Page 7 of Porcelain Lies

As I leave the warmth of the home he shares with his mother, the night feels empty around me. But experience has taught me shadows lie. My eyes scan the darkness – parked cars, rustling trees, the neighbor’s security light clicking on.

The cool metal of my Glock presses against my ribs. Comforting. Not like the broken vodka bottle my father used that Christmas Eve when I was eight. The jagged glass had torn through my shirt, left scars that still mark my shoulder.

A shadow moves nearby. My hand twitches toward my weapon before I register the movement.

Paranoid bastard.

But paranoia keeps people alive.

My mother used to say that, too, before she disappeared. Always looking over her shoulder, flinching at sudden movements. I’d thought her weak then. Now I understand – she wasn’t paranoid enough.

The memory of her last morning hits hard. Tea growing cold on the kitchen table. Her chair empty when we got home. Father’s knuckles raw and split.

No one ever found a body. But I always suspected him.

A car turns onto the street, headlights sweeping across the houses. I melt into the shadows, watching. Just a neighbor returning home, but my pulse doesn’t slow until they’re gone.

Twenty-five years since my mother vanished, and here I am, standing guard like she used to. But I’m not weak like she was. I have resources she never dreamed of. Power she couldn’t imagine.

The scars on my back itch – a phantom pain from another of my father’s rages. But I’m not that helpless child anymore. My own son will never know that fear. Never trace scars in the mirror and taste copper memories.

I slide into the driver’s seat of my Bentley, letting the leather embrace me. The report from Bobik’s medical team sits heavy in my mind – the endless physical therapy exhausts him. Yet his progress with mathematics amazes his tutors. Still, they worry about his social development. Isolation is necessary for safety, but at what cost to my son?

One day I’ll know the full story behind what happened to him. And then there’ll be hell to pay.

The engine roars to life as I turn the key, its vibration pulling me from the red haze of memory. I need to focus. Bobik needs a father, not an agent of vengeance.

I pull my phone from the Bentley’s console, checking for messages from Diana. My sister always knows when I need her – “twintuition,” she calls it.

My thumb hovers over our chat history. The last message glows on the screen: “How’s our little genius?” She’d sent it hours ago, before my visit with Bobik.

I type out a response: “Learning the new chair controls. Showing off his quantum physics knowledge.”

The message sits unsent. I delete it, try again: “He misses his aunt.”

Delete.

“Olga looks worse.”

Delete.

Blyad.

Even with Diana, the words don’t come. Aside from Olga and a few trusted employees, she’s the only one who knows about Bobik’s existence, the only one I trust with this secret. Yet here I am, choking on simple truths.

The phone screen dims. I let it, watching my reflection fade to black in the glass. Diana would understand the weight crushing my chest after these visits. She’d pour us both a drink, light one of her joints, and listen without judgment.

But she’s away handling business, and I’m alone in this car, surrounded by security measures.

I slip the phone back into the console. Some burdens even a twin sister can’t share.

I grip the steering wheel tighter as my car cuts through the darkness. The Bratva’s code echoes in my head — hard rules passed down through generations of harder men. No weakness. No vulnerability. No mercy for those who can’t pull their own weight.

Disabled children are burdens.

Liabilities.

How many times had I heard the oldervorywhisper about “putting down” their weak offspring? Saying it was mercy. Kindness even. The thought makes my teeth grind.

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