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“And your mother?” I ask gently.

Diana’s expression softens. “Mamatried to protect us, too. She would distractPapawhen his moods turned dark. Take the blows meant for us.” Her fingers trace the rim of the vodka bottle. “I remember the day she disappeared. She was makingpirozhki. I can still smell the dough frying. She kissed us goodbye when we left for school. When we came home, she was gone.”

“Just like that?”

“Father said she went to visit family in Moscow.” Diana’s bitter smile returns. “We knew he was lying.Mamawould never leave without saying goodbye properly. Without leaving a note. Something.”

She takes another drag, the smoke curling around her face like a veil. “We thought he killed her. For all these years, we believed he murdered our mother.”

“And now Aleksei’s found her,” I say, pieces clicking into place. “At this Vostok place.”

Diana nods, her movements becoming looser as the marijuana takes stronger hold. “We had signals, you know. The three of us— me, Lyosha, and Vasya. Three taps on the wall meant Father was drunk. Two quick, one slow meant hide. Vasya got out first— boarding school, then university. Left us behind.”

There’s no accusation in her voice, just stated fact. “Lyosha and I, we had hiding places throughout the house. Under beds. Inside wardrobes. Once, for three hours, in a kitchen cabinet.” She laughs, the sound edged with hysteria. “That’s what a shitty childhood does to a person. The Tarasov siblings survived by protecting each other.”

As she speaks, something shifts in me. In my understanding of Aleksei. The man who shows such gentle carewith Bobik and Polina learned tenderness precisely because he knew its opposite. His fierce protectiveness of those he loves— it comes from a childhood where protection meant survival.

“We thought we were free when Lyosha becamePakhan,” Diana continues, her words beginning to slur together. “ExiledPapato Siberia. Built this life. But you never really escape, do you?” She gestures vaguely at the opulent surroundings. “All this, and we’re still those scared little children.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. It seems so inadequate.

She gives a slight snort, then goes silent. I don’t press her to speak, but when the silence continues, I turn to look at her. Her head droops, eyelids growing heavy. The joint slips from her fingers, and I carefully extinguish it in the ashtray. Diana mumbles something in Russian, too soft and slurred for me to catch, before her breathing deepens into sleep.

I sit with her a moment longer, processing everything she’s revealed. The childhood horrors that shaped the Tarasov siblings. The mother suddenly found alive after so many years of presumed death. The father who… returned to die under the same roof as the children he tormented.

And Aleksei— gone to this notorious institution to rescue his mother, acting on impulse rather than his usual calculated control. A side of him I’ve never witnessed.

It’s too much to process.

But it helps to understand.

I carefully adjust Diana’s position so she won’t wake with a stiff neck, then drape my cardigan over her shoulders against the night chill. She looks younger in sleep, the carefully maintainedfaçade of sophistication melting away to reveal the vulnerable woman beneath.

As I gather the scattered joints and rolling papers, my thoughts turn to Aleksei. The man I’ve struggled to reconcile— tender father and ruthless killer— suddenly appears in a new light. Not excused for his actions toward my father, definitely not. But perhaps more comprehensible.

A man formed in the crucible of childhood trauma, who learned early that violence could be both weapon and shield. Who built walls around himself, letting only a select few— Diana, Bobik, now Polina— see his capacity for gentleness.

And somewhere in Russia, he’s facing his past— the mother he believed dead, imprisoned in a place Diana describes as hell on earth.

I look back at Diana’s sleeping form, wondering how many nights she’s spent out here alone, smoking to numb the pain of memories she can’t escape. Tonight, at least, she won’t wake alone.

I settle into the chair beside her, watching the steam rise from the heated pool into the cool night air. The manor feels different tonight— less a gilded cage, more a fortress sheltering damaged souls.

Including, perhaps, my own.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Aleksei

The gravel crunches beneath the tyres as the car rolls to a stop at the entrance of Blackwood Manor.

Through the tinted windows, I see Diana pacing on the front steps, her elegant figure taut with anticipation. She stops mid-stride when she spots the vehicle, one hand rising to her mouth.

Beside me in the backseat, my mother draws a sharp breath. “Is that…?”

“Diana,” I confirm, watching her eyes fill with tears.

It’s been a lifetime since they’ve seen each other. Diana was a child when our mother disappeared— still a girl with braces and dreams of becoming a concert pianist. Now she stands before us, a poised woman of thirty-five, successful and strong despite everything our father did to break her.