Chapter 27 #2
Up close, the damage is worse. The hollows beneath his cheekbones have deepened. His lips are cracked, tinged with blue. The hand resting on the blanket looks like a skeleton's hand, veins standing out like rivers on a map.
He wasn't like this when I met him this morning. Or I was blind to see it.
But those eyes. Those fucking eyes won't let me go.
His mouth opens. A sound emerges—wet, strangled, barely human.
"Papa." The word scrapes out of me, rough and broken. "Don't—"
"Mr. Baganov." Dr. Petrov steps forward, his voice gentle but firm. "Please. You shouldn't try to speak. Your body needs—"
My father's gaze snaps to the doctor with such ferocity that Petrov actually steps back. Even now, even dying, Alexei Baganov can silence a room with a look.
His mouth opens again.
"Dmi—" A cough wracks his frame, wet and horrible. Nurse Katya moves to adjust his oxygen, but he waves her away with a trembling hand. "Dmitri."
My name. Mangled, barely recognizable, but my name.
"I'm here." I lean closer. "I'm here, Papa."
His hand moves on the blanket, fingers twitching. Reaching.
I take it.
His grip is weak. So weak. This hand that taught me to hold a gun, that struck me when I failed, that clapped my shoulder the day I made my first million—this hand can barely close around my fingers.
"You..." Another cough. Blood flecks his lips. "You will..."
"Mr. Baganov, please." Dr. Petrov's voice carries genuine distress now. "You're damaging your throat. The tumor—"
"Let him speak."
Petrov falls silent.
My father's eyes never leave mine. Something burns in them.
"You will be..." He gasps, fights for air. "...pakhan."
"I know."
"No." His fingers tighten on mine with surprising strength. "You don't... know." Another rattling breath. "They will... test you. The moment I'm... gone."
"Let them."
A sound escapes him. It might be a laugh. It might be a sob. I can't tell anymore.
"Proud." The word comes out on an exhale, barely audible. "Should have... told you. Before."
My chest cracks open.
So many years of striving, of proving myself, of waiting for those words. And he gives them to me now.
His hand squeezes mine again. Weaker this time.
"Get them." His eyes drift toward the door. "All of... them. My children."
I look at Nurse Katya. She's already moving, slipping out of the room without a word.
Aleksander steps closer to the bed. Oleg finally lifts his head.
We wait.
My father's breathing fills the silence. Each exhale takes longer than the last.
I don't let go of his hand.
Minutes stretch into eternity. The monitors beep their steady rhythm. Dr. Petrov checks readings, makes notes, says nothing.
My father's eyes stay closed. Conserving strength. Waiting.
The door opens.
Karolina enters first, Vladimir follows and behind them, Natalia.
My youngest sister looks like a ghost. Her dark hair hangs limp around her pale face. Her eyes are too large, too bright, fixed on the figure in the bed with something close to terror.
She doesn't want to be here. I can see it in the way she hovers near the door, in the way her hands twist together, in the way she can't quite make herself step forward.
Our father's eyes open.
They sweep across the room, counting his children. All of us here.
His gaze lands on Natalia.
His hand lifts from the blanket. Trembling. Reaching.
"Natalia." Her name comes out broken, barely a whisper. "Come... here."
She doesn't move.
Karolina puts a hand on her back, gently pushing. Natalia takes one step. Then another. Her whole body shakes.
She stops at the edge of the bed, just out of reach.
Our father's hand keeps reaching.
"Closer."
Natalia's face crumples. But she obeys. She always obeys. She leans down, and his skeletal fingers brush her cheek.
"You look..." A wet cough interrupts him. He fights through it. "...exactly like... your mother."
Natalia breaks.
The sob that tears out of her is raw, animal. Her knees buckle. She would have collapsed if Vladimir hadn't caught her.
"Mama—" She chokes on the word. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
I move before I think.
I pull her away from the bed, away from our father's reaching hand, away from words that will destroy her. She fights me for a moment, then collapses against my chest, sobbing so hard her whole body convulses.
"Take her out." I push her toward Karolina. "Now."
Karolina wraps her arms around Natalia and guides her toward the door. Vladimir follows, his face carved from stone.
The door closes behind them.
I turn back to the bed.
My father's hand has fallen back to the blanket. His eyes find mine. Something flickers in them—confusion, maybe. Or disappointment.
"She needed... to hear..."
"No." I sit back down, take his hand again. "She didn't."
He stares at me. For a moment, I think he'll argue. Even now, even dying, Alexei Baganov doesn't like being contradicted.
But the fight drains out of him. His eyes drift closed.
"Papa." I lean closer. "We'll be okay. All of us. I'll take care of them."
His fingers twitch in mine.
"I'll protect this family. Everything you built. Everything you sacrificed for." My voice cracks. I don't care. "They won't test me for long. And when they do, they'll learn what you taught me."
A sound escapes him. That same wet rattle that might be a laugh.
"Good."
His breathing changes.
I feel it before I hear it. The rhythm stutters. Catches. Slows.
His eyes don't open.
The monitor's steady beep becomes erratic. Then faster. Then—
One long, continuous tone.
Dr. Petrov moves forward. Checks the readings. Presses fingers to my father's throat.
I already know.
The hand in mine has gone slack. The chest beneath the white sheets has stopped rising.
Alexei Baganov, pakhan of the Chicago Bratva, is dead.