28. The Reckoning
The Reckoning
Nathan
The study is dark when I enter.
I don't knock. I never knock. This is my house as much as his—more, maybe, since I'm the one who's been keeping it standing while he chases ghosts and plays house with a woman who was never meant to be part of this world.
Aleksander is sitting behind his desk. The fire is lit—a small one, struggling against the cold that seeps through the old stones. He's holding a glass of whiskey, but he's not drinking it. He's just staring at it, watching the light refract through the amber liquid.
He looks old. Older than I've ever seen him. The silver at his temples has spread, claiming more territory. The lines around his eyes have deepened. His shoulders, once broad and imposing, seem to have curved inward under the weight of everything he's been carrying.
I feel something in my chest. I don't know what it is. I don't want to know.
"Nathan." He doesn't look up. His voice is flat. "I was wondering when you'd come."
"Here I am."
"Here you are."
I walk into the room. I don't sit. I stand in front of his desk, my arms crossed over my chest, my eyes fixed on his face. Waiting.
He finally looks up. His grey eyes are bloodshot, tired, the eyes of a man who hasn't slept in weeks. He looks at me the way he's always looked at me—with a mixture of disappointment and something that might be love.
"Sit down," he says.
"I'll stand."
"Sit down, Nathan."
Something in his voice—something sharp, something commanding—makes me listen. I sit. The leather chair creaks beneath my weight. The fire pops. The silence stretches.
"I know what you've been doing," he says.
"I know you know."
"And I know you're not going to stop."
I don't answer. We both know the truth.
"I'm not going to ask you to stop," he says. "I've been asking you to stop for months. You haven't listened. You're not going to start now."
"Then why am I here?"
He sets down his glass. He leans forward, his elbows on the desk, his eyes boring into mine.
"Because I need to know what you've become."
The words hang in the air between us.
I feel something cold settle in my chest. Not fear—I've never been afraid of my father. Not guilt—I've moved past guilt. Something else. Something that might be recognition.
"You know what I've become," I say. "You've known since the beginning. You just didn't want to admit it."
"Tell me anyway."
"Why?"
"Because I need to hear you say it."
I stare at him. The fire crackles. The clock ticks. The house settles around us—the creaks and groans of old wood, the whisper of wind against the windows.
"I'm the monster you made me," I say. "I'm the thing you created when you taught me that power is the only thing that matters. I'm the son who learned too well."
Aleksander flinches. It's a small movement—barely perceptible—but I see it.
"I didn't teach you that," he says.
"You did." My voice is flat. "Every day of my life. Every time you chose the empire over your family. Every time you chose your grief over your sons. Every time you looked at me and saw something that needed to be shaped instead of someone who needed to be loved."
"I did love you."
"Not enough."
He's silent. There's nothing he can say—we both know it.
"I'm not here to blame you," I say. "I'm past that. I'm here because I need you to understand."
"Understand what?"
"Everything."
I stand.
I walk to the window. The city is dark outside—the same city I've been fighting for, the same city I'm going to take. I can see the lights flickering in the distance, the cars passing, the world moving on without me.
"I'm going to stop," I say.
The words come out before I can stop them. I don't know if they're true. I don't know if they're possible. But I say them anyway.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I'm going to stop being the man who hurts people. I'm going to stop being the son who destroys everything he touches. I'm going to stop being the monster."
"For Monika?"
"For her. For myself. For the life I could have if I—" I pause. "If I try."
Aleksander is quiet for a long moment. I can feel him watching me—his eyes on my back, his mind working behind that mask of calm.
"Trying isn't enough," he says.
"That's what she said."
"Because it's true." He stands. He walks toward me, his footsteps soft on the carpet. "You can't just decide to change. You have to do it. Every day. Every moment. You have to choose something other than what you've been."
"I know."
"Do you?" He stops beside me. "Do you really?"
I turn to face him. His grey eyes are wet—I don't know if it's from the fire or from something else. His jaw is tight. His hands are clenched at his sides.
"I don't know," I say. "But I'm going to try."
"The child trafficking—"
"Stays."
The word lands between us like a stone. I watch his face change—surprise, then anger, then something that might be grief.
"You can't be serious."
"I'm building something, Father. Something you could never see. The trafficking—it's not a crime, it's a market. It's supply and demand. It's just business. And I'm not going to stop the money from being made."
"The children—"
"Are product." My voice is cold. "They always have been. They always will be. The only difference is that now they're my product."
I feel his hand strike my face before I see it. My head snaps to the side. Pain blooms in my cheek—sharp and bright and almost welcome.
"You're a monster," he says.
"I know."
"I'm not going to let you destroy everything."
"You can't stop me."
"I can try."
