Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Silas
A pink Band-Aid with a cartoon dinosaur in the corner covered Olei's knee. He stood in the foyer, his face lit up with an expression I'd never seen before.
"Dad, look." He tilted his head up, eyes shining. "The new teacher put it on for me."
"Who hurt you?" I frowned.
I crouched down, fingers lifting the edge of the Band-Aid to check the scrape underneath. Not deep, but enough to make me start building a list in my head. Whichever little shit touched my son, his parents were going to pay.
"Just some kids." Olei's voice was too calm for a six-year-old. "They said I don't have a mom. Then they pushed me."
No whining, no complaining. Damn it.
I knew some wounds couldn't be stopped by bodyguards and walls. Six years now. Even if I could shield this kid from everything, I couldn't make up for the mother missing from his life.
"If you need my help, you can tell me their names," I said.
Olei struggled silently for a moment, then suddenly changed the subject, his tone brightening. "It's okay. The new art teacher helped me. She was really fierce—yelled at those bad kids and made them apologize. Then she took me to the office, poured me hot milk, and gave me chocolate."
I went on alert instantly. In this world, no kindness came free. Women being sweet to my son usually meant they wanted to get close to me—or worse, they were connected to my enemies. Maybe Olei had met a nice teacher, but I had to be careful.
"What else?" I asked casually.
"She asked if I had allergies. I told her I'm allergic to peanuts." Olei was unusually talkative. "Dad, she hugged me. Her arms were warm, and she smelled really good."
This was weird. Olei wasn't easily bought. He didn't trust people. But now he seemed attached to some new teacher.
"What's her name?" I asked offhandedly, already planning to have Marco dig into this teacher's background.
"Anthea Carter. She said we can just call her Anthea."
The name froze my thoughts solid.
"What?" I shot to my feet, not believing what I'd heard. "Anthea Carter?"
Olei jerked back, startled by my reaction. "Dad, what's wrong?"
I didn't answer. My heartbeat was deafening.
That name I'd screamed in countless sleepless nights—how could it be here? Anthea died six years ago. I sent countless people to verify it. Every single one told me the same thing.
Her ashes hung around my neck.
"Look at me, Olei." I locked eyes with him. "Are you sure? What did this teacher look like?"
"She has blonde hair. Her eyes are the same color as mine."
Something exploded in my brain. If this was a coincidence, God was fucking with me in the cruelest way possible.
"Okay. Got it." I forced myself to calm down and ruffled his hair. "Go rest. Get ready for dinner."
Olei nodded and trotted obediently toward his room. I yanked out my phone and called Marco.
"Find someone. Now." My breath came fast. "The new art teacher in Olei's class. I want everything on her. On my desk in thirty minutes."
"Yes, Pakhan."
I hung up and walked to the window, staring out at the darkening sky. New York's lights flickered in the distance like a false galaxy.
The pain of my heart slamming against my ribs made it hard to stand. These six years, I'd been a walking corpse. I'd expanded territory, slaughtered enemies, pushed the Thorne family to heights it had never seen—but I felt nothing except pain.
But now, something more terrifying than pain was waking up. Hope. I'd already accepted that Anthea was dead. If this person wasn't her, I'd have to accept her death all over again.
Could it be her? My hand moved on its own, touching the cold chain at my chest.
What if Anthea had been alive this whole time? What if she was alive but never tried to reach me? An emotion more complex than rage churned inside me. I didn't know what it was. Fear? Maybe.
Twenty minutes later, Marco's message arrived. I opened the attachment. A passport photo filled the screen. Blonde hair, amber eyes, and that face I'd replayed in countless sleepless nights.
The woman in the photo looked more mature than six years ago. Less innocence in her eyes, less naivety. More resolve, more composure. Her skin had turned a healthy honey tone, no longer the pale-almost-translucent I remembered.
It was her. My Anthea.
My hands started shaking. She was alive. She'd been alive this whole time. Who? Who faked that death certificate and made me live in a lie for six years?
Two faces surfaced in my mind—my father and Vanessa. Father was dead. Vanessa was locked in my dungeon. But I knew Vanessa wouldn't give me the truth easily. Even locked away, she'd never thought to trade this information for her life. That crazy bitch—she'd rather die than stop watching me suffer.
I called Marco immediately and told him to dig again.
Without anyone blocking the investigation, traces that had been deliberately erased finally surfaced. Marco quickly found leads.
Most of the people involved back then had died in "accidents," but one survived—a low-level grunt who'd been tasked with getting rid of Anthea. He'd been seriously ill in the hospital at the time and escaped being silenced. Marco found him.
Half an hour later. Interrogation room. The man was tied to a chair, trembling.
"Six years ago, what did you do?" I stood in front of him, toying with a combat knife. "What happened to Anthea Carter?"
"I-I don't know what you're talk—"
I waved impatiently. The knife drove into his thigh with precision. Screams filled the room.
"You've got one more chance." My voice was terrifyingly calm.
The man broke down, snot and tears streaming.
"It was the old Pakhan! The old Pakhan made us do it!
Him and Miss Zaitseva... after Miss Carter had the baby, they took the child and deported her.
Miss Zaitseva told Miss Carter she had no value anymore, that you didn't want to see her again.
The old Pakhan gave Miss Carter money, threatened her—leave America forever or disappear completely. "
My temples throbbed. Veins bulged at my forehead.
