Page 8 of Porcelain Lies

They’d expect the same from me. The mightyPakhan, required to set an example. If they knew about Bobik…

A truck cuts me off, and I slam the horn, channeling my rage into the blaring sound. These are the same men who knelt before me, swore loyalty with blood and vodka. Yet they’d turn on me in an instant if they discovered my “weakness.” They’d see my protection of Bobik as softness. A crack in my armor.

Let them try.

I accelerate, the engine’s growl matching my mood. The Bratva’s rules mean shit compared to my son’s safety. I built my empire on their ancient codes, but I’d burn it all down before I let their barbaric traditions touch my boy.

I check my mirrors again, muscle memory from years of watching my back. No tails. No threats. Just the night and my thoughts, both equally dark.

The city lights blur past as I merge onto the main road. Somewhere out there, some doctor lives a comfortable life, probably sleeping soundly while my son struggles to sit upright. Years of searching, following leads, burning through contacts — and still, that bastard eludes me.

The vehicle responds to my foot heavy on the accelerator, engine growling like the monster I become when I think of thatpizda.

But Bobik’s tired smile flashes in my mind, his eyes bright as he showed me his physics diagrams. Such brilliance trapped in a broken body.

“Der’mo!” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Diana says he needs friends his age. Someone to share his passions with beyond his books and computers. The weight of his loneliness settles on my chest like concrete, because it’s something I can’t fix.

The moment I expose Bobik’s existence to find him companions, I paint a target on his back. All because of the doctor who couldn’t do his fucking job. If I ever get my hands on that motherfucker, he’ll regret the day he was born.

I force the rage down, letting it simmer where I can use it later. I should get my act together. I’m already late for the children’s cancer charity event I promised to attend.

After all, even men like me need a good public image.

Chapter Three

Stella

The woman’s venomous words still echo in my mind, replaying on a loop no matter how hard I try to focus on the event preparations around me.

“Leave my boyfriend alone.”

Boyfriend. Gianni is her boyfriend. Not my fiancé, not really. I’m just a… business prop. The realization knocks the air from my lungs.

My trembling hands fumble with the clipboard as I try to double-check the catering order. The sound of approaching voices makes me jerk my head up, and I force a smile onto my face as a group of donors enters the venue. I straighten my posture, willing my legs to stop shaking as I greet them with practiced charm.

“Welcome, thank you all so much for being here today.” I gesture to the colorful decorations and the smiling children playing in the corner. “We’re so grateful for your support. Please, take a look at the board for your seating arrangements.”

The donors murmur their approval, already reaching for the champagne flutes a server offers. I excuse myself, clutching the clipboard to my chest as I slip away to a quiet corner. Gianni’s face flashes in my mind, his warm hazel eyes crinkling as he smiled at me, his strong arms pulling me close.

How could he do this to me?

As the foyer empties and guests filter into the ballroom, I find a dimly lit corner and sink down onto a plush armchair,my head falling into my hands. The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over, trailing down my cheeks. I should have known something was wrong. Gianni’s distant behavior, the way he’d been evasive about our wedding plans. I shake my head, cursing myself for being so blind.

“God, I’m such a fool, Boyana,” I whisper into the silence. A picture forms, blurred at the edges, as I visualize the face of my childhood companion. The sister I’d always imagined I had.

“Now isn’t the time to feel sorry for yourself,”her voice floats back from the recesses of my mind.

“How am I supposed to get through this?” I breathe out.

“The way you always do. You’re strong, Stella. Pull yourself together.”

I rub my eyes, wishing I felt as sure of that fact.

I’m probably too old for an imaginary friend, but old habits die hard. And tonight’s circumstances are tougher than usual.

A gentle hand on my arm makes me jump guiltily. “Stella? Are you alright?”

I hastily wipe at my eyes, looking up to see one of the event volunteers standing over me, her brow creased with concern.

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