Page 48 of Porcelain Lies

Bobik remains the biggest secret of all. Hidden from the world for his protection. The sole vulnerability in my armored existence.

If anyone discovered him — discovered what he means to me — they’d use him. Hurt him. That’s why no one can know. Not Sofia. Not the Bratva council. No one except Diana and a handful of trusted men.

I light a cigarette, letting smoke fill my lungs. A rare indulgence these days. The nicotine does nothing to calm the storm inside me.

Fermont dead. The perfect revenge plan shattered. The careful groundwork of the past decade rendered useless in a single moment of panic.

I exhale slowly, watching smoke dissipate into nothing. Like my plans. Like my justice.

My phone vibrates again. Mendez: “Wife sedated at Memorial. Son disappeared from hospital. Daughter staying with mother.”

Son and daughter. I’d known Fermont had children, of course. Part of basic intelligence. But they’d been secondary considerations. Collateral, not targets.

I type back: “Keep me informed.”

Maybe there’s still something to be salvaged here. The doctor’s dead, but his legacy remains. His family. His reputation.

No. I shake my head, disgusted with myself. The children aren’t responsible for their father’s sins. I’ve never been the kind of monster who punishes innocents for their parents’ mistakes.

I think of Bobik again, the way his face lit up when I brought him the new books on dinosaurs. His eager explanations of extinction theories, hands gesturing excitedly while his legs lay useless beneath the blanket.

My son will never run. Never climb. Never stand on his own two feet to face the world.

All because of Tomas Fermont’s drunken incompetence.

“Chert voz’mi!” I slam my fist down on the table again.

The rage I’ve contained all morning erupts. I sweep everything off the table — plates, cups, silverware — sending it crashing across the terrace. Shards of porcelain scatter like shrapnel. Coffee stains the pristine tiles.

The violence brings no relief. Just emptiness. The hollow acknowledgment that some wounds can never be healed. Some debts never truly paid.

I rake a hand through my hair, breathing hard. This isn’t like me. I don’t lose control. Ever.

Control is the one commodity I refuse to surrender. Not to my enemies. Not to my allies. Not even to myself.

I straighten my shoulders, adjusting my collar. By the time the housekeeper arrives to clean the mess, my expression is back to its usual mask of cool indifference.

“Accident,” I tell her, already walking away.

Inside my office, I pour a finger of vodka. Not my usual morning routine, but nothing about this day is usual. The liquor burns a familiar path down my throat.

I settle behind my desk, pulling up the news on my tablet. Nothing yet about Fermont. Too recent. By tomorrow, the story will break — tragic accident claims beloved family doctor. Brief mentions of his philanthropy and dedicated service. Perhaps a quote from a tearful patient. All very tasteful. All carefully sanitized.

No mention of his drunken negligence in St. Petersburg. No mention of the life he ruined with his unsteady hands.

I close the tablet, unable to stomach the sanitized fiction already taking shape. The world will mourn a healer while my son remains prisoner to a body that betrayed him before he could even take his first breath.

The vodka offers no comfort, but I drink it anyway. Tradition, I suppose. Russians marking both tragedy and triumph with the same clear poison.

My phone rings. Diana’s name flashes on the screen.

“Brother.” Her voice carries that mix of affection and exasperation only she can manage. “Sasha tells me there’s been a development.”

I grunt acknowledgment. “The doctor’s dead.”

“I see.” A pause. “Not according to plan, then.”

“No. The coward crashed his car running away.”

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