Page 83 of Porcelain Lies

Malhotra turns, his dark eyes meeting mine briefly before dropping away. “Mr. Tarasov, perhaps we should—”

“Here. Now.”

He swallows hard, tugging at his collar. Most men would piss themselves facing my tone, but Malhotra’s known me long enough to push past the fear.

“Blyad!” I spit. “Tell me, for fuck’s sake. Is Bobik-?”

“It’s not Bobik.” His jaw works. “I went over the test results the oncologist sent through. Olga’s.”

“She did the tests?” I’m surprised. She’s been so set against cooperating in any way.

He nods. “It doesn’t look good, sir. The blood samples…” Malhotra pulls in a breath. “Her white cell count is severely elevated.”

My teeth grind together. “Stop dancing around it.”

“Stage four lymphoma. Aggressive. It’s spread to her—”

The rest of his words fade into white noise.Lymphoma. Cancer. Stage four.

A fucking death sentence.

My little boy is about to lose his mama.

“How long?” The words scrape my throat.

“Without treatment? Not long. Days? Weeks?” Malhotra’s clinical tone cracks. “With aggressive chemotherapy, we might—”

“Arrange it. Whatever it costs.”

“Sir, she’s refusing treatment. Says she doesn’t want Bobik to see her suffer through—”

My fist connects with the car door, the dull thud echoing down the quiet street. Stubbornsuka. Always putting Bobik first, even now.

Yebat’!

Why the fuck didn’t she tell me?

“Make her understand.” I grab Malhotra’s collar, yanking him closer. “You’re her doctor. Convince her.”

“I’ve tried.” He doesn’t flinch, used to my outbursts after years of treating Bobik. “She’s made her choice.”

Choice? What fucking choice is there when Bobik needs his mother?

The familiar rage builds — the kind that usually ends in blood. But violence won’t fix this. Can’t beat cancer into submission or threaten it away.

For the first time since taking control of the Bratva, I feel utterly powerless.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Stella

The bile rises before I can fully process being awake.

I barely make it to the bathroom, my knees hitting the cold tile as I heave into the toilet. This is the third morning in a row, but I keep blaming bad takeout or stress.

“Stell?” Hannah’s voice comes through the door, tinged with that mix of concern and knowing that makes my stomach clench for entirely different reasons. “You sure you’re okay? I can pick up a test on my way back if you—”

“No!” I rest my forehead against the porcelain, trying to steady my breathing. “It’s just a stomach bug.”

---