Page 49 of Porcelain Lies

“And this upsets you because...?”

I close my eyes. Diana always cuts through my defenses. “He was supposed to suffer, Dee. Live as Bobik lives.”

Her voice softens. “And would that have helped Bobik?”

The question catches me off-guard. “It would have been justice.”

“Justice and vengeance aren’t the same thing, Alyosha. You know that.”

I don’t respond. Can’t respond.

“Bobik needs his father. Not some twisted revenge fantasy.”

“Don’t.” The warning in my voice would make any other person retreat. Not my sister.

“The doctor’s dead. It’s over. Focus on what matters — your son. His future.”

The words land with precision, as her words always do. Diana, my mirror image, the only person who’s known me from the beginning. Who knows the boy I was before I became the man I am.

“You’re right,” I say finally. “As fucking usual.”

“Of course I am.” She hesitates. “Have you told Sofia yet? About Bobik?”

The question renews my irritation. “No. And I won’t.”

“Aleksei—”

“We’ve discussed this. Sofia will never know about my son.”

“She’s to be your wife.”

“She’s to be my business arrangement.” I drain the last of the vodka. “Nothing more.”

Diana sighs, but doesn’t push further. “Let’s speak later,brat. Try to move past this.”

The call ends, leaving me alone with thoughts I’d rather not examine. Diana’s right. The doctor’s death changes nothing for Bobik. His struggles remain the same. His needs unaltered.

Yet something persists — this nagging sense of incompletion. Of justice denied.

I push away from the desk, suddenly restless. The walls of my office, usually a sanctuary, now feel confining. I need movement. Action.

My security detail falls in step as I exit the house, heading for the garage. No destination in mind. Just the need to be moving.

Behind the wheel of the Bentley, hands gripping the leather, I find a measure of calm. Control. Direction.

I drive without conscious thought, the powerful engine responding to the slightest touch. Out the gates, down the winding coastal road. Away from the mansion. Away from the morning’s failures.

Tomas Fermont is dead. My decade-long hunt concluded not with the satisfaction of justice, but with the hollow echo of an accident report.

Yet somehow, I know this isn’t truly finished. The story that began in that St. Petersburg delivery room continues. The consequences radiating outward like ripples in water.

Fermont escaped my justice. But the waves he set in motion continue to spread, touching lives he’ll never know were connected to his.

Including mine.

Chapter Fifteen

Stella

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