17. Maksim #2
Nikolai’s expression softens slightly—a rare show of emotion from my usually stoic brother. “He’s resilient. He’ll recover.”
“Will he?” I ask desperately, tugging on my hair in frustration. “He won’t even say my name, Kolya. He was starting to trust me and let me in, and then—” I stop, my throat closing up.
“Then Alexander tried to kill you, and now the boy’s afraid to get attached to someone who might die.” Nikolai’s voice is gentle. “It’s a defense mechanism, Mak. He’s protecting himself.”
“I know what it is,” I snap. “It doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“No.” Nikolai moves to the window, looking out over the compound grounds. “But it does mean there’s hope. He’s not broken, Maksim. He’s scared. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I’m so tired. So fucking tired. “Right now it feels the same.”
Nikolai is quiet for a moment, still staring out the window. “When I was eight,” my brother says quietly, “Papa was shot. Do you remember?”
I vaguely do. I was too young to understand fully, but I remember my mother’s screaming.
“I stopped talking for three months,” Nikolai continues. “I wouldn’t say a word to anyone. Mama took me to doctors and therapists, but nothing worked. Papa was recovering, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t process that he was okay. That he’d survived.”
I stare at my brother. “I didn’t know that.”
“Mama didn’t like to talk about it. Said it showed weakness.” Nikolai turns back to me. “But eventually I came around and started talking again. Daniel will too.”
“What made you come around?” I ask, holding my breath.
“Time. And Papa being there every day and showing me he wasn’t going anywhere.” Nikolai moves closer, looking more human and the boy he used to be. “That’s what Daniel needs, Maksim. Not you fixing this. Just you being there. Being consistent. Being alive.”
The words settle into my chest, heavy and painful.
“He’ll come back to you,” Nikolai says quietly. “But you have to give him time.”
That evening, Nikolai suggests we try something normal. A family dinner.
“It might help,” he says. “Give the boy a sense of normalcy and show him that normal things are still possible.”
I’m skeptical. Daniel hasn’t wanted to eat with both of us present. He gets too anxious and overwhelmed. Last time we tried, he had a panic attack halfway through the meal.
But Aria agrees to try. “Maybe he’s ready now. It’s been over two weeks.”
So we gather in one of the compound’s smaller dining rooms—not the formal hall with seating for forty, but an intimate space with a round table and windows overlooking the gardens.
The windows are covered with blast-resistant shutters since it’s evening, blocking out the view but providing security.
The room itself is beautiful with cream-colored walls, dark wood wainscoting, and a crystal chandelier that catches the light and scatters it in rainbow patterns. The table is set with simple white China, nothing too formal.
Nikolai has personally overseen the meal preparation.
The head cook, Svetlana, has worked for him for twenty years.
She’s a grandmother with steel-gray hair and warm eyes who’s been thoroughly vetted and re-vetted in the past two weeks.
The food is prepared in the compound’s secure kitchen, under guard supervision, with multiple people watching every step.
Every precaution possible is being taken.
Daniel sits between Aria and me, his small body tense, and his shoulders hunched up around his ears. He’s wearing a sweater even though it’s warm because he’s been cold lately, unable to get warm no matter how many blankets we pile on him.
Another symptom of the trauma. His body is in constant fight-or-flight mode.
“It looks delicious,” Aria says brightly, injecting false cheer into her voice. “Pasta with tomato sauce. Your favorite, right Daniel?”
Daniel nods but doesn’t speak, not even looking up from his plate.
I try a different approach. “I heard you’ve been watching Chelsea matches with the guards,” I say softly.
Another nod. Still no eye contact.
“That’s my team,” I tell him, even though he knows this.
We’ve talked about it before. “Have been since I was your age. My father took me to see them play when we visited London. We sat in the stands at Stamford Bridge, and it was raining, and I’d never seen anything like it.
The crowd singing, the energy—it was incredible. ”
Nothing. No response.
Aria catches my eye across the table, and I can see the same worry and heartbreak reflected there.
“You know,” she tries again, her voice determinedly cheerful, “maybe when all this is over, we can go see a match in person. The three of us. Or four, once the baby comes. Would you like that, Daniel?”
Daniel shrugs, pushing his pasta around his plate with his fork. He hasn’t even taken one bite yet.
“They’re having a good season this year,” I continue, desperate to get any kind of reaction. “Won their last three matches. There’s this midfielder—Mount—who’s absolutely brilliant. He reminds me of Lampard back in the day. You’d love watching him play.”
Silence.
