Chapter Fifty
Osip
I exist in a fog these days.
Not living— existing. Going through the motions like a fucking ghost haunting my own goddamn life.
The only thing keeping me tethered is knowing Ilona is safe. Dr. Varga discharged her three days ago, said she’ll recover fully, but she’s still weak. Still broken. I hired a small army of staff to make sure she has everything she needs, but we barely speak.
What’s there to say?
She manages one conversation— tells me she can’t be a surrogate mother anymore. That it was a dead idea from the start. Her voice is hollow when she says it, and I watch her fold into herself like she’s protecting whatever’s left of her spirit.
I want to tell her it doesn’t matter. That I don’t give a shit about the contract anymore.
That all I care about is her staying here, with me, in this house that finally feels like home when she’s in it.
But every time I look at her, I see the blood.
I remember holding her broken body in my arms. I remember thinking I was going to lose her too.
You killed her father, dolboyob.
The voice in my head won’t shut up. It’s right, though. Maybe it’s better if I let whatever this is between us die a natural death. Maybe that’s what she deserves— freedom from the animal who destroyed her family.
So I go through my days on autopilot.
Construction site. Office. Gym. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Repeat.
Even Dénes can’t crack through the numbness when I see him at the site.
He tries, makes some joke about me looking like a zombie from some movie he watched, but the laughter won’t come.
I nod, grunt responses, pretend I’m listening.
I’m not. I’m wallowing in grief. In guilt.
In emotions that feel like too much fucking self-pity.
The blueprints spread across my desk might as well be written in ancient Greek. Numbers blur together. Measurements mean nothing. I’m staring at them when my phone buzzes. Radimir’s name flashes on the screen.
“ Da? ”
“Are you sitting?” His voice is strange. Tight. Different from his usual rapid-fire delivery.
I frown. “Why?”
“Just sit the fuck down, Osip.”
Something cold sinks in my gut. Radimir doesn’t sound like this unless the world is about to end. I lower myself into my chair, gripping the phone tighter. The leather creaks under my weight.
“Alright. Now talk. Why did you want me to sit?”
“Because what I’m about to tell you is…” He stops. Starts again. “It will be hard to accept. Ready?”
My jaw clenches. “Just spit it the fuck out, mudak! What is it?”
There’s a pause. I can hear him typing in the background, the rapid-fire clicking of keys that usually accompanies his deep dives into the dark corners of the internet.
“Story time, bratok. I recently came across a social media post from a nurse in Boston. She was reminiscing about the most dramatic night of her career— a pregnant murder victim whose baby survived. She didn’t disclose names, but the date…
” Another pause. “Osip, the post went online just a few days after Galina died.”
My throat goes dry. The room spins in front of me.
“Go on.”
“I traced the nurse. Called her pretending to be from a medical journal, interested in extraordinary cases. She was secretive at first, removed the post, but given the extremity of the content, it had already gone viral. She couldn’t fully erase the digital footprint. Eventually, some cash got her talking.”
I can feel the blood draining from my face, leaving my flesh cold and clammy.
“She told me how they managed to save the baby through emergency C-section. There’d been some mix-up with paperwork and they never traced any relatives, so the baby was sent to Beacon Hill Orphanage in Boston. They have the necessary equipment and volunteers to take care of premature infants.”
The memory comes rushing back in an instant.
The tiny feet. The movement I’d seen through Galina’s dead stomach. The sign that my child was still alive, still fighting. The paramedics told me there was no way the baby survived. They lied. Or they were wrong. Or—
“Are you suggesting…?” The words stick in my throat.
“Your son is alive, Osip. His name is Slava.”
Everything stops.
The world, my breathing, my fucking heartbeat, all stop. Then it all comes crashing back at once. I have to hold onto the desk to keep from falling out of my chair. The tiny movements. The kicking. He was fighting. Even then, he was fighting to live.
Bozhe moy…
My son was fighting to live while I was running away.
“Why didn’t anyone tell us?” It comes out as a pathetic wheeze. “Why are we just now learning about this?”
I can practically hear him shrug over the line.
“You know how bureaucracy can be. And your head was so fucked up, I doubt it even occurred to you to go charging into a hospital demanding proof that your child had died too. You were too busy licking your wounds, remember? And the system sucked the baby in, like it’s supposed to in a case like this. ”
The guilt hits me yet again.
I abandoned him.
My son— my flesh and blood— has been alone for months because I was too much of a fucking coward to stay and face the consequences. Too concerned with starting over to think about what might have survived that nightmare.
I let him down before he even knew I existed.
“Where is he?” My voice cracks. “Where is my son?”
“Still at Beacon Hill Orphanage, apparently. I’ve got the address, contact information for the director. They’re good people, Osip. The boy’s been well cared for.”
Well cared for by strangers. While his father played house with another woman and pretended his past didn’t exist.
Neveroyatnyy…
I’m already standing, already reaching for my keys. Nothing else matters. Not the business, not the construction, not anything. My son is alive and he’s been waiting for me.
“A year,” I say hoarsely, mentally doing the math.
“ Da. Your kid’s nearly twelve months old. Survived against all odds. The nurses called him their miracle baby.”
Twelve months. Twelve months of milestones I missed. Twelve months of sleepless nights someone else endured. Twelve months of first smiles and sounds that I’ll never get back.
“Send me everything you have,” I tell him. “Address, contact information, any records you can find.”
“Already in your email. Osip…” His voice softens slightly. “The adoption paperwork hasn’t been filed yet. He’s still available for family placement if next of kin comes forward.”
Next of kin. That’s me. His father. The man who should have been there from the beginning.
“Get me a flight to Boston,” I tell him.
“Now?” he says.
“No, next year,” I snap. “Of course now, mudak! ”
“I’m not sure about flight schedules from Liszt Ferenc, so there might not be any seats available until—”
“Charter something, for fuck’s sake!” I bark back. “Jesus, Radimir, do you need me to think for you too?”
He’s still muttering something as I hang up and call Melor as I head for the door. He answers on the first ring.
“ Brat? ”
“I need you to come to my house to look after Ilona. Don’t tell her where I am or why. I’m going to Boston right away.”
“Boston? What the fuck—?”
“My son is alive, Melor. Galina’s baby survived.”
Silence. Then: “ Bozhe moy, Osip. You can count on me, bratok. Go get your boy.”
I end the call and pause at the bottom of the stairs. Ilona is up there, probably resting, probably still healing from the nightmare I put her through. Part of me wants to tell her. Part of me wants to bring her with me.
But this is something I need to face alone. My son. My failure. My chance to make it right.
The staff I hired to care for Ilona bustles around quietly, ensuring she has everything she needs. A nurse checks on her regularly. A cook prepares special meals to help her regain strength. They’re good people, but they’re not me. And I’m abandoning her just like I abandoned my son.
But I can’t stay.
Not when Slava is out there, waiting.
I grab my jacket and head for the garage. The engine roars to life, and I peel out of the driveway like the hounds of hell are after me. Maybe they are. Maybe this is my chance at redemption, or maybe it’s just another way to destroy something innocent and pure.
The highway stretches ahead, and I push the accelerator harder. For the first time in months, I feel something other than numbness. It’s not relief— it’s terror mixed with desperate hope.
Hold on, Slava.
Papa is coming.
And this time, I won’t run away.