Chapter Thirty-Five
Aleksei
I stand in the hallway outside my father’s room, hatred burning in my gut.
My hands clench and unclench, knuckles cracking, teeth grinding.
Ya khochu razorvat' etogo starogo pridurka na chasti!
It’s hard to feel sympathy for the man rotting away on the other side of that door.
The cancer eating him from inside is just karma finally catching up.
For years, I thought about this moment— for something to break him the way he broke everything he touched.
My father, the great Rodion Tarasov, reduced to a withering husk in a bed borrowed from the son who despises him.
I should feel something— relief, perhaps satisfaction— but there’s only this cold void where forgiveness or compassion should be. The universe is finally extracting payment for his sins where I couldn’t.
I called Dr. Malhotra to verify what the old bastard told me— pancreatic cancer, stage four. Part of me wanted confirmation that his death would be painful. That he’d suffer like he made others suffer. I don’t care that it’s fucked up; this whole situation is fucked up.
The door opens. Malhotra steps out, medical bag in hand, face professionally blank as he pulls the door shut. The sharp tang of antiseptic follows him.
“Mr. Tarasov,” he says crisply. “I’ve completed my examination.”
“And?” My voice stays flat despite the storm raging inside.
“I’m afraid your father’s self-reported diagnosis is correct. Stage four pancreatic cancer with metastasis to the liver and lymph nodes.” He adjusts his glasses. “He has very little time. Two weeks, perhaps three at most.”
I nod. No surprise. The monster of my childhood reduced to a withering corpse in my guest bedroom.
“Is he in pain?” I ask, not sure which answer I want.
“I’m afraid so.” He nods. “I’ve prescribed morphine for comfort, though it will make him increasingly incoherent as the dosage increases.” Malhotra studies my face. “Would you like me to arrange hospice care?”
“No.” The word snaps out like a gunshot. I pause, rein myself in. “My staff will handle it. No strangers in the house.”
Not with my mother here, finally free from the suffering that fucker inflicted upon her.
Not with Bobik hidden upstairs, vulnerable and unprotected if strangers start wandering through my home.
Not with everything balanced on a knife’s edge— my business, my family’s safety, the delicate web of alliances I’ve constructed.
One wrong move, one misplaced trust, and it all comes crashing down.
I’ve spent too many years building these walls to let them crumble now. Or ever.
Malhotra nods, understanding what I don’t say. He’s been Bobik’s doctor for years, one of the few outsiders who knows about my son. He snaps his bag shut.
“On a brighter note,” he says, his expression shifting abruptly, “I have some promising news.”
The change catches me off guard. “About?”
“Bobik.” A genuine smile breaks across his face. “I’ve been in contact with Vanguard Medical. The latest NeuroFusion Implant trials have been approved for pediatric applications.”
I straighten, instantly alert. Rage at my father forgotten, replaced by razor-sharp focus. “When?”
“They can begin evaluation next month.” Malhotra’s words quicken with excitement. “This technology is revolutionary, Aleksei. Nothing like our previous attempts.”
I lean against the wall, forcing my face to stay neutral despite the sudden jolt in my chest. “ Govorí . Talk.”
Malhotra sets his bag down again, hands animating as he speaks. “NeuroFusion uses nanotechnology-based implants to repair damaged nerves in the spinal column. Unlike traditional approaches that try to bypass damaged areas, these implants create new neural pathways and stimulate natural healing.”
“And this works for Bobik’s injury?” I’ve heard promises before, watched my son endure surgeries that did fuck-all. I’m not putting him through that again without absolute certainty. I’ve already sat vigil beside his hospital bed once, and that was once too often.
“His case is exactly what this technology was designed for.” Malhotra’s confidence doesn’t waver. “The damage was traumatic, not degenerative. Clean injury at birth, interrupting otherwise healthy development.”
I process this, measuring each word against years of disappointments. “The previous surgeries—”
“Were stone tools compared to this,” he cuts in, unusual for him. “Those were mechanical— physical manipulation, crude nerve grafts with AI bundled on top. This is different, at the cellular level.”
He pulls out a tablet, brings up a diagram. “The implants are microscopic, inserted through minimal incisions. They integrate with existing neural networks, essentially teaching damaged nerves how to reconnect.”
