Chapter Sixteen
Osip
The guilt eats at me as I drive through Boston’s sleeping streets.
My hands shake against the steering wheel— not from fear, but from the weight of what I’ve done. What I’ve felt.
The woman from Room Five. Her skin under my hands, the connection that burned through me like live wire. I’ve never experienced anything like it— raw, honest, spiritual in ways that sex has never been before.
And that makes it worse.
Galina gave me permission. Told me that she understood men have needs, that she wouldn’t ask questions as long as I remained discreet. But permission doesn’t erase the sense of betrayal.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. It was supposed to be release— physical, meaningless, forgettable. Instead, it was everything I didn’t know I was searching for, wrapped in lace and candlelight and the kind of trust I don’t deserve.
Chert voz’mi!
I broke every rule I’ve ever set for myself.
The VanishMe information burns in my memory. Giving her access to me outside those walls, outside the safety of anonymity— it’s the kind of mistake that destroys carefully constructed lives. The app makes messages disappear after sixty seconds, but the connection remains. The door stays open.
What the fuck were you thinking, dolboyob?
My phone buzzes against the dashboard, but I ignore it. Stanley, probably, calling with more paranoid accusations about missing money. Or Melor with updates about Igor’s “suicide” that will require more bribes, more lies, more threads in the web I’m weaving to keep my world intact.
But all I can think about is her voice, broken and honest: I want you. I want all of you.
The memory makes my cock twitch despite the guilt crushing my chest. She offered herself completely— no games, no manipulation, no hidden agenda. Just pure need, honest desire, the kind of vulnerability that’s rarer than diamonds in my world.
I pull into my driveway and sit in the darkness, staring at the colonial mansion that should feel like home but never has. Behind those windows, Galina sleeps peacefully, trusting her husband to honor their arrangement, to keep his sins away from her pristine world.
She deserves better than this.
Better than me.
The front door is unlocked— unusual for Galina, who’s paranoid about security since her pregnancy started showing. I make a mental note to speak with her about it as I step into the foyer.
“Galina?” My voice echoes through the hallway.
Silence.
The house feels different. Colder. Like something is wrong. I check my watch— almost two in the morning. She should be asleep, dreaming whatever dreams pregnant women have about futures I’ll never understand.
I find her in the sitting room.
She’s on the cream sofa, perfectly positioned like she’s napping. One hand rests over her swollen belly, the other dangles toward the Persian rug. Her dark hair spills across the silk cushions, and her face looks peaceful. Serene.
Too peaceful.
“Galina.” I cross the room, my pulse starting to race for reasons I can’t name. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t stir. The wrongness hits me before conscious thought can process it— the unnatural stillness, the way her chest doesn’t rise and fall, the absolute absence of life in a space that should pulse with it.
I’ve seen enough death to recognize it instantly.
“No.” The word escapes as I drop beside the sofa, hands reaching for her throat to check for a pulse I already know won’t be there. “No, no, no—”
Her skin is room temperature. Not warm, not alive, just… gone. The woman who made me tea every morning, who arranged paint samples like treasure maps, who carried my child with quiet dignity— gone.
That’s when I see the cord.
Thin, black, expensive. The kind used for window blinds or electronic equipment. It’s partially hidden beneath her hair, wrapped around her throat. No struggle marks on her hands. No signs of a fight.
Someone did this. Someone came into my home and murdered my pregnant wife while I was fucking another woman. Mere minutes ago.
The realization crushes me, making me choke on air that suddenly feels too thick.
While I was fucking another woman, while I was lost in burgundy velvet and lace masks, someone was strangling the life from the only family I had.
Then I see it.
Movement. Beneath the fabric of her maternity shirt, something shifts. I tug the soft fabric aside urgently. Something pushes against the taut skin of her belly with desperate, rhythmic motion.
My son.
Still alive.
Still fighting.
“ Bozhe moy ,” I whisper, hands hovering over her abdomen as tiny feet press against the inside of her womb. My pulse starts racing even more, my heartbeat pounding like a war drum against my eardrums, drowning out everything except my son’s feeble movements. “Hang on, malysh . Papa’s here.”
The sight is beautiful and horrifying— my child struggling for survival inside his murdered mother. Each movement feels like a countdown, precious seconds ticking away while I stand paralyzed by shock and fury.
Jesus Christ, what do I do?
What the fuck do I do?
My phone is in my hands before conscious thought intervenes, fingers dialing emergency services with muscle memory forged in crisis.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My wife—” The words stick in my throat. “She’s been murdered. She’s pregnant. The baby might still— please, hurry.”
“Sir, I need you to stay calm. What’s your address?”
I rattle off the information while watching my son’s movements grow weaker, less frequent.
I’ve stared death in the face countless times.
I’ve faced enemies who would gut me without hesitation.
But this sight— it shatters something deep inside me that I thought was already dead, something I never knew could still bleed.
Each kick feels like a goodbye, a farewell I’m powerless to prevent.
God, please help.
