Page 72 of Porcelain Vows

The call ends. I look back at my father, now snoring softly on the bed. In sleep, the years fall away, and I see flashes of the man who once terrorized our household. The strong hands that dealt out punishment. The broad shoulders that tensed before inflicting violence upon those he should have loved. The face that could shift from charm to rage in an instant.

All diminished now.

All fading.

I leave the room, closing the