Technical terms follow— neural plasticity, bioelectric signaling— but I catch the implications beneath the jargon.
“So, this isn’t just pain management or minor improvements,” I say, voice low. “You’re talking about actual restoration.”
“Exactly.” His eyes shine. “Combined with the AI rehabilitation program, we could see significant improvements… within months.”
“Significant meaning…?” I let the question hang, afraid to name what I want most.
Malhotra licks his lips as if preparing himself for the statement he’s about to make. “Meaning Bobik could regain substantial lower body function. Standing. Walking with assistance initially, then independently.” He pauses. “Running, eventually. Playing like any other child.”
Blyad.
Like any other child…
As Malhotra describes this technology, something dangerous creeps in— hope.
Hope that my son might know a normal life after all.
That the bright, curious boy trapped in that wheelchair might race through the gardens of Blackwood Manor.
That the damage done by one drunk doctor might finally be undone.
But it’s hope that we’ve had before. Hope that almost led to his death. I’m not leaping at every new technology that comes our way.
“I’ll discuss it with him,” I tell him as I mull this over.
Malhotra looks apprehensive. “I… ah… I already did.”
“You what?” I bark. “You discussed this with my boy without consulting me first?” I loom over the much smaller man, and he shrinks back, eyes wide with fear.
“He already knew about it,” he says quickly. “He raised it himself at our last examination and wanted to know if we were considering it as an option for him.”
Chert voz’mi!
That boy of mine is too smart by half.
“ Yebat ,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes with one hand. “Of course, he fucking knew.”
The doctor nods quickly. “Yes. And when he showed such enthusiasm, I promised him that I’d discuss it with you.”
Pizdets.
What the fuck do I say to that? There’s no way I would break my boy’s heart.
“Tell me about the risks,” I grit out.
“The technology has advanced considerably,” Malhotra assures me. “Success rate in adult trials has been remarkable— over 85% showing significant improvement, with nearly 60% regaining full or near-full function.”
“Adult trials?” I press, eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” he replies. “Unlike the previous surgery, this procedure has evolved from successful operations, just with the AI component added.”
I clear my throat, fighting against an unexpected tightness. “So, you’re saying this could really work? He could actually walk? Not bullshit this time?”
“Yes.” The simplicity hits harder than any elaborate explanation. “I believe he could.”
The symmetry isn’t lost on me— as one Tarasov approaches death, another might finally begin to live. My father rotting away behind that door while my son prepares for something that could transform his world.
“When?” I demand, voice rough.
Ne tormozi, Aleksei.
Don’t rush into this shit again.
“I’ll need to bring the Vanguard team here for initial assessment. Discreetly, of course.” He understands the security concerns without me spelling them out. “Then we’d schedule the procedure at their facility— specialized equipment we can’t bring here.”
I nod, already calculating security arrangements, private transport, cover stories. “Whatever it takes.”
“I thought you’d say that.” Malhotra reaches for his bag. “I’ll make arrangements immediately.”
For a moment, I forget my rage. All I see is Bobik running for the first time. Playing with Diana and Polina in the garden. Living the childhood stolen from him by negligence and vodka.
“Doctor,” I say, voice deadly quiet. “This time, no mistakes. Ponyatno? You understand me?” My tone stays controlled, but something tightens in my chest— anticipation, maybe. For Bobik. For a future we’ve been chasing for years.
Malhotra nods quickly, catching the unspoken threat beneath my words. “I’ll call tomorrow with details.” His eyes meet mine with determination, and more than a little fear. Good. He’d be a fucking idiot to risk my boy’s life again.
As Malhotra walks away, I stand in the hallway, caught between my dying father’s room and the future suddenly opening for my son. Endings and beginnings. Death and possibility. The worst of my past and what might come next.
Before I can catch myself, I imagine Bobik standing. Taking steps. Running toward me. The image hits like a fist to the sternum, creates pressure behind my eyes that might, alone, become something else. But khvatit — enough of that weakness. I’ve shown too much these past days.
Stay in the present, dolboyob.
I turn from my father’s door, moving toward the rooms where my son waits with his books and dreams. Towards hope.
The darkness of my father’s approaching death can wait.
This moment belongs to Bobik.