Page 86 of Rafi

I step to the front of the desk, my gaze falling on him. His eyes meet mine, a flicker of recognition passing between us. It's subtle, but I feel it—the weight of something unsaid hanging in the air. For the first time, I take a closer look at him. Anton is a handsome man; this has no doubt aided him in covering uphis condition. But now that I stop and look carefully, I see the creases in the folds of skin under his eyes. I notice the pallor of his skin. I see that his smile, no matter how rare, doesn’t actually reach his eyes, and it kills me that this is what he has become.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, my voice breaking.

His brow furrows. “Tell you what?”

“I just got off the phone with your doctor. Chemotherapy, Papa? Cancer? You’ve been keeping this from me?”

His face hardens, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and the silence between us feels like a chasm.

“It’s not your concern,” he says finally, his tone curt.

“Not my concern?” I repeat, my voice incredulous. “How can you say that? Is this why you brought me back here? To torture me with more half-truths?”

“I don’t want you worrying about me,” he says, standing now, his imposing figure casting a long shadow. “This is my battle, Tayana. Not yours.”

Tears blur my vision as I step closer, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and anguish. “You don’t get to decide that! You don’t get to shut me out and pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. You’re sick! You need help. You need…” My voice cracks. “You need me.”

His expression softens, just for a moment, and I see a flicker of something—regret, maybe, or pain. But then he sets his jaw and looks away. “I’ve handled worse,” he says gruffly. “This is no different.”

“No, itisdifferent!” I cry, my voice shattering in the quiet room. “This isn’t a rival to outsmart or a deal to negotiate. This is your life, Papa. And if you think I’m going to just stand by and let you face this alone, then you don’t know me at all.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, with a weary sigh, he stands and walks towards me. He reaches out andplaces a hand on my shoulder. “You’re stronger than you know, Tayana,” he says softly.

I shake my head, the tears streaming freely now. “I don’t want to be strong. I just want you to be okay.”

His grip tightens, and for the first time, I see the cracks in his armor, the weight he’s been carrying alone. “I’ll be okay,” he says, but the words feel hollow.

“Is this why Igor was adamant I come back to Russia? Does he know? He knows and didn’t tell me, right?”

“Igor knows,” my father admits. “I fought against it, but he insisted we bring you back home to spend this time with you.”

It hits me then just how serious his condition must be. Igor brought me back to be with them in what little time Anton has left. He brought me back to say goodbye, knowing I’d never forgive him if he didn’t.

Anton watches me, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or pain.

Tears spill over, hot and unstoppable. “You should have told me,” I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of everything unsaid.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I wanted to protect you.”

But it’s too late for that. The cracks in his armor are visible now, and the man I’ve always seen as unshakable is human after all.

49

RAFI

The noise from the jet engines grows louder as we begin our descent into Russia. I stare out the small oval window, the snow-covered expanse below stretching endlessly in all directions. My heart thuds against my ribs, each beat a reminder of the risk we are taking. This is foreign soil—not just in geography, but in every way that matters. This is not our world. It’s not our playground.

The plane lands with a jarring thud, the brakes squealing as it slows on the icy tarmac. My fingers clench the armrests, and I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Within minutes, we’re ushered down the steps and into the biting cold of the Russian winter. The air is sharp and unforgiving, stinging my lungs with each inhale.

A sleek black limousine waits on the edge of the runway, its windows tinted so dark they seem like obsidian mirrors. A man in a heavy coat stands by the door, his expression impassive. He opens it with a curt nod, revealing the plush leather interior. I slide inside, followed closely by Kanyan.

The difference in temperature inside the vehicle is startling. The limousine’s interior is a cocoon of warmth, the faint scentof expensive cologne lingering in the air. Ilya Koslov sits at the far end, his imposing frame partially obscured by shadows. The man known as “The Tarantula” looks every bit his nickname: calculating, watchful, and utterly lethal. His presence fills the space, an invisible weight pressing down on us.

“Welcome to Russia,” he says, his deep voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement. His English is flawless, though tinged with the hard edges of his native accent. “You honor me with your visit.”

I incline my head slightly, keeping my expression neutral, but it’s Kanyan who responds.

“Thank you for having us, Mr. Koslov. Your hospitality is appreciated.”

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