Chapter Thirty-Four
Stella
Over the past week, I’ve found myself drawn to the quiet moments between Maria and Polina.
There’s something mesmerizing about watching a grandmother with her grandchild— especially when that connection was nearly lost to time and circumstance.
Maria sings to Polina in Russian, lilting melodies that sound ancient and somehow familiar though I’ve never heard them before.
Her hands, marked by years of hard work, move with surprising grace as she swaddles Polina with expert precision or traces the curve of the baby’s cheek with a tender finger.
“ Bayu-bayushki-bayu ,” she croons, rocking Polina against her shoulder. “ Ne lozhisya na krayu .”
“Sleep, little one, don’t lie on the edge of the bed— or the little gray wolf will come and grab you by the flank.” She laughs at my expression. “All Russian lullabies are a bit dark, I’m afraid,” she explains. “We believe children should know the world has teeth.”
There’s wisdom in her words, in her presence, that fills an ache I didn’t know I had. Since my mother’s sudden death, I’ve navigated motherhood without the guidance that should have been my inheritance. Maria offers this freely, without imposing, creating a bridge between past and future.
Tonight, Aleksei is working late— another meeting with government contacts that will stretch into the early hours.
The fragile truce between us holds, though conversations still carry the weight of unspoken grief.
I’m not ready to face what might come next.
So, we orbit each other carefully, united by Polina, but separated by the ghosts of my parents.
Maria and I sit in the small drawing room, a traditional Russian samovar steaming between us. Polina sleeps in her bassinet nearby, sated and peaceful, her lips pursing slightly. Outside, darkness has fallen completely, turning the windows into mirrors that reflect our quiet companionship.
Maria pours tea into delicate cups, her movements deliberate but slightly unsteady. I’ve noticed this tremor increases when she’s emotional or tired. Tonight, something in her expression suggests both.
“Stella,” she says, setting down her cup with careful precision. “Can I share something with you, rodnaya? ”
Dear one. The endearment warms me. “Of course.”
She glances toward the doorway, then back to me. “Something I cannot yet tell my children. Something they are not ready to hear.”
I nod, switching to Russian— a language we’ve been practicing together during these evening teas. My grasp is still rough after years of disuse, but the effort pleases her.
“ Da. Ya slushayu .” I nod. Yes, I’m listening.
She smiles briefly at my attempt before her expression grows serious again. She leans forward slightly, hands clasped in her lap.
“I met Rodion Tarasov when I was seventeen,” she begins, her voice taking on a storyteller’s cadence. “He came to our village on business— he was twenty-two, handsome, ambitious. Aleksei looks almost exactly like he did. The same strong features, the same intensity in his eyes.”
I can see it in my mind’s eye— young Rodion with Aleksei’s face, unmarked by the cruelty that would later define him.
“He courted me properly,” Maria continues. “Brought gifts for my parents. Spoke of his plans to move to St. Petersburg, to make something of himself. We married quickly— too quickly, perhaps. But I was young and in love.”
She pauses, a shadow crossing her face. “Vasya came first, when we were still poor but happy. Rodion worked hard, took any job available. We lived in one room, but it was enough. Then came the twins— Aleksei and Diana. Three children in a tiny apartment, never enough money.”
Her fingers trace the rim of her teacup. “That’s when Rodion met the men from the Bratva. They offered opportunity, he said. A chance to provide for his family.” She sighs deeply. “The combination of money and power changes people. Or perhaps it just shows you who they really are.”
I remain silent, sensing she needs to tell this story without interruption. She takes a sip of tea, steadying herself.
“He changed so quickly. The drinking started. Then the violence. At first, only toward me— a slap when dinner wasn’t ready, a punch when I questioned where he’d been.
Then the children…” Her voice breaks slightly.
“My beautiful boy Aleksei took the worst of it. Always stepping between his father and Diana. Always protecting his sister.”
I find myself thinking of Aleksei— the man who cradles Polina with such tenderness, who moves through the world with calculated control. Of how that control was forged in havoc, how his protective instincts were hammered into shape by his father’s fists.
“I tried to leave once,” Maria continues, her voice dropping lower.
“Packed a small bag for each child. Told them we were visiting my parents, so they would not be afraid. But he caught us at the train station. The beating that followed…” She shakes her head, unable to continue that particular thread.
