Chapter 10 #2
The country house sits on forty acres of land my grandfather bought when he first arrived in America. Back then, it was nothing but a farmhouse and a dream. Now, it's a sprawling estate with a main house, guest quarters, and enough security to rival a small military base.
I pull my car through the iron gates, nodding at Viktor who mans the security booth.
I should be focused on James Rogers. On finding the dirt that will bury him before Saturday. Instead, I'm here, driving an hour outside Chicago because Karolina called.
My sister never calls.
The main house appears through the trees, its stone facade softened by my mother's garden—the one Karolina maintains with religious devotion, even after our mother's death.
I park beside Vladimir's truck and kill the engine. For a moment, I sit in the silence, watching the late afternoon light filter through the oaks. Aleksander's motorcycle leans against the garage. Oleg's sedan is parked near the guest house.
Everyone's here.
That can't be good.
Inside, the house smells like borscht and fresh bread. Karolina's doing. She's the only one who cooks the old recipes, the ones our mother taught the staff before she died giving birth to Natalia.
"Dmitri." Vladimir appears in the hallway, a glass of vodka already in hand. At thirty-six, he's filled out from the lanky kid he used to be. Same pale eyes as me, same dark hair, but softer around the edges.
"What's going on?" I ask, accepting the glass he pours me.
"Karolina found something in the attic."
My stomach drops. "What kind of something?"
"Mother's journals."
Fuck.
I drain the vodka in one swallow. The burn does nothing to prepare me for what's coming.
We find the others in the library. Aleksander sprawls across the leather couch, Karolina his twin perched on the arm beside him.
At twenty-seven, they still move in sync, finish each other's sentences.
Oleg stands by the window, his priest's collar a stark white against his black shirt. And Natalia—
Natalia sits in our father's chair, a leather-bound journal open in her lap.
She's twenty.
"You shouldn't read that," I say, my voice harder than I intend.
Natalia's eyes meet mine. "Why? Because it might tell me the truth about how she died?"
"You know how she died."
"I know the family version." Her fingers trace the faded ink on the page. "I didn't know the doctor warned them. Both of them. That another pregnancy after the twins could kill her."
The silence in the room thickens.
Karolina wipes her eyes. "Dmitri, we've never talked about this. Not really. Father killed that doctor, and we all just—"
"Accepted it," Aleksander finishes. "Like good little Baganovs."
I move to the bar cart, pour another vodka. "What do you want me to say? Father made his choice. The doctor paid the price."
"The doctor didn't deserve to die." Oleg's voice carries the weight of his calling. "We were raised to hurt only people who deserved it. Father broke his own code."
"Father was grieving."
"Father was wrong."
I spin on him. "And what? You want me to resurrect the dead? Apologize to his family? The man's been in the ground for twenty years."
"I want us to acknowledge it," Natalia says quietly. "I want to stop pretending I killed our mother."
The words hit like a bullet to the chest.
"You didn't—"
"Five siblings." Her voice cracks. "Five siblings who describe her as an angel.
Who light candles on her birthday. Who look at me and see the reason she's not here anymore.
" She closes the journal. "I'm not stupid, Dmitri.
I see how Father looks at me. How he's always looked at me.
Like I'm the price he paid for his own recklessness. "
I cross the room and crouch before her chair. My hands find hers, rough against delicate.
"Listen to me." I wait until her eyes meet mine. "Mother and Father made a choice. They were warned, and they chose to try anyway. That's on them. Not on you. Never on you."
"Then why does it feel like punishment?"
"Because Father needed someone to blame. The doctor was convenient. You were permanent." I squeeze her fingers. "But you are not responsible for their choices. You hear me?"
Tears slip down her cheeks. "I hear you."
I stand, facing my siblings.
This is my family. Broken, complicated, bound by blood and secrets.
"We don't talk about this enough," Karolina says. "About her. About what Father did."
"There's nothing to discuss." I drain my glass. "Father made a choice. We live with the consequences. That's what being a Baganov means."
"That's what being his children means," Aleksander corrects. "Doesn't have to be what we pass down."
Natalia wipes her face with the back of her hand, and I stand there like an idiot.
I should say something. Something that makes her feel better.
But the words that form in my head are all wrong. Facts. Solutions to problems that can't be solved with strategy.
You are not responsible for their choices.
True. Also completely useless.
What Natalia needs is someone to hold her. Someone to sit beside her and let her cry. Someone who knows how to be present without trying to fix everything.
That's not me.
It's never been me.
Karolina moves to the chair and wraps her arms around Natalia. Aleksander's hand finds his twin's shoulder. Even Oleg crosses from the window to stand closer, his presence a quiet comfort.
I remain where I am. Three feet away. Close enough to see Natalia's tears, far enough to be useless.
This is what I do. I state facts. I identify problems. I eliminate threats.
People don't want facts. They want someone to stand by their side, to share the weight of their pain without trying to carry it for them.
I'm not capable of that.
Never have been.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Igor with an update on Rogers, probably. Information I can use. A problem I can actually solve.
But I don't reach for it.
Instead, I watch my siblings comfort each other and try to find another way. A different way. Because offering comfort with words isn't something I can give, but I can give something.
"Natalia."
She looks up, eyes red-rimmed.
"The stables." I clear my throat. "Father's mare had a foal last month. You haven't seen it yet."
Her brow furrows. "You want me to look at a horse? Now?"
"I want you to get out of this room." I gesture at the journals scattered across the coffee table. "Away from all of this. Fresh air. The foal is a filly. Chestnut with a white star on her forehead."
Karolina's eyes meet mine over Natalia's head. Understanding flickers there.
"Actually," Karolina says, "that sounds perfect. We could all use some air."
Natalia hesitates. "I don't know..."
"She's not named yet," I add. "Father wanted you to choose."
That's a lie. Father never said any such thing. But it's the right lie.
Natalia's expression shifts. Something like hope breaks through the grief.
"Really?"
"Really."
She stands, setting the journal aside. "Okay. Let's see this filly."
We file out of the library, through the kitchen where the borscht still simmers, out the back door toward the stables.
I hang back, letting the others walk ahead.