Chapter Thirty-One
Stella
The night air carries a slight chill as I step onto the pool deck, wrapping my cardigan tighter around my shoulders.
Polina finally settled after her evening feed, monitored by the night nurse who assured me I could take a much-needed break. Two weeks of motherhood have taught me to seize these rare moments of solitude.
Except I’m not alone.
Diana sits hunched in one of the lounge chairs, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the pool lights.
Her normally perfect posture is collapsed, shoulders curved inward like a wounded animal.
An unmistakable cloud of marijuana smoke hangs around her, the acrid sweetness cutting through the chlorine scent of the pool.
I hesitate, unsure whether to retreat or approach.
Diana and I have developed a cautious friendship since Polina’s birth— united by our mutual love for the baby, if nothing else.
But I’ve never seen her like this: designer silk pajamas rumpled, hair escaping its usually immaculate bun, eyes puffy and unfocused.
Before I can decide, she looks up, noticing me. Something in her expression— raw vulnerability, perhaps— draws me forward.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask softly.
She gestures vaguely to the chair beside her, neither welcoming nor dismissing me.
The small table between us holds evidence of her evening: rolling papers, a half-empty bottle of expensive vodka, several partially smoked joints.
Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for one, relighting it with fumbling movements.
I sit carefully, giving her space while making my presence available. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the pool’s edge and Diana’s occasional exhale of smoke.
“Have you heard from Aleksei?” I finally ask. He’s been gone for three days now— a sudden business trip to Europe, according to the brief explanation he left. No calls. No messages. Just absence.
Diana doesn’t answer. Instead, she reaches for her phone, unlocks it with trembling fingers, and wordlessly holds the screen toward me.
A single text message glows in the darkness:
“I’m with Mama in Vostok.”
I read it twice, confusion settling like a stone in my stomach. “Vostok? With… ‘Mama ? ’ ”
Diana takes a long drag from her joint, the ember glowing bright orange in the dimness. When she speaks, her voice is rougher than usual, her Russian accent more pronounced.
“Vostok Institute for Mental Health and Rehabilitation.” She pronounces each word with bitter precision. “The worst place on earth.”
“A hospital?” I ask, still not comprehending.
“A prison disguised as a hospital.” She exhales a plume of smoke toward the star-scattered sky. “In Soviet times, they sent dissidents there. Political prisoners labeled as mentally ill. Now it’s… something else. Still terrible. Still a place where people disappear.”
The chill in the air seems to deepen. “And… with ‘Mama’ ? I thought she was—”
“We thought both of our parents had been dead for a long time.” Diana’s laugh holds no humor. “Apparently, we were wrong.”
“Both?” The word escapes before I can stop it.
Diana’s gaze shifts to mine, slightly unfocused from the marijuana but still penetrating. “Our father is in the guest room of the Left Wing. Dying of cancer. He told us our mother is kept in Vostok.”
The revelation leaves me reeling. In all our time together, Aleksei has barely mentioned his parents— only that his father was abusive and his mother disappeared. I assumed, as Diana did, that both were long dead.
“I don’t understand,” I say again, though fragments are beginning to connect. Aleksei’s sudden departure. Diana’s distress. The text message that seems to have shattered her composure.
“Neither do I.” She offers me the joint. When I shake my head, she takes another deep drag. “Twenty years believing Mama was dead. Twenty years hating Papa for killing her. And now…” Her voice breaks. “Now she’s alive in that horrible place, and he’s dying in our guest room.”
My mouth falls open, not knowing what to say. What comfort can I possibly offer for this revelation? Probably nothing. Instead, I move to sit beside her on the lounge chair, placing a gentle arm around her shoulders. She stiffens momentarily, then leans into me, her body shaking with silent sobs.
We sit like this for several minutes, the pool lights casting rippling patterns across our faces. Diana’s tears gradually subside, replaced by the loose-limbed heaviness that comes with emotional exhaustion and weed.
“You know what’s funny?” she says finally, her words slightly slurred. “Lyosha— Aleksei— he always protected me. Even when we were children. Even when Papa …” She trails off, reaching for another joint.
I watch her light it, the flame briefly illuminating her tear-streaked face. “He mentioned your father was abusive,” I say carefully.
Diana’s laugh is hollow. “Abusive. Such a clinical word for what he was.” She inhales deeply, holding the smoke in her lungs before releasing it in a slow stream.
