Page 106 of Porcelain Vows

As I watch her leave my office, I’m struck by how quickly life can change course. A week ago, Sofia Novikova was an enemy, a threat to eliminate. Today, she’s family— damaged, complicated family, but family nonetheless.

The Bratva taught me that blood is everything. Now I’m learning that lesson in ways I never anticipated, extending the protection of my name to a woman who once tried to destroy everything I built.

For Stella. For my children. These are the justifications I offer myself.

But as I return to my desk, I acknowledge the truth beneath those reasons: guilt. Responsibility. The weight of knowing I’ve shattered lives and must now attempt to reassemble the pieces into something that resembles redemption.

Not just for Stella.

For myself as well.

Chapter Forty-Two

Aleksei

I can’t fucking sit still.

I’m pacing the sterile corridor outside the operating room. Seven steps in one direction, pivot, seven steps back. A pointless circuit that accomplishes nothing except burning the restless energy that threatens to consume me.

Pizdets!

What’s taking so fucking long?

My stomach twists into knots that would impress a sailor. My mouth tastes like metal. Every muscle in my body feels spring-loaded, primed for action, but there’s nothing to do. Nothing except wait.

Four hours into the surgery, with potentially four more to go. Eight fucking hours while strangers cut into my son’s spine, implanting experimental technology that could—could— allow him to walk. Or it might leave him exactly as before, with the added knowledge that this was our last chance. If this fails, it’ll show that he’s not a candidate for this type of procedure, and he’ll be in a wheelchair forever. Malhotra added that little nugget of information at our last meeting. With the caveat that he was certain it would succeed. I advised him that if it turned out he could do no more for my son, he would have no further use to me. And we all knew what happened to people I had no use for.

This will work.

It will fucking work!

I glance at the three women seated in the waiting area. Stella sits perfectly still, hands folded in her lap, a picture of composed support despite the pallor of her face. My mother flanks her on one side, lips moving in silent prayer, occasionally crossing herself in the Orthodox tradition. Diana occupies the chair on Stella’s other side, her foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the floor, scrolling mindlessly through her phone without really seeing it.

Three different responses to the same unbearable tension. None of them can pace like me. None of them feels the weight of this moment like I do. None of them—

Nyet.

That’s unfair. They all love Bobik. They’re all invested in this outcome. They’re just handling it differently.

Dr. Malhotra’s explanation of the procedure replays in my mind for the hundredth fucking time today. The NeuroFusion implants are microscopic marvels of bioengineering, designed to bridge damaged neural pathways in Bobik’s spinal cord. Unlike the previous surgery’s crude mechanical approach that introduced so-called “intelligent” nanobots to Bobik’s spinal column, these implants contain AI algorithms that adapt to his specific neural patterns, encouraging natural regeneration while creating artificial connections where needed.

“The procedure is delicate,” Malhotra had explained. “We’re essentially rewiring the communication system between his brain and lower body. The AI component is what makes this revolutionary— it learns and adapts to his specific neural architecture.”

I understood the technical aspects. I’d researched obsessively, read every available paper on the technology,consulted specialists globally. But understanding doesn’t ease the knot of fear that’s been my constant companion since we scheduled this operation.

My mind drifts to Bobik this morning, his small face solemn yet determined as the nurses prepared him for surgery.

“It’s okay if it doesn’t work, Papa,” he’d said, squeezing my hand with surprising strength. “I’m still me, either way.”

The memory tightens my throat. Almost eleven years old and already wiser than most adults I know. Already prepared for disappointment in a way no child should have to be.

“It will work,” I’d told him with a conviction I didn’t entirely feel. “But yes, you’re still you, either way. The best you.”

He’d smiled then, that smile that transforms his entire face and makes him look so much like his mother. “Maybe I’ll race you soon.”

“Maybe you will,malysh.”

The operating room doors swing open, and my fucking heart stops. But it’s just a nurse, heading in the opposite direction, not even looking our way. False alarm number twelve— or is it thirteen? I’ve lost count in the endless stretch of this day.

---