"Later, on the old Pakhan's orders, we faked Miss Carter's death certificate, dealt with everyone who knew... Pakhan, I was just following orders! Please let me go!"
I stared at him coldly.
"Good. Now you can die."
Bang. The interrogation room fell silent.
I walked out, fury blazing in my eyes. My father and Vanessa had staged this whole thing. And they'd made Anthea believe I was the one who stole her child and threw her out!
"Bring Vanessa to me," I called the location where she was held, ready to make her regret being born.
"Pakhan..." The voice on the other end sounded tense. "Vanessa was taken two hours ago. All our men were knocked out. Surveillance was destroyed. We're tracking who did it."
The rage in my chest nearly burned me to ash. At this exact moment, Vanessa escaped?
"Find out who did this. The Zaitsevs are finished—there shouldn't be anyone left." I forced the anger down. "Bring her back. Whatever it takes."
Vanessa couldn't get far. And I had more important things to do now. Anthea was alive. I needed to see Anthea.
It was already evening. She might have left the school, but I could find her. I pulled up the file Marco sent and scrolled to the address. An ordinary apartment building, not far from the school.
Maybe I should calm down, make a solid plan, and think this through. But my body wasn't listening to my brain anymore. Fuck "should."
Soon I was in an apartment directly across from Anthea's, same floor. The original tenant had left ten minutes ago with more money than he'd seen in his life.
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window where a military-grade high-powered telescope was set up. Outside, the sky had gone completely dark. Lights flickered on across the building. I leaned into the eyepiece, adjusting the focus. The image wavered, then snapped clear.
Third floor, second window from the left. And then I saw Anthea. My breath stopped.
She'd clearly just gotten back from school. Still in her teacher clothes. A fitted blue pencil skirt hugging her waist and hips, white blouse tucked in—sharp, professional. Her blonde hair was pinned up, a few loose strands framing her face.
She was busy in the kitchen, holding a spoon, stirring soup in a pot.
Bitterness rose in my chest. I thought I'd lost her forever. Thought I'd spend the rest of my life talking to her photograph. But now she was alive, living not far from me.
My eyes devoured the image. Even blinking felt like a waste. I watched her taste the soup, frown slightly, then add a spoonful of butter. After that, she carried dinner to the table, eating while flipping through a book. When she finished, she walked into the bathroom.
No. I couldn't see her anymore. Pain spread through my chest in tight waves. I could only stand there helplessly and wait. But I told myself not to rush.
About twenty minutes later, she finally came out.
Her blonde hair hung loose over her shoulders, still dripping.
She'd changed into a loose white cotton nightgown.
The hem swayed gently as she moved, exposing a stretch of slender calf.
The nightgown looked a little worn, soft against her body, radiating a familiar, heartbreaking domesticity.
She walked to the window, leaned down to water a plant, her expression focused and gentle. I stared, unblinking.
Before I knew it, the lights across the way went out. I glanced at my watch. 1 a.m. I'd been watching her for hours, but it felt like minutes. I should go back. Tomorrow there'd be plenty to handle—Thorne family business piling up. But my feet wouldn't move.
Once I confirmed Anthea was asleep, I appeared at her apartment door. The lock was ordinary—useless to me. I slipped inside without a sound.
The air carried a faint fragrance. Her scent. I thought I'd forgotten it, but the moment it filled my nose, I realized I'd never truly forgotten—it was coded into my DNA.
I followed the scent into her bedroom. She lay in bed. Moonlight filtered through the curtain, falling across her face. Her sleeping expression was peaceful, serene. Long lashes cast shadows on her eyelids.
I walked to the bedside, holding my breath, afraid to disturb her. Then I slowly reached out. My fingers stopped just before touching her cheek.
I didn't dare. These six years, I'd seen her countless times in hallucinations. Sitting on my bed. Smiling at me in the garden. But every time I tried to touch her, she'd vanish like foam.
Was this another hallucination? I pulled the pill bottle from my pocket, shook out an anti-hallucinogenic, and swallowed it dry. Bitterness spread through my mouth.
Usually, within ten minutes, the meds kicked in, and the hallucinations faded. I stood in the dark, staring at her, waiting for the brutal moment. But ten minutes passed. She was still there.
God. She was real. My hand trembled as I touched her face. Soft, warm—the sensation nearly suffocated me.
I carefully climbed into bed and lay beside her. The mattress dipped slightly, but she didn't wake. I turned on my side, greedily watching her profile, breathing in her scent. She seemed to sense the warmth, instinctively moving closer, then resting her head on my chest.
Just like six years ago. Like we'd never been apart. My throat tightened. Carefully, I wrapped my arm around her waist and held her. Six years of pain—it all dissolved in this moment.
My eyelids grew heavy. I don't know how long passed. I fell into a deep sleep, wrapped in warmth.
4:30 a.m. I woke. Outside, the sky was still dark. I looked at Anthea in my arms. She was still asleep, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned, like she was having a good dream.
I should leave. If she woke up and found the man who betrayed her, hurt her, in her apartment, in her bed—she'd be terrified. I didn't want our reunion to start with fear.
I slipped carefully out of bed. Then I leaned down and pressed the softest kiss to her forehead.
"I found you," I whispered, so quietly only I could hear. "This time, I won't let you go."
I wouldn't make the same mistake again. And I wouldn't let anyone hurt her.