Page 47 of Porcelain Vows

His clinical tone grates on my nerves. “So, what do I do?”

“Be patient. Give her space. Monitor for any physical symptoms that might indicate complications withthe pregnancy. If those occur, bring her to the hospital immediately.”

“That’s it? Wait and see?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Tarasov. The mind heals at its own pace.”

Blyad’, shtó za otvét?

What the hell kind of answer is that? Always talking in fucking circles.

I end the call, resisting the urge to throw the phone against the wall. Useless. All of it.

I can handle a murder cleanup. I can handle the Russian mob. I can handle million-dollar weapons deals with dictators and warlords. But I can’t handle my pregnant woman not fucking talking to me.

The helplessness burns like acid in my chest.

I head to my office, unlocking the cabinet where I keep the good vodka. The bottle is heavy in my hand— Beluga Gold Line, imported directly from St. Petersburg. I pour three fingers into a crystal tumbler and drink it in one swallow. The fire in my throat matches the one in my chest, distracts me a little, but not for long.

The second glass I take to the window, staring out at the darkening grounds of Blackwood Manor. Security lights illuminate the perimeter, creating pools of harsh white light against the shadows. Beyond the walls, Los Angeles sprawls, oblivious to the war brewing in its midst.

The old man’s death might seem like it’s been handled, but Sasha is right. His people don’t need proof to confirm theirsuspicions. Novikov’s men will move soon. They’ll start with questions and then investigations. Eventually, they’ll come to the correct conclusion. I need to be ready.

But how can I prepare for war when my own home feels like enemy territory?

I pour a third glass, drinking more slowly this time. The alcohol dulls the edges of my anxiety, though it does nothing for the core of it.

Something’s happened to Stella. Something beyond the physical trauma, beyond the memory loss. Something that’s turned heragainst me.

If someone hurt her while my back was turned, I’ll find them. I’ll make them suffer. But what if the enemy is inside her head, where I can’t reach?

I’ve seen men beg for their lives before I killed them. That felt like power. This feeling— watching Stella slip away without understanding why— this is true helplessness.

The bottle is half empty by the time I sink into my desk chair. My thoughts circle like vultures, searching for weakness. For answers.

Could she have learned about Novikov? Impossible. No one knows except Sasha and the cleanup crew, and they wouldn’t talk. Could she have remembered something about her past? About my connection to her father’s death?

Or is it simpler than that? Is she finally seeing me for what I am— a killer, a criminal, a man whose hands are stained with blood?

Fuck.

I pour another drink, staring at the clear liquid as if it holds answers. The silence of the manor presses in around me, emphasizing my isolation. Stella in her room, lost in her own mind. Bobik in his suite, unaware of all that’s happening below. Diana at her apartment, oblivious.

All my family under my protection, yet none of them truly with me in this moment.

My hand tightens around the glass. This is fucking bullshit, goddammit. I’m the motherfuckingPakhan, for fuck’s sake. I don’t do helpless.

Yet here I sit, drinking alone, while the woman carrying my daughter stares at the ceiling and plans her escape.

The irony doesn’t elude me. For years, I’ve kept people at a distance. Relationships were liabilities. Emotions were weaknesses to be exploited. I built walls and surrounded myself with weapons and guards.

Then Stella arrived, and somehow, she slipped past every carefully constructed defense I’ve erected. Made me feel things I’d forgotten were possible. Made me want things I’d never allowed myself to want.

And now, when I finally let someone matter— truly matter— she’s slipping away without explanation.

I drain the glass, the vodka no longer burning. My phone remains silent. No updates from Sasha. No calls from the cleanup crew. No answers about what’s happening with Stella.

Just silence and questions and the unfamiliar weight of helplessness settling into my bones.

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