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“God help us all,” Vasya mutters, but I hear the affection in his voice. “Another stubborn Tarasov is exactly what the world needs.”

“Better than another tech nerd like her uncle,” I counter.

“This tech nerd kept your ass out of prison a dozen timesmudak.”

The familiar insult feels like comfort. Vasya and I have our differences, but the bond remains unbreakable. Blood and shared history binding us together.

“I’ll be back in Los Angeles next week,” he continues. “Try not to kill anyone important before then.”

“No promises.”

The call ends with his laugh echoing in my ear. I finish the vodka and set the glass aside, feeling more settled than I have in weeks.

I head to the gym, needing physical exertion to channel the restless energy success always brings. The space is a testament to precision and control— weights arranged by size, equipment meticulously maintained, not a towel out of place. My sanctuary.

I push myself harder than usual, driving my body to its limits. Bench press. Pull-ups. Core work that leaves my muscles burning. Sweat soaks through my shirt as I move to thepunching bag, landing combinations with enough force to make the chain creak overhead.

Physical pain clears the mind. Focuses the thoughts. Burns away doubt.

With each punch, I catalog the day’s victories. The contracts. The accounts. The retreating enemies. The daughter growing stronger each day. The son safely hidden from my enemies, his treatments progressing well. The woman who knows my darkest secret and hasn’t run.

Yet.

That final thought breaks my rhythm. I steady the bag, breathing hard, sweat dripping from my face. Stella knows I killed her father. Knows why. Accepts the reason, perhaps, but acceptance isn’t forgiveness.

I grab a towel and wipe my face, checking the time. Nearly noon. I should shower, return to work, check on Polina.

Instead, I head outside, drawn by the warm Los Angeles sunshine. The pool gleams turquoise between the two wings of Blackwood Manor, the water perfectly still in the windless day. I’m halfway to the outdoor shower when I notice her.

Diana sits at one of the poolside tables, a teacup clutched in her hands. Her posture is wrong— hunched, defensive. Her hair, normally immaculate, hangs loose and uncombed around her face. She wears the same clothes as yesterday, wrinkled now from sleep.

Something is very wrong.

“Dee?” I approach cautiously, using her childhood nickname. “What’s happened?”

She looks up, and the expression on her face stops me cold. Fear. Raw, unfiltered fear I haven’t seen since we were children hiding from our father’s drunken rage.

“Aleksei.” Her voice cracks on my name. “I tried to call you last night. Your phone—”

“I was busy until late,” I say, moving closer.

“Busy?” she chokes out bitterly. “Ser’yozno?Seriously? I tried to call you a dozen times. Even the guards called. No answer.”

“I should have taken more care,sestra.” Something cold settles in my gut at the sight of her distress. Diana never breaks like this. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head, hands trembling around the coffee cup. “Father is here.”

The words hit so hard that I freeze mid-step. Memories flash unbidden— belt buckles, pain, my mother’s screams.

“What?” The single syllable comes out rough, like gravel being crushed underfoot.

“Father is here.” She looks up at me, eyes red-rimmed from crying or lack of sleep. Probably both. “He arrived last night.”

For a moment, I can’t process what she’s saying. It doesn’t make sense. Our father is in Siberia. Has been for over a decade. Exiled to a remote village with enough money to drink himself to death but not enough to return. For years, I’d told myself that he’d chosen the path to death.

“That’s impossible,” I say flatly.

Diana laughs, a brittle sound with no humor. “That’s what I thought when the guards called me to the gate and I found him standing there.”