Page 47 of Porcelain Lies

“There were witnesses, Tarasov. His wife is claiming—”

“Grief makes people irrational. She’s in shock. Confused.” I keep my voice even. “The report will show he lost control of his vehicle. Nothing more.”

Mendez sighs. “This’ll cost you.”

“Double the usual. Transfer within the hour.”

“Triple. This is high-profile. Doctor in an affluent neighborhood.”

My jaw clenches. “Fine. But I want the file closed by the end of the week.”

“What about the ME’s office?”

“Handle it. That’s what I pay you for.” I end the call before he can negotiate further.

Sasha waits, impassive as ever. Over a decade at my side have taught him when to speak and when to disappear into the background.

“Contact Viktor at Channel Six,” I instruct. “Get ahead of the story. Tragic accident. Respected doctor. Perhaps hint at fatigue from overwork. Something sympathetic.”

“Da, boss. Anything else?”

I stare out at the perfect blue of my swimming pool. “Monitor police channels. Any chatter about suspicious circumstances, I want to know.”

Sasha nods. “And the widow?”

I consider this. “Leave her. She’ll be dismissed as traumatized. If she becomes problematic... we’ll reassess.”

“Understood.” He turns to leave. When Sasha’s footsteps fade, I sink back into my chair. The pastries have gone cold. The coffee tastes like ash.

Ten years hunting Tomas Larkin — no, Fermont. Ten years imagining the moment I’d watch realization dawn on his face. The moment he’d understand exactly who I was and why I’d come. The fear when he realized what awaited him. Not death — that would be too merciful. But the same helplessnesshe inflicted on my son. The same lifetime of dependence. Of limitations.

I’d pictured everything. All the years of misery he’d face.

All wasted because the coward couldn’t handle a car.

The irony isn’t lost on me. The man who damaged my son’s spine dies from a broken neck. Poetic, in its way. But hollow.

Justice isn’t just about death. Death is easy. Over in an instant. I wanted him to live. To endure. To understand the full weight of what he’d done.

I pick up my coffee cup, surprised to find my hand steady despite the rage churning inside. Self-control always was my greatest weapon.

The sunlight seems harsher now, the peaceful morning tainted. I’d waited a decade for proper vengeance. Patient. Calculating. Only to have it snatched away by chance.

My phone vibrates. A text from Mendez: “Wheels in motion. ME on board. Report will show elevated blood alcohol levels.”

At least that’s handled. The official story: respected doctor has a few drinks, crashes car, tragic accident. Case closed.

But not for me. Never for me.

I scroll through my phone, finding the folder labeled “B.” The photos load — my son in his various wheelchairs over the years. Age three, strapped into a contraption that swallowed his tiny body. Age seven, finally able to control a motorized version. Last week, mastering the new high-tech model.

My brilliant boy, ruined by that fuck-up of a doctor.

And now that doctor is dead. Not suffering. Not living with the consequences. Just gone.

I set the phone down and stare at my hands. These hands have killed men. Tortured them. Broken them. But they couldn’t deliver the one thing I truly wanted — justice for Bobik.

The sun climbs higher, burning away the morning mist. From here, I can see my security team patrolling the perimeter. Keeping me safe. Keeping my secrets locked away.

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