Page 28 of Porcelain Vows

I’ll need to tell him soon about the baby. About his sister. The thought of a daughter still feels surreal, like something that’s happening to someone else— someone more deserving of such a miracle.

God knows I don’t.

Stella reaches out to ruffle Bobik’s hair, the gesture so natural it makes my breath catch. She doesn’t remember her life before the accident, yet somehow, she remembers how to love my son. Malhotra’s explanation plays in my mind: her factual memory is compromised, but her emotional memory remains intact. She may not remember meeting Bobik, but she remembers how she feels about him.

I switch to another camera feed, this one showing the corridor outside my office. Empty. Good. What I’m doing— watching them like this— feels invasive even to me, a man who has built his empire on knowing everything that happens within his domain. But I need to be certain. Need to see for myself that she’s not just pretending, that her affection for Bobik is genuine.

It is. Even through the clinical lens of surveillance, that much is clear.

My phone buzzes with a message from Diana: “Bobik’s medication in 30 minutes. Should I interrupt?”

I type back quickly: “No. Let them finish. I’ll bring it up myself.”

Diana’s response is immediate: “Are you sure? You’ve been avoiding them together.”

I ignore this. My sister knows me too well sometimes.

I turn back to the monitors, switching to the feed from Stella’s bedroom. Empty now, of course, but I find myself studying the space she occupies when alone. The bed is neatly made, pillows arranged with precision. Books stack the nightstand— medical texts, neuroscience journals, a few novels. Signs of an ordered mind trying to make sense of disorder.

And when she makes sense of it, she’s going to remember who she is.

The daughter of Tomas Larkin. The man whose negligence crippled my son. The man whose death I ordered.

Blyad!

My hand tightens around the crystal tumbler on my desk. Will this secret torture me till the day I die? Whatever the case, Stella must never know. Never discover that her father’s “accident” was my retribution for what he did to Bobik. The thought of her finding out, of seeing the hatred in those green eyes that have finally begun to soften when they look at me— it’s unbearable.

I drain the vodka in one burning swallow, welcoming the heat as it blazes down my throat. The empty glass makes a heavy sound as I set it down on the polished desk. I must ensure there’s no possibility of her uncovering the truth.

The security system chimes, alerting me that Bobik and Stella’s game has ended. On screen, I watch as she helps him gather the pieces, their heads bent close together in conversation. She says something that makes him laugh, the sound inaudible through the surveillance system but clearly delightful from the way his whole face lights up.

I switch off the monitor, suddenly unable to watch anymore. This stolen intimacy feels wrong, even for me. I’m nota man who typically concerns himself with moral boundaries, but this— spying on them in their unguarded moments— crosses a line I didn’t realize I’d drawn.

I scrub a hand over my face, rolling my shoulders. The tension building in my muscles demands release. I head to my private gym, a state-of-the-art facility tucked away in the basement of the Right Wing. The space is filled with gleaming equipment and mirrored walls, designed for efficiency rather than comfort. No distractions, nothing but the work.

I change into my workout clothes and attack the treadmill first, setting it to a punishing incline. My feet pound against the belt as I push myself harder, faster, sweat already beginning to bead along my hairline. Physical exertion has always been my most effective form of meditation— the only time my mind truly quiets is when my body is screaming.

Today, though, thoughts continue to circle like vultures. Stella. Bobik. Larkin’s death. The fragile peace we’ve established in the manor, built entirely on her memory loss. What happens when— if— she finds out the truth?

I increase the speed, my breath coming harder now. The rhythmic pounding of my feet against the treadmill drowns out everything but the most persistent thought: I cannot lose her. Not now. Not when I’ve finally found something worth protecting beyond my family, beyond the Bratva, beyond even my own survival.

Twenty minutes later, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, clarity strikes like lightning. I need to eliminate any possibility of the investigation being reopened. Need to ensure that all traces linking me to Larkin’s death are erased permanently.

I cool down, towel off, and reach for my phone. Vasya answers on the second ring.

“Brat,” he greets me, his voice carrying the familiar background noise of keyboards clicking. My brother, always working, always connected to his networks.

“Listen, Vasya. I need you to make sure there is absolutely no chance that Tomas Larkin’s death will ever be investigated again,” I say bluntly. Vasya and I have never needed social niceties between us.

There’s a pause, the clicking stops. “What made you worried about it so suddenly?” he asks. “The investigation was closed and marked as an accident.”

I hesitate, reaching for my water bottle and taking a long drink while weighing how much to reveal. Vasya is the only person in my world besides Diana who knows about Bobik, about the real reason behind my vendetta against Larkin. But he doesn’t know about Stella’s connection to it all.

“It’s complicated,” I say finally, leaning against the mirrored wall of the gym.

“Complicated? How?”

“I’ve found the woman I want to spend my life with.”

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