“And the striker—Jackson—he’s been on fire lately,” I press on, my voice getting a little too enthusiastic, a little too desperate. “He scored two goals in the last match. He’s a legend. He’ll develop into a seriously good player as long as Chelsea keeps him.”
Still nothing.
“Daniel.” Aria’s voice is gentle, but her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “You need to eat, baby. Just a few bites.”
He doesn’t respond or acknowledge she spoke.
“Solnyshko.” I use the endearment without thinking. “Please. You need to—”
He flinches at the word, and I feel like I’ve been stabbed.
But he picks up his fork and takes a small bite of pasta, chewing. He swallows like it’s an effort.
“Good job,” Aria encourages, her voice trembling slightly. “That’s really good, Daniel.”
He takes another bite. Then another. For a moment—just a moment—I let myself hope that maybe this is working. Maybe we’re getting through to him. Maybe the walls he’s built are starting to come down.
“The match this weekend is supposed to be a big one,” I try again, keeping my voice casual. “Against Manchester United. It’s a historic rivalry. Your mother doesn’t understand football at all, but I could teach you. We could watch together, and I’d explain the strategy, the formations—”
Daniel sets down his fork. “My stomach hurts,” he says quietly.
“It’s okay,” Aria says immediately, her hand reaching for his. “You don’t have to finish if you don’t want to. You did great eating as much as you did.”
“No.” Daniel’s voice is strained. “I mean it really hurts.”
I’m already pushing back from the table, my ribs screaming in protest. “What kind of hurt? Where exactly?” I ask in concern.
“My mouth feels weird.” Daniel’s hand goes to his throat, his fingers pressing against his skin. “Numb. Like—like when the dentist gives me the shot before he fills a cavity.”
Alarm bells start ringing in my head. “Daniel, look at me. Look at Papa.”
He does, and I see his pupils are dilated. Too dilated.
He’s sweating— a profuse, sudden sweating that soaks through his sweater in seconds. His face goes from pale to gray.
“Daniel?” Aria is on her feet, her eyes wide. “Baby, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“Can’t—” Daniel’s words are slurring now, his tongue thick in his mouth. “Can’t feel my legs. Mama—”
He collapses.
One second he’s sitting in the chair, and the next he’s on the floor, his small body convulsing violently.
“Daniel!” Aria’s scream is pure terror. She drops to her knees beside him, her hands reaching for him.
My broken ribs are forgotten as I throw myself on the floor next to my son. His body is jerking uncontrollably—limbs flailing, back arching, and head snapping back so hard I’m afraid he’ll break his neck.
White, frothy foam is coming from his mouth mixed with blood where he’s bitten his tongue and I know immediately what’s going on.
Poison. He’s been poisoned.
“Help!” I shout, trying to hold Daniel steady without hurting him. I can’t let him crack his skull on the marble floor. “Someone get help now!”
Aria has her hands on Daniel’s face, trying to keep his head from slamming against the tile. Her fingers are white-knuckled. “Daniel, please. Please, baby, please stay with me,” she sobs. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave—”
The door bursts open and guards flood in with their weapons drawn until they see what’s happening. One of them—Ilya—is already on his radio, his voice sharp and clear. “Medical emergency! West dining room! Child down! Repeat, child down!”
“He’s been poisoned!” I shout as Aria screams. “Get the medical team now! Move!”
Daniel’s convulsions are getting worse. His whole body goes rigid, back arches off the floor, and I can see his lips turning blue.
He’s not breathing.
Oh God, he’s not breathing.
“No,” I breathe, feeling like I’m having an out of body experience as my body goes numb. “No, no, no. Daniel. Solnyshko, breathe. You have to breathe. Breathe!”
Aria is sobbing, her hands shaking violently as she tries to tilt Daniel’s head back to clear his airway. “Come on, baby. Please. Please breathe. Mama’s here. I’m right here. Just breathe for me. Please—”
Through my panic, I try to remember my emergency training. Airway, breathing, circulation. But all I can see is my son’s blue lips, his rolling eyes, his body that won’t stop seizing.
I’m losing him. I’m watching my son die and I can’t stop it.
The compound’s medical team arrives in under two minutes carrying emergency equipment. Dr. Petrov and two nurses immediately take over, pushing Aria and me back with firm but gentle hands.
“Neurotoxin,” Dr. Petrov says, his voice clipped as he examines Daniel. His hands are steady as he checks Daniel. “It’s fast-acting. Ludmila, get me atropine and pralidoxime. Now. Yuri, prepare for possible cardiac arrest.”
Cardiac arrest. My eyes are wide with horror as Aria screams.