Chapter Thirteen
Osip
I sink into my chair, the morning sun cutting sharp angles across the hardwood floor.
My coffee’s gone cold in the mug balanced on the armrest, but I don’t give a shit. The silence in this house presses against my skull like a migraine— too much space, too much quiet, too much time to think about what I’ve lost.
I flip through channels with the remote, the Perspex cool against my thumb.
Some reality show bullshit— plastic women screaming at each other over champagne flutes.
A cooking program where some chef pretends pasta is an art form.
Financial news predicting market crashes that never come.
The familiar CNN jingle cuts through my restlessness, and I pause.
The remote feels heavier in my hand than it should.
“Breaking News: Private Plane Crashes Into Ocean – Two Confirmed Dead.”
The screen fills with aerial footage— helicopters circling like vultures over a debris field scattered across dark water.
Pieces of white fuselage bob among the waves, twisted metal and scattered cushions that were once a luxury cabin.
The camera zooms in on what looks like part of a wing, the corporate logo still visible on the fractured surface.
The reporter’s face is appropriately somber, her voice carrying that practiced gravity they use for tragedies.
I take a sip of coffee, bitter and strong, the way I like it.
Another oligarch’s toy destroyed. These private jets cost millions, flying palaces with every luxury, but physics doesn’t give a fuck about your bank account when the weather turns.
The irony isn’t lost on me— I own one of those death traps myself, parked at Ferenc Liszt Airport like a steel promise that could turn into a steel coffin.
I’m about to mute the TV and head to my office when my phone buzzes against the glass table. The vibration sends ripples through the cold coffee in my abandoned mug.
The name on the screen stops my blood cold: Cameron Simpson.
Chto za khuy? What the fuck?
My pulse jumps, making my breath catch in my throat. Simpson runs Beacon Hill Orphanage. The place where… where my son was. The place I haven’t heard from since those pretentious svolochi took Slava away from me.
I reach for my phone and swipe to answer before it can ring again.
“Mr. Sidorov,” Simpson’s voice is strained, careful. There’s something different about his tone— usually he speaks with that practiced social worker calm, but now there’s an edge. Uncertainty. Maybe even fear. “It’s about Slava. I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.”
The world stops spinning. My chest constricts like someone’s wrapped steel cables around my ribs and pulled tight.
The expensive Persian rug beneath my feet might as well be quicksand.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, pacing to the massive windows that overlook the city.
Budapest spreads below me like a chessboard, all ancient spires and modern glass, but I see none of it.
“What?” The word comes out sharp, edged with panic. “Is my son okay?”
Bozhe Moy.
Please, God.
“He’s fine, but…” Simpson pauses, and I can hear him swallow hard through the phone.
The sound makes my skin crawl. In that silence, I hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, the distant hum of traffic far below, the tick of the antique clock on my mantel marking seconds that feel too fucking long.
“His adoptive parents, Elena and Leonid Vorobev, were involved in a plane crash. Their private jet went down over the ocean. Neither of them survived.”
Blyad!
My gaze snaps to the TV screen, still showing that broken white plane. The pieces slam together in my mind in an instant. The remote falls from my numb fingers, clattering onto the floor with a dull thunk.
The Vorobevs’ plane.
My son’s adoptive parents.
Dead.
I lean against the window, the glass cool beneath my palm. The city below continues has normal— cars crawling through streets like ants, people living their meaningless lives while my world restructures itself.
“He’s fine, but…?” I press. My voice cracks, betraying me. I clear my throat, force steel back into my tone. “But what, goddammit? Was he on the fucking plane?”
The question hangs in the air as images flash through my mind— my son’s small body among that wreckage, his dark hair floating in the waves, those serious gray eyes closed forever. My chest constricts until I can barely breathe.
No.
Not my boy.
Not Slava.
The seconds stretch like hours. I can hear Simpson breathing, can hear my own pulse roaring in my ears.
“No, Mr. Sidorov,” he says at last, and the relief that crashes through me nearly buckles my knees.
I lean heavily against the window frame, my forehead touching the glass.
The coolness seeps through my skin, grounding me to this moment, this reality where my son still breathes.
“The child was at the family home with his nanny while the parents were traveling for business.”
Thank fuck.
I release a breath slowly, watching it fog the window in front of me. My reflection stares back— wild-eyed, desperate, a man hanging onto sanity by his fingernails. The relief is overwhelming, but underneath it, rage builds in my chest.
Business travel?
Without their son. Without my son. Without the child they fought me for, claimed they’d love and protect. They left him behind with hired help while they jetted off to whatever the fuck rich people do when they want to play at being important.
I should’ve known. I did know, the moment I saw them driving off that day.
Elena with her cold smile and designer clothes.
Leonid with his calculating eyes and perfect fucking English that couldn’t hide his accent— new money trying to buy respectability.
They didn’t want a son— they wanted a pretty addition to their perfect fucking life.
A trophy to show their friends at dinner parties.
My eyes drift back to the screen, watching rescue boats circle the wreckage.
The debris field looks smaller from this height, just scattered white dots on an endless blue canvas.
If Simpson hadn’t called, I’d be sitting here drinking coffee, completely unaware that my world had just shifted on its axis.
The silence stretches between us, filled only by Simpson’s nervous breathing and the distant drone of helicopter rotors from the TV.
I can picture him in his cramped office— the same one where I pleaded with him to let me see Slava— probably sweating through his cheap suit, wondering how to navigate this legal minefield.
“Mr. Sidorov,” Simpson continues, clearing his throat.
His voice has gained strength now, like he’s found his footing on familiar ground.
This is what he does— deals with broken families, lost children, impossible situations.
“As Slava’s biological father, I think you can make a strong case for taking Slava under your care… provided you still want to—”
“Yes!” The word explodes from me before he can finish. I push off from the window, already moving toward my office, my mind racing through logistics. Lawyers. Papers. Flights. “Tell me what I need to do.”
“I’m no lawyer, Mr. Sidorov.” Simpson’s tone becomes more careful, professional. “I’m just a guy trying to help. This is a very unique case and I’m sure there will be some bureaucracy involved, but if you agree—”
“I agree.” I grip the phone tighter, my hand trembling with adrenaline. Every second we waste talking is another second my son is alone, confused, probably scared. “I will do anything for my son. Where is he now?”
“He’s at the Vorobev residence, just outside Boston.”
Boston. My pilot can have us airborne within the hour. I stride through the hallway, past the gallery wall lined with expensive art that means nothing, toward my office where I keep the important things— documents, contracts, the legal papers that could bring my son home.
“I’m on my way. I’ll call you as soon as I land.”
“Alright, Mr. Sidorov.” Simpson’s voice carries relief now, like he’s passed off a burden he never wanted to carry. “I’ll see you when—”
I don’t wait for him to finish. The phone clatters onto my desk as I’m already pulling open drawers, grabbing my passport, Certificate of Citizenship, marriage license… anything they might possibly ask me for. My hands move quickly, smoothly, but inside I’m fucking vibrating with energy.
My son.
My blood.
Finally, a chance to bring him home where he belongs.
The office feels too small suddenly, the walls closing in. I need air, movement, action. I grab my keys from the marble console, the metal warm from sitting in the afternoon sun streaming through the foyer windows. My footsteps echo through the empty house as I head for the garage.
This time, nothing will keep me from my boy.
The BMW’s engine responds with a roar, and I’m reversing out of the driveway before the garage door is fully open. The tires bite into the asphalt as I accelerate toward the airport, toward my plane, toward my son.
Hold on, Slava.
Papa’s coming.