Page 81 of Porcelain Vows

“Da.”

“The kind your father had?”

The question cuts deep— the implicit comparison to the man I’ve spent my life trying not to become.

“Different,” I say finally. “But effective.”

She nods slowly. “There’s much we don’t know about each other anymore. Time creates strangers, even from blood.”

“Then we’ll learn again.” I squeeze her hands gently. “Diana will want to see you. And Bo… Polina— she should know her grandmother.”

At the mention of family, her resolve visibly strengthens. “Khoroshiy,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “Family is what matters. Always has been.”

“I’ll speak with Reznikov. Make arrangements.” I don’t elaborate on what those arrangements will entail— the bribes, the threats, the leverage I’ll apply to anyone who stands in my way.

“It won’t be simple,” she warns. “Nothing involving Vostok ever is.”

“I don’t need simple. I just need you free.”

She smiles then— a real smile that changes her face, erasing years of hardship for a brief moment.

“My Lyosha. Still so determined.” She touches the cross at her neck again. “God works in mysterious ways. I prayed for twenty years to see my children again. And here you are.”

“Not God,” I say, unable to share her faith after everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve done. “Just a son who missed his mother.”

She cups my face between her palms, studying me with eyes that see too much. “There is good in you still. I can see it, even behind all you try to hide.”

The observation makes me uncomfortable— too close to places I keep guarded. I stand, still holding one of her hands.

“We should go. I need to speak with Reznikov about your release.”

She rises, but hesitates. “My shift in the kitchen—”

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” I finish firmly. “You’re never cooking in that kitchen again.”

For a moment, I see fear flicker across her features— the institutionalized response to breaking routine, to stepping outside established boundaries. Then determination replaces it. She unties her apron, folding it with deliberate movements before placing it on the table.

“Twenty years,” she says softly. “A lifetime.”

“A lifetime we get back,” I counter, offering my arm.

She takes it, her thin hand resting in the crook of my elbow. As we walk toward the administrative section, her steps grow steadier, her head lifting higher.

Mother and son, separated by decades, reunited by a deathbed confession.

Whatever obstacles lie ahead— bureaucratic, legal, emotional— I will overcome them. I have built an empire, destroyed enemies, protected what’s mine at any cost.

And Maria Tarasova is mine to protect now, too.

As she once protected me.

Chapter Thirty-One

Stella

The night air carries a slight chill as I step onto the pool deck, wrapping my cardigan tighter around my shoulders.

Polina finally settled after her evening feed, monitored by the night nurse who assured me I could take a much-needed break. Two weeks of motherhood have taught me to seize these rare moments of solitude.

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