Page 162 of Porcelain Lies

“Bobik’s a strong boy,” Diana echoes my thoughts. “He’s already been through so much. But if anyone can do this, it’s him.”

“I know. And if this works…”

“It could change everything,” Diana murmurs.

I nod, the weight of the moment settling over me.“Da.”

She reaches out, her hand resting lightly on my arm. “Your son could have a chance at a normal life.” Her expression brightens. “We could take him skiing,brat! Remember that trip we took when we turned thirty?”

“Zermatt.” I grin. “I remember. I’m surprised you do though.”

Diana’s laugh is girlish. “I wasn’t that bad!”

“You were bad,sestra. I think you did permanent damage to those ski instructors in that hot tub.”

“Bah!” She flicks her wrist. “Those Swiss boys are pussies.”

“I think we’ll take that off the cards for my son.” I shake my head wryly. “We don’t want a repeat.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “We’ll start with something less… reckless. Rollerblading. American kids do that, don’t they? Or skateboarding. I’ll get him a skateboard!”

She’s getting into the flow of it now, her eyes shining with excitement.

Emotion tightens my throat — a sensation I rarely permit. “Thank you for standing by us,” I manage. “I know it hasn’t been easy.”

“You were there for me after Mama…” she trails off, and we let the silence finish the sentence.

I reach out and cup her cheek. “You were there for me too,sestra. But this… With Bobik…” I sigh. “You’ve done more than I could have asked.”

Diana’s gaze softens. “We’re family, Aleksei. We face these things together.”

For a moment, vulnerability passes between us. I pull her into an embrace, unspoken fears and hopes shared in silence.

“We’ll get through this. You’ll see.” she whispers against my shoulder.

“Konechno. We always do,” I agree.

We release each other, the gravity of our decision lingering. So much rests upon this moment. On the outcome of its surgery.

And for once, I hope that Fate will choose to deal us a better hand.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Stella

An alert pings on my laptop, pulling me away from the latest neuroscience journal I’ve been devouring.

Restricted internet access means I have to make the most of every moment online. I click over to my inbox, expecting one of the automated newsletters I’ve subscribed to, but my stomach drops when I see the sender and the subject line.

‘From: G. Maranzano’

‘Subject: You owe me money’

Shit.

My fingers hover above the trackpad, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. I hadn’t heard from Gianni since that night — the night I swore I’d erase from my memory. The subject line alone sends a shiver down my spine. I swallow hard and force myself to open the email.

“Ciao cara. I hope you didn’t forget about our little arrangement because it’s time to pay up. Don’t make me come find you.”

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