Chapter Fifty-One
Osip
The next hour passes in a blur of movement and numbness.
My private jet is already fueled and waiting on the tarmac. The flight attendant offers me food, drinks, conversation— I wave her off. I need silence. I need to think. Or maybe I need to stop thinking entirely, because every fucking thought leads back to the same place.
You failed him.
You failed your son, you coward.
The leather seat cushions me, but nothing can cushion the blow of reality. Thirty thousand feet above the ground, trapped in this metal tube hurtling through clouds, I finally let myself feel it.
My son has been alive this entire time. Growing. Learning to smile, to laugh, to trust strangers who fed him and changed him and held him when he cried. Strangers who became his family because his father was too much of a fucking pizda to stay and fight for him.
The attendant dims the cabin lights, and I close my eyes, but sleep won’t come. Instead, I see flashes of what I’ve missed. First steps that happened without me. Tiny hands that reached for comfort from people whose names I don’t even know. A voice calling “Papa” to someone else’s face.
The captain’s voice crackles over the intercom. “We’ll be beginning our descent into Boston shortly.”
Boston. The city where everything went to hell a year ago. The city where my son has been waiting for a father who never came.
The plane touches down with a slight jolt, and I’m moving before the engines finish winding down. My phone buzzes with a text from the driver— black sedan, waiting outside Terminal 3. I don’t remember arranging a car, but Radimir thinks of everything. Always has, even if I generally give him shit.
The driver is a middle-aged man with tired eyes and calloused hands. He takes one look at me and doesn’t try to make conversation. Smart. I slide into the back seat and give him the address to Beacon Hill Home.
“Visiting family?” he asks as we pull away from the curb.
I stare out the window at Boston’s familiar skyline. “Something like that.”
The drive takes forty minutes through afternoon traffic. I watch the city roll past— brick buildings and narrow streets, places where I used to conduct business. Dark business. The kind that very likely led to Galina’s death and my son’s orphaning.
We turn onto a tree-lined street, and suddenly there it is. The orphanage rises before us like something out of a Disney movie. Red brick with white trim, manicured gardens, children’s toys scattered across a fenced playground. It looks safe. Wholesome. Everything I’m not.
“This is it,” the driver says, pulling up to the curb.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a wad of cash, peeling off several hundreds. The driver’s eyes widen when he sees the amount.
“It’s way too much, sir.”
“Take your wife somewhere nice,” I tell him, already stepping onto the sidewalk.
The orphanage’s front steps stretch before me, and I stop at the bottom, staring up at the heavy wooden doors. Behind those doors is my son. The boy I thought was dead. The child who’s been living without his father.
I’m about to have the most unique and soul-crushing experience anyone in this world has ever had. I’m going to see the owner of the tiny feet that I saw kicking through Galina’s womb.
I’m shaking as I climb the steps. Each one brings me closer to a reckoning I’m not prepared for. But I climb anyway, because running away isn’t an option anymore. Not when it comes to Slava.
The reception area is warm and welcoming, with children’s artwork covering the walls and the faint scent of cookies drifting from somewhere deeper in the building. A young woman sits behind the front desk, her smile bright and professional.
“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
“I need to see someone about one of your children. Slava.” The words sound foreign as I say them. Slava. My son has a name. A name I didn’t give him.
Her smile falters slightly. “I’m sorry, but visits require an appointment. Are you family?”
“I’m his father.”
The receptionist’s eyes widen, and she fumbles for her phone.
“I… let me call the director. Please, have a seat.” She gestures to a chair before mumbling something urgently into the receiver.
I don’t sit. I pace the small waiting area, studying the photos of happy families on the walls. Adoption success stories. Children who found their forever homes. Children who weren’t abandoned by their own fucking fathers.
Footsteps on the stairs announce the director’s arrival before I see him. A man in his fifties, graying hair framing a dusky face, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His badge reads “Cameron Simpson, Director.”
“Mr…?”
“Sidorov.” I straighten and he tilts his head to look up at me.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extends a hand, which I shake briskly. “Would you come with me?” He nods in the direction of the hallway.
I follow him down a corridor lined with more photos and kids’ drawings framed in cheap, cheerful frames until we reach an office at the end of the hall. Pushing the door open, he walks in and nods to a chair before taking a seat across the desk.
“Now then,” he says, steepling his fingers. “I believe you claim to be related to one of our children.”
“Slava Sidorov,” I say the surname firmly. “He’s my son.”
His expression sharpens slightly. “I see. Mr. Sidorov, you must understand. You can’t just come in here making these claims. How am I supposed to know you’re telling the truth?”
Blyad.
He has a point. I can tell I won’t get anywhere with this guy unless I tell him the full story. The real story.
“Mr. Simpson.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “I need you to understand that you can never speak a word of what I’m about to tell you.” I slide an envelope across his desk— twenty thousand in cash. His eyes almost pop out of his head. “Is this enough to keep your mouth shut?”
He pushes the envelope back toward me, his expression hardening. “Mr. Sidorov, I’m not a man you can buy with money.”
“I’m not here to bribe you.” I meet his eyes, letting him see the desperation I’ve been trying to hide. “I am here as a desperate father asking for your help.”
Something in my voice must convince him, because he settles back in his chair and nods. “Tell me.”
So I tell him about Galina. About the night she was murdered while carrying my child. About the lies I was told, the way I left Boston to start fresh, to avoid the inevitable investigation. About the months of believing my son was dead while he was actually growing up in this building.
Simpson takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes when I finish. “This is the most disturbing story I have heard in my thirty-year career in childcare. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Just let me see my son,” I say.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. Finally, Simpson looks up at me, and the expression on his face makes my gut clench.
“Unfortunately, Slava has been adopted, Mr. Sidorov. He is going to have an amazing life with great parents. We… we are actually waiting for the adoptive parents to collect him today.”
For a moment, it feels as it the planet stopped spinning.
Today.
What the actual fuck? I flew all the way from Hungary to hear… this? My son— the child I just discovered is alive— is being taken away from me today ?
The odds of this are staggering, but considering the perpetual clusterfuck of a life I used to live, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
“I want to see my son,” I insist, but Simpson shakes his head.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. The adoption process has already moved through the courts and the necessary agencies, and we’re bound by those agreements. It’s out of our hands.”
“You don’t understand,” I say, desperation creeping into my voice. “I’m Slava’s father. He’s my son.” I say the words as if they’ll make a difference somehow.
“I… I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Sidorov. Laws are laws. I can’t undo them. Even if what you’re saying is true, the system considers Slava an orphan. My hands are tied.”
I reach for the twenty thousand on the table and slide it back to him. Then I pull out another envelope, another twenty.
“Mr. Simpson… if you don’t take the money for yourself, take it for your institution. All I ask is that you let me see my son.”
Simpson stares at the money, then at me. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Finally, he sighs.
“Fine. I have three boys at home. I understand how you must feel. But let me tell you something: It will be a lot harder for you if you see your son, Mr. Sidorov. You might find it impossible to let go.”
“Just take me to him,” I repeat. I don’t care anymore about consequences or complications. I don’t care about anything but seeing my son. “I’m not leaving here until I see him.”
Simpson pulls out the drawer of his desk and puts the money inside. Then he locks it with a key.
“I promise this will be invested in a good cause.” He stands, straightening his jacket. “Let’s go.”
As we walk toward the stairs, I force myself to breathe. In a few minutes, I’m going to see my son for the first time.
The child who survived when everyone said he couldn’t.
The boy who’s been waiting his entire life for a father who’s finally come home.