznikov returns fifteen minutes later. “This way.”
I silently follow. We descend through the administrative levels to the ground floor, then follow a long corridor toward what he calls “the school”— a section where higher-functioning patients participate in structured activities.
The atmosphere changes subtly— walls painted in warmer colors, artwork displayed, fewer locked doors.
“Most patients here maintain some connection to reality,” Reznikov explains as we walk. “They follow routines, interact appropriately, perform assigned tasks. Your mother has been in this section for twelve years.”
“Before that?”
His hesitation tells me everything. “The early years of treatment were… more intensive.”
My jaw tenses, but I keep my mouth shut.
We turn a corner, approaching a set of double doors.
Beyond them lies a large dining hall filled with simple tables and chairs.
One wall features a glass partition providing a view into an industrial kitchen where several people in white uniforms work at various stations.
“The evening meal is served at six,” Reznikov says. “Your mother oversees all preparation.”
My heart pounds against my ribs as I scan the kitchen. Several patients chop vegetables. An older man stirs something in a massive pot. A woman arranges bread on trays.
And then, I see her.
She stands at a central workstation, gray-streaked hair tucked beneath a chef’s hat, her slender frame moving with the same grace I remember from childhood.
Her back is to us as she demonstrates something to a younger patient, her hands gesturing in the familiar way that accompanied her stories at bedtime.
Twenty years.
Twenty fucking years I believed her dead, buried in some unmarked grave. Now she stands forty feet away, very much alive, stirring a pot of soup as though the world hasn’t collapsed around me.
As if sensing observation, she turns slightly toward the glass. The knife in her hand moving mid-chop.
And I see her.
My mother’s eyes in a face I barely recognize.