Page 61

I pause, letting the silence build for what comes next.

“His replacement was Tomas Larkin.”

Stella’s eyes go wide. “My father,” she whispers.

“Yes. Your father.” I meet her gaze directly. “And he was drunk. Not plastered, but enough to lose focus.”

She shakes her head in automatic denial, but I can see doubt creeping in. “That’s not possible. My father didn’t drink. He was a professional.”

“Everyone has secrets, Stella.” I keep my tone level, even though this is a subject that gets my blood boiling. “The labor didn’t go smoothly. It went on for too long and, eventually, Olga needed help— she couldn’t push anymore. The baby was in distress, and forceps had to be used. That’s when everything went wrong.”

I look away, the memory still raw after all these years. The frantic beeping of monitors. Olga’s screams. The metallic smell of blood filling the delivery room.

“My son’s spine was damaged because your father mishandled the forceps. His hands were unsteady. His judgment impaired.”

“No.” Stella’s eyes go even wider. “That can’t be right. He wouldn’t—”

“He was drunk, Stella. He’d been drinking, and he didn’t have full control of his reflexes.”

“No! He… he… Oh, my God…” Stella’s face crumples. She buries it in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I want to go to her, to offer comfort, but I know my touch would be unwelcome. The man who killed her father has no right to dry her tears.

“Our child was in intensive care for months,” I continue, voice dropping lower. “My perfect baby boy. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on my worst enemy— seeing their newborn attachedto machines, being told that even if he survived, he’d be in a wheelchair all his life.”

I stand, needing to move, to get rid of some of the tension coiling inside me.

“I tried to fix it,” I continue. “Got in the best experts, spent a fortune on the best treatments. There was nothing they could do for him. The damage was permanent. He would never have a normal life.”

Stella makes a small sound in the back of her throat but doesn’t say anything.

So, I continue. “When business expanded to the West Coast and I moved to Los Angeles, I moved Olga and the baby too, so my son could have a father nearby. I know what it feels like to have an asshole for a father, and I didn’t want that for my boy.”

Stella lowers her hands, face streaked with tears but composed enough to ask, “So you had my father killed because of a medical accident?”

“No.” I meet her eyes. “My plan was to have your father injured because he was drunk during a delivery, and permanently disabled my son. I wanted him to experience what he’d done— to spend the rest of his life unable to walk, dependent on others. To know what he’d sentenced my boy to.”

Her breath catches. “But he died.”

“He wasn’t supposed to. My men were sent to hurt him, not kill him.” As I say it, I imagine it doesn’t sound like much consolation, but it is what it is. The truth. “Your father got in his car and took off at high speed, with my men in pursuit. That’swhen he crashed.” No excuse, just fact. “He died instantly. It wasn’t the plan, but I can’t say I mourned the outcome.”

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “And my mother? What about her? Did you ever think for a moment about what it would do to her? To lose the man she loved?” She makes a choking sound. “Shekilledherself, Aleksei!

“I know,” I say, still not trying to apologize. “Her suicide was… unexpected. Unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” She nearly chokes on the word. “You took her husband from her!”

“A husband who was drinking on the job. Who destroyed my son’s future through negligence.” My voice hardens despite my efforts to remain calm. “Your father never faced consequences for what he did. He fled to America, changed your family name, and built a new life, while my son will never walk.”

She turns away, shoulders shaking. I give her the space to process, to grieve. To hate me if she needs to.

After what feels like an eternity, she speaks again, voice raw. “Why keep Bobik hidden? If this was about justice for him, why not acknowledge him publicly?”

The question cuts deeper than she knows. “I had to keep him a secret because I have enemies, and they would not hesitate to use him against me.” I move to the security monitor, checking the feed from the nursery where Polina sleeps peacefully. “In the Bratva, having a disabled son is seen as a weakness. A vulnerability.”

“So you’re ashamed of him.” The accusation hangs between us.

“No!” I shake my head. “Never. I keep him hidden to protect him. The same reason that I now have guards watching Polina day and night. The same reason I’ve kept you within these walls since you came back to me.”

I approach her slowly, stopping when I see her tense. “I failed to protect my boy once. I won’t fail again. Not with him, not with Polina, not with you.”