Page 69

No. I refuse to give him that power.

I straighten my shoulders, consciously relaxing the tension in my jaw. I am not nine years old anymore. I am not helpless anymore. Not afraid of him.

The last lie rings hollow even in my own mind.

Every day I fight to ensure his blood in my veins doesn’t make me become him. With Bobik, I measure every word, every gesture, terrified of seeing fear in my son’s eyes. With Polina, I handle her tiny body with exaggerated gentleness, as if my hands might betray me.

The door before me represents more than a physical barrier. It’s the threshold between the man I’ve become and theboy I once was. Between the present I’ve built and the past I’ve tried to bury.

My hand closes around the doorknob, cold metal against my palm. I take one final deep breath, centering myself in the present. In who I am now. In the power I wield.

I am Aleksei Tarasov. I am not my father’s son.

The door swings open.

* * *

For a moment, I don’t recognize the man sitting on the edge of the bed.

This gaunt figure with hollow cheeks and yellowed skin can’t be the towering monster of my nightmares. The father I remember filled doorways with his bulk, his presence suffocating rooms with menace.

This… this is just an old man.

He looks up, and the eyes are the same. Dark, penetrating, set deep beneath heavy brows— my eyes, staring back at me from a withered version of my own face.

“Aleksei.” His voice is rougher than I remember, scraping and raw. “Son… you’ve become a man.”

The unexpected warmth in his tone freezes me in the doorway. I’d prepared for rage, for accusations, for the drunken violence that defined my childhood. Not for this strange gentleness, this almost proud assessment.

I remain silent, cataloging the changes. His once-black hair is now completely gray, thinning at the crown. Skin hanging loosely from his frame as if he’s lost weight rapidly. The slight yellow tinge to his eyes and complexion. The tremor in his hands as they rest on his knees.

“Ty vyglyadish’ kak der’mo.You look like shit,” I say finally, the words coming out harsh. I don’t bother to soften them.

He laughs, the sound dissolving into a wet cough that he muffles with a handkerchief. When he pulls it away, I notice the spots of blood.

“Siberia wasn’t kind to me.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” I step into the room, leaving the door open behind me. An escape route. A reminder that I control this space. “How did you get out? How did you find us?”

“Money solves most problems.” He shrugs, the movement accentuating the boniness of his shoulders beneath his shirt. “I saved up over the years. Enough for forged papers, a flight, some information.”

“Why?” The question contains everything— why now, why here, why bother after all this time?

“I’m dying.” He says it simply, without self-pity. “Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Three months, the doctors say. Probably less.”

The information should bring satisfaction. Instead, it creates a hollow feeling in my chest. I wanted this man dead for decades. Now he’s dying, and somehow that feels like being robbed of something.

“So you came to what? Make peace before you go?”

He nods, eyes never leaving mine. “To see my children one last time. To ask forgiveness, though I don’t deserve it.”

“You don’t,” I agree coldly.

His gaze drops to his hands, which tremble visibly now. “No. I don’t.”

The submission in his posture is so foreign, so at odds with the violent tyrant of my memories, that I find myself momentarily unbalanced. This frail old man seems more ghost than flesh, more memory than threat.

Blyad.