“I remember once, I was eight. Papa came home drunk— he was always drunk— and started throwing things. A vodka bottle shattered against the wall. Lyosha pushed me under the bed and covered me with his body.”
She draws a pattern on her silk-covered thigh, eyes distant with memory. “I can still feel him trembling against me. This skinny little boy, trying so hard to be brave. To protect me. He took the beating meant for both of us.”
The image forms vividly in my mind: two small children huddled together, one shielding the other from violence neither deserved. The ruthless man who ordered my parents’ murder— he was once just a little boy, protecting his twin sister.
“And your mother?” I ask gently.
Diana’s expression softens. “ Mama tried to protect us, too. She would distract Papa when his moods turned dark. Take the blows meant for us.” Her fingers trace the rim of the vodka bottle.
“I remember the day she disappeared. She was making pirozhki . I can still smell the dough frying. She kissed us goodbye when we left for school. When we came home, she was gone.”
“Just like that?”
“Father said she went to visit family in Moscow.” Diana’s bitter smile returns. “We knew he was lying. Mama would never leave without saying goodbye properly. Without leaving a note. Something.”
She takes another drag, the smoke curling around her face like a veil. “We thought he killed her. For all these years, we believed he murdered our mother.”
“And now Aleksei’s found her,” I say, pieces clicking into place. “At this Vostok place.”
Diana nods, her movements becoming looser as the marijuana takes stronger hold. “We had signals, you know. The three of us— me, Lyosha, and Vasya. Three taps on the wall meant Father was drunk. Two quick, one slow meant hide. Vasya got out first— boarding school, then university. Left us behind.”
There’s no accusation in her voice, just stated fact.
“Lyosha and I, we had hiding places throughout the house. Under beds. Inside wardrobes. Once, for three hours, in a kitchen cabinet.” She laughs, the sound edged with hysteria.
“That’s what a shitty childhood does to a person.
The Tarasov siblings survived by protecting each other. ”
As she speaks, something shifts in me. In my understanding of Aleksei. The man who shows such gentle care with Bobik and Polina learned tenderness precisely because he knew its opposite. His fierce protectiveness of those he loves— it comes from a childhood where protection meant survival.
“We thought we were free when Lyosha became Pakhan ,” Diana continues, her words beginning to slur together. “Exiled Papa to Siberia. Built this life. But you never really escape, do you?” She gestures vaguely at the opulent surroundings. “All this, and we’re still those scared little children.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. It seems so inadequate.
She gives a slight snort, then goes silent.
I don’t press her to speak, but when the silence continues, I turn to look at her.
Her head droops, eyelids growing heavy. The joint slips from her fingers, and I carefully extinguish it in the ashtray.
Diana mumbles something in Russian, too soft and slurred for me to catch, before her breathing deepens into sleep.
I sit with her a moment longer, processing everything she’s revealed. The childhood horrors that shaped the Tarasov siblings. The mother suddenly found alive after so many years of presumed death. The father who… returned to die under the same roof as the children he tormented.
And Aleksei— gone to this notorious institution to rescue his mother, acting on impulse rather than his usual calculated control. A side of him I’ve never witnessed.
It’s too much to process.
But it helps to understand.
I carefully adjust Diana’s position so she won’t wake with a stiff neck, then drape my cardigan over her shoulders against the night chill. She looks younger in sleep, the carefully maintained facade of sophistication melting away to reveal the vulnerable woman beneath.
As I gather the scattered joints and rolling papers, my thoughts turn to Aleksei. The man I’ve struggled to reconcile— tender father and ruthless killer— suddenly appears in a new light. Not excused for his actions toward my father, definitely not. But perhaps more comprehensible.
A man formed in the crucible of childhood trauma, who learned early that violence could be both weapon and shield. Who built walls around himself, letting only a select few— Diana, Bobik, now Polina— see his capacity for gentleness.
And somewhere in Russia, he’s facing his past— the mother he believed dead, imprisoned in a place Diana describes as hell on earth.
I look back at Diana’s sleeping form, wondering how many nights she’s spent out here alone, smoking to numb the pain of memories she can’t escape. Tonight, at least, she won’t wake alone.
I settle into the chair beside her, watching the steam rise from the heated pool into the cool night air. The manor feels different tonight— less a gilded cage, more a fortress sheltering damaged souls.
Including, perhaps, my own.