"Try." I laugh. It's not a nice sound. "That's what we all do, isn't it? We try. We fail. We try again."
He stares at me. His eyes are wet now—I can see the tears building, and I want to feel something about that. I want to feel sympathy. I want to feel regret.
I feel nothing.
"You're my son," he says. "I made you. I raised you. I—"
"You failed."
The words are cruel. I know they're cruel. But I don't take them back.
"I know," he whispers. "I know I failed. I failed you, and I failed Gabriel, and I failed Elena, and I failed everyone I've ever loved."
"You didn't fail Elena. Someone took her from you."
"Yes." He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "Someone took her. And then someone took you."
"No one took me. I walked away on my own."
"Did you?"
The question hangs in the air between us.
I think about the boy I used to be—the boy who wanted to be a police officer, who believed in saving people, who thought he could become something other than what he was born to be.
He's gone now. He died a long time ago—maybe when my mother died, maybe when I saw my first dead body, maybe when I realized that power was the only thing that made the world make sense.
"I made a choice," I say. "A long time ago. And I've been making it every day since."
"What choice?"
"To be something other than a victim. To be something other than a pawn in your game."
"You could have chosen differently."
"No." I shake my head. "I couldn't have. Not then. Not with who I was."
"And now?"
I don't answer. I don't have an answer.
Aleksander walks back to his desk.
He sits. He picks up his glass. He takes a long drink—longer than he should, longer than he needs.
"I loved your mother," he says. "More than anything in this world. More than the empire. More than my own life."
"I know."
"When she died—"
"When she died, you disappeared." My voice is flat. "You retreated into your grief and you forgot you had sons who needed you."
"I didn't forget. I just—"
"Couldn't handle it." I finish his sentence for him. "I know. I've heard this story before. I've heard it my whole life."
"You don't understand."
"I understand perfectly." I walk toward him. I stop in front of his desk. "You think you're the only one who's ever lost someone. You think you're the only one who's ever suffered. But you're not."
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to." I lean forward, my hands flat on the desk. "I lost her too. She was my mother. She was the only person who ever looked at me and saw something worth saving. And when she died, you didn't just lose your wife. You lost your ability to be a father."
Aleksander stares at me. His face is pale. His hands are shaking.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"I know."
"I failed you."
"I know."
"I should have been there for you. I should have—"
"Stop." I hold up a hand. "Stop apologizing. Stop trying to fix what's already broken. It's too late."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
He's quiet for a long moment. The fire crackles. The clock ticks. The house settles around us.
"What are you going to do?" he asks.
"I'm going to try to be better."
"For Monika?"
"For her. For myself. For the man I could have been if I'd made different choices."
"You'll still traffic children."
"Yes."
"Then you're not better. You're just pretending."
I feel something snap inside me.
I want to hit him. I want to scream at him. I want to tear down everything he's ever built and watch it burn.
But I don't.
Because he's right.
I'm not better. I'm just pretending.
But pretending is all I have.
"I'm not going to kill you," I say.
Aleksander looks up. His eyes are wide, surprised.
"I've thought about it," I continue. "I've thought about it a lot. I've thought about how easy it would be—a pillow over your face while you sleep, a needle in your arm, an accident that leaves me with everything."
"You've been planning to kill me?"
"I've been planning to take the empire." I sit back down. "Killing you was just one option."
"And now?"
"Now I'm going to let you live."
"Why?"
"Because Monika wouldn't want me to. Because she still loves you, for reasons I'll never understand. Because—" I pause. "Because I need you to be there for her. When I can't be. When I'm too far gone to be anything she needs."
Aleksander stares at me. I see something in his eyes—not forgiveness, not understanding. Something that might be acceptance.
"You're not going to change," he says.
"I'm going to try."
"That's not the same thing."
"I know." I stand. I walk toward the door. I pause with my hand on the handle. "But it's what I have."
I leave him there.
I don't look back.
Monika is waiting for me when I return to my room.
She's sitting on the edge of the bed, her hair loose, her eyes tired. She looks up when I enter, and I see something in her face—hope, maybe, or fear, or something else entirely.
"How did it go?" she asks.
"I told him I'm going to try."
"To stop?"
"To be better." I sit beside her. "I'm not going to stop the trafficking. I can't. But I'm going to—I don't know. Try to be the man you see. Try to be someone who deserves you."
She's quiet for a moment. Then she reaches for my hand. Her fingers are warm against mine.
"That's all I'm asking," she says.
"Is it enough?"
"I don't know." She looks at me. Her eyes are brown, steady, unreadable. "But it's a start."
I kiss her. It's not desperate. It's not hungry. It's the kiss of a man who is tired, who is broken, who is trying to find something solid to hold onto.
She kisses me back.
And for a moment, I believe I can change.