She leans closer, her voice low. “Then I discovered something worse than his violence. Young girls from our neighborhood began disappearing. Pretty girls, some as young as thirteen years old. There were rumors— whispers about where they went. To Western Europe, to wealthy men. I found papers in Rodion’s office. Lists of names. Amounts of money.”
My breath catches as I understand what she’s saying. “Human trafficking?”
Maria nods, her eyes haunted. “The worst kind of evil. Young girls lured in with the promise of a better life in places like Europe, the U.S… for sex, of course.” She looks at me intently.
“And Diana was approaching that age. My beautiful daughter, in a house with a man who sold girls just like her.”
I reach for her hand instinctively, feeling the slight tremble beneath my fingers.
“I confronted him,” she continues. “Threatened to go to the authorities. Told him I had copies of his documents, that I would expose everything if he ever touched Diana or tried to include her in his… business.”
“And that’s why he sent you to Vostok,” I whisper, the pieces falling into place.
“ Da. One day, as I was running errands… a car stopped beside me. They pulled a bag over my head and knocked me unconscious. I woke up in a strange room. They told me I had a psychotic break, that I was delusional. That my husband was a respected businessman who wanted the best care for his ill wife.”
I suck in a breath. “My God, how was that even possible?”
Her bitter laugh holds no humor. “In Russia then, with money and connections, it was easy to make someone disappear. And that was the start of the nightmare. Locked in that place, wondering if my children were safe, if Diana—”
“She was safe,” I assure her quickly. “Aleksei protected her. He told me how they looked after each other.”
Maria nods, tears forming in her eyes. “Knowing that would have made the years easier,” she sighs.
“After a while, the staff could see that I wasn’t truly ill.
They let me work in the sewing factory, and then the kitchen.
I even became a chef and found comfort in prayer.
I am glad that God answered those prayers and guided Aleksei well. ”
“He’s a good man,” I say too quickly, surprised by my own statement.
She gives a small smile. It’s tinged with sorrow. “My son became everything his father wasn’t. Protective. Loyal. When I saw him at Vostok, standing on the other side of that glass… it was like seeing Rodion again, but… with a soul behind his eyes.”
She looks toward Polina’s bassinet. “And now he has children of his own. A daughter to protect. A son to guide. The cycle could have repeated— so often it does. But he broke it.”
I think of Aleksei with Bobik, his patience. With Polina, his gentle touch. The fierce protection he extends to all of us. The way he touches me…
“He’s a good father,” I acknowledge.
“I can see that,” Maria agrees. “Because he knows exactly what a father should not be.” She squeezes my hand. “And he found you— the woman I prayed he would find. Someone strong enough to stand beside him, to love him despite knowing his darkness.”
Her words touch something within me, something deep.
Something I can’t put into words. The complex reality of being in love with Aleksei Tarasov while carrying the knowledge of what he did to my family.
Context doesn’t excuse what happened to them, but it provides a frame for the painting, a border for understanding what might otherwise be incomprehensible.
“My children aren’t ready for this truth,” Maria says softly. “About their father’s worst crimes. About why I was really taken from them. Especially Diana— it would destroy her to know she was the catalyst, that her safety came at such a cost.”
“Your story is safe with me,” I promise, understanding the weight of this confidence.
Tears spill down Maria’s cheeks now, and mine join them. We sit together, hands intertwined, two mothers separated by a generation but united by a shared secret, by love for the same family.
I understand something profound as we sit there— Aleksei had become a good father precisely because he knew what a terrible one looked like.
The man who caused my own father’s death was shaped by a monster who trafficked young girls, who beat his children, who imprisoned their mother for trying to protect them.
And somehow, that makes me inexplicably sad.
As Maria hummed those Russian melodies to a stirring Polina, I saw the chain of motherhood stretching back. The sacrifices made. The secrets kept. The love that somehow survives the darkest circumstances.
And I realize that my place in this family is not just as Polina’s mother or Aleksei’s partner— if I ever make that choice— but as a keeper of its truths. A guardian of its future. A woman who could help ensure that the darkness of the past never touches the children who represent its hope.
And as hard as it may be, it’s a role I intend to take seriously.