“Paramedics are en route. Are you safe? Is the perpetrator still in the area?”
Safe. What a fucking joke. I’ll never be safe again. Not after this. Not from myself.
“No one’s here,” I manage. “Just hurry. Please.”
The minutes crawl by like hours. I can’t even touch her— this is a crime scene now, evidence that needs to be preserved. But I can’t look away either, watching the final movements of a child I’ll never hold, never teach to throw a punch or speak Russian or navigate the ugly realities of our world.
I pace beside her, eyes fixed to her belly as I rake my hands through my hair and try not to roar in sheer fucking frustration and helplessness. By the time the sirens pierce the night air, the movement has nearly stopped.
No!
Bozhe moy, please, no!
Paramedics flood my living room with equipment and urgency.
They work over Galina like seasoned professionals, checking for vitals, attempting resuscitation procedures.
But I’ve encountered death enough times to know the grim truth.
Truth that is written all over the paramedics’ faces— the grim set of their mouths, the way they avoid my eyes while going through the motions.
“Is the baby…” I can’t finish the question I already know the answer to.
“We need to get her to the hospital immediately,” the lead paramedic says, but his voice carries no hope. “There might be a chance for the baby if we move fast enough.”
They load her onto a stretcher, working frantically even as they move. I follow them toward the ambulance, watching their coordinated actions give way to something more desperate.
“Come on,” one of them mutters, checking monitors. “Come on, come on…!”
But as they slide the stretcher into the back, their movements slow. The lead paramedic checks something, then exchanges a long look with his partner. The kind of look that passes between professionals when hope dies.
“The baby—” I start, but the words get caught in my throat.
“We’re doing everything we can,” one of them says, but his tone tells me it’s hopeless. “Radio ahead,” he says quietly to his partner. “Tell them to have the coroner ready when we arrive.”
The words slice through me.
Coroner.
Not emergency surgery, not intensive care.
The fucking coroner.
“Sir, please stay here,” the paramedic tells me, his voice gentle but final. “The police will need to speak with you. There’s nothing you can do now.”
Somehow, I listen. For whatever fucked up reason, my legs refuse to move, like they’re frozen solid. I silently watch the ambulance disappear into the night, red lights fading into the distance, leaving me alone with a crushing feeling I can’t even begin to name.
Gone.
Both gone.
Everything I had, everything I was trying to become, erased. Erased while I was buried inside another woman.
Behind me, crime scene technicians flood my living room with equipment and cameras, documenting the destruction of my world.
“Mr. Sidorov?” A detective approaches— middle-aged, tired eyes, the look of someone who’s seen too much death. “I’m Detective Cavesson. I need to ask you some questions.”
“Da.” My voice comes out flat and dead. Lifeless, almost.
“Where were you tonight between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m.?”
The question I’ve been expecting. The one that requires lies, alibis, explanations that will hold up under scrutiny. In my world, you always have a story prepared for the police.
“Business dinner,” I hear myself lying. “Client meeting that ran late.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Yes.” I give him the contact details of my brothers. My mind goes numb as he keeps questioning. More lies pile on top of the first, a tower of deception that will eventually collapse but might buy me time to find who did this. To make them pay in ways the justice system never could.
An hour passes.
Questions, photographs, evidence collection.
When the house finally empties, when the last police car disappears into the dawn, I’m alone with the silence and the weight of what I’ve lost tonight.
I sit on the couch where I found her, staring at the cushions where my future died. The cord is gone— evidence now— but I can still see it, can still imagine the final moments when Galina realized what was happening.
Did she fight? Did she call for me? Did she wonder where her husband was while someone stole her breath?
The guilt crushes me in ways that feel like drowning in concrete— heavy, inescapable, filling every breath with the taste of my own failure. This is agony without end, a punishment that no amount of blood or vengeance can ever wash away.
I failed her.
I failed my son.
I failed at the one thing I thought I might actually be good at— protecting the people I love.
My phone buzzes with messages I can’t read, calls I can’t answer.
The world keeps spinning, business keeps moving, but I can’t seem to make myself care about anything beyond this moment, this room, this overwhelming certainty that I deserved this.
I brought this upon myself. I brought this upon them .
The universe has a sense of justice after all. It took away my redemption the same night I threw it away. But why them? Why do the innocent have to bleed for the monster I chose to become?
In the growing light of morning, I finally understand what it means to lose everything that matters. I finally know what it feels like to be truly broken.
And somewhere out there, the person who did this is still breathing. Still living in a world where my wife and son can’t.
That’s going to change.
Whatever it takes, however long it takes, whoever I have to kill— that’s going to change one day.
The sun rises over Boston like it’s just another day, like nothing has changed. But everything has changed. Everything that mattered is gone.
And I’m still here, still breathing, still carrying the weight of sins that can never be forgiven.
I close my eyes and let the guilt wash over me like a tsunami wave. I let it mark me as the kind of man who loses everything he touches, because he doesn’t deserve to keep it.
The kind of man who can never love anyone without killing them.