Page 39 of Porcelain Lies

“A quick death would be too merciful.” My voice sounds foreign even to my own ears. “He needs to understand what he’s done. What he stole.”

I pull up the medical records again, studying the clinical description of my son’s injuries. Each technical term represents years of pain, of lost opportunities, of a childhood spent in physical therapy instead of on playgrounds.

“And a bullet would be too easy.” The plan crystallizes in my mind, cold and perfect as ice. “Themudakneeds to understand. Really understand.”

My fingers trace the medical diagrams on my screen, following the path of nerve damage that changed my son’s life forever.

“C5 and C6 vertebrae.” The medical terms feel like razor blades on my tongue. “Same injury height as Bobik’s. Butno quick surgical mistake this time. I want it done slowly. Deliberately.”

Vasya nods, his expression darkening. “We have men with certain… skills.” A smile twitches his lips up at the corners, but there’s nothing warm about it.

“Good.” I lean forward, the leather of my chair creaking. “I want him conscious. Want him to feel every moment, to understand exactly what’s happening. Let him experience the same helplessness he inflicted on my son.”

“And after?”

“After?” A cold smile splits my face. “He lives. In a wheelchair. Dependent on others for every basic function. Just the way he left my boy.”

The symmetry feels right. Poetic, even. Let him spend decades staring at walls, trapped in a useless body while his mind stays sharp. Let him know exactly why this happened to him.

“Start making arrangements.” I check my watch. “I want everything in place within the week.”

Chapter Twelve

Aleksei

The bottle rattles against the crystal as I pour, liquid sloshing over the rim.

Blyad.

I never spill. My hands don’t shake. But they are now.

The first sip of vodka burns, carrying me back to that sterile hospital corridor. The squeak of nurses’ shoes. The sharp antiseptic smell. Olga’s sobs echoing through closed doors.

I take another drink, longer this time. The memory intensifies — standing there, young and powerless, while some drunk bastard butchered my son’s delivery. I’d trusted the system, the doctors, the fucking government stamps on their certificates.

The glass slams down harder than intended. Crystal cracks spider across the bottom.

“Your son suffered severe trauma during birth,” they said. Clinical words masking brutal truth. I remember Bobik’s tiny body, twisted and still. Not crying. Why wasn’t he crying?

More vodka. It doesn’t help. The rage builds, familiar and hot in my chest. For ten years I’ve carried this weight — watching my boy struggle to sit up, to hold a spoon, to do the simplest things other children take for granted. All because some idiot couldn’t stay sober enough to deliver him properly.

I grip the bottle neck, knuckles white. The memories keep coming now — first surgeries, endless therapies, Bobik’s bravesmile through it all. My brilliant, beautiful son, forced to endure so much because of one man’s negligence.

The vodka burns less with each swallow. My rigid control starts slipping, the careful walls I’ve built around these memories crumbling. I see Bobik’s face, lit up with excitement over his new wheelchair. He deserves so much more than wheels and voice commands. He deserves to run, to jump, to live without limits.

The glass is empty again. My hands have steadied, but something else has broken loose inside me. A decade of contained fury rises like bile in my throat.

The walls close in. I can’t sit here drowning in vodka and memories. Not when I finally have a name. Not when vengeance is within reach.

I strip off my suit jacket, my tie, leaving a trail to my private gym. The familiar scent of leather and sweat welcomes me. Here, at least, I know how to channel this fury.

The first punch rocks the heavy bag. Then another. And another. Each impact sends shockwaves up my arms, but I don’t slow down. My knuckles split. I don’t care.

Crack. For the forceps he mishandled.

Thud. For Bobik’s twisted spine.

Slam. For every physiotherapy session, every surgery, every fucking moment of pain my son has endured.

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