Page 177 of Porcelain Lies

Bobik turns his head, giving me one last brave smile before they round the corner. My hands clench into fists, nails biting into my palms. The pain helps to ground me, keeps me from charging after them like my body demands.

Dr. Malhotra’s team moves with practiced efficiency, their quiet murmurs and the soft beeping of monitors fading as they take my son further away. I track their progress through thesmall window in the swinging doors, watching until even their shadows disappear.

“Blyad,” I mutter, running a hand over my face. The tremor in my fingers betrays my carefully maintained composure. I’ve faced down rival Bratvas, survived assassination attempts, built an empire from nothing — yet watching my ten-year-old son being wheeled into surgery reduces me to this shaking mess.

A nurse approaches cautiously. “Mr. Tarasov? The waiting area is this way.”

I nod stiffly, allowing her to guide me to a private room. The luxury surroundings — plush chairs, tasteful artwork, fresh coffee — mock the anxiety churning in my gut. My security detail takes up position outside, ensuring my privacy while I wrestle with this helplessness.

The clock on the wall ticks away seconds that feel like hours. Eight hours of surgery ahead. Eight hours of not knowing if my son will wake up with a chance at walking or if I’ve gambled his life on experimental technology.

I pace to the window, staring unseeing at the city below. The sun catches on glass buildings, too bright, too normal for a moment as important as this. Somewhere in this building, doctors are cutting into my son’s spine, threading experimental AI components through his nervous system.

“Chert,”I growl under my breath. I can’t stand around here waiting like this. I have to do something.

I force myself to walk out, each step feeling like lead. The corridor seems endless. My security detail maintains a respectful distance as I make my way to the parking garage.

Inside my car, the carefully maintained control finally shatters.

Wetness burns my eyes, spilling heat down my cheeks. A sound escapes me — half sob, half growl — raw and primal. My fists clench on the steering wheel until my palms throb and my knuckles crack.

Chertov Urod!

I haven’t spilled a tear since I was a child, since the day my mother disappeared, and even then, it was restrained. But now the tears want to burst out, years of suppressed fear, hope, and love breaking through my defenses.

“Pozhaluysta,”I whisper to whatever god might be listening. “Please, let him walk.”

The leather steering wheel creaks under my grip as another wave of raw emotion crashes over me. I’ve killed men, ruined lives, forged an empire on violence and fear. But in this moment, I am simply a father, terrified of losing the most precious thing in my world. My son.

I let the tears come, knowing that soon I’ll rebuild my walls, and return to being the strong, controlledPakhaneveryone expects. But for now, in the privacy of my car, I allow myself this moment of vulnerability.

For Bobik.

For the son who deserves so much more than the broken man fate gave him for a father.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Stella

I’m just out of the shower after my yoga session, my wet hair sticking to my neck, when I see it — a faint glow coming from my underwear drawer.

My pulse quickens as I stare at the light slipping through the cracks.

The phone!

I rush over, my fingers fumbling as I dig through lace and cotton until I find the source of the light. I’ve taken to moving my burner around to new hiding places every other day. It thrums faintly in my hand. The screen glows with a missed call. Hannah.

My heart leaps into my throat, stealing my breath. She never calls me — not on this number, not when we’ve been so careful. I always contact her first. The fact that she reached out… it can only mean one thing.

“She found something about Dad’s death.”Boyana chimes in.

The air feels thick and heavy as a chill ripples up my spine. My fingers tighten around the phone, tremors overtaking them. Just looking at her name on the screen, my stomach churns with a mixture of hope and dread, the toxic cocktail I’ve tried so hard to suppress.

I gnaw on my bottom lip as I struggle with what to do. I don’t know if I’m ready for this. These past weeks with Aleksei and Bobik have been too perfect, like a fragile dream I’ve been afraid to wake from. Afternoons spent together, the lilting soundof laughter as Bobik showed me some new wonder. Even the quiet nights — Aleksei’s touch on my skin, the sound of his steady breathing in the dark — it’s all been surreal. Safe, even. Something I never had the privilege of experiencing. And now, looking at that tiny, lit-up screen, the thought of shattering my fragile peace makes me shudder.

“You have to know the truth,”Boyana whispers.

“I know,” I murmur aloud, a weak attempt to stabilize myself. The sound of my own voice against the quiet room feels thin and breakable. And yet, Boyana’s voice — her steady, infuriating command — always pushes me toward things I want to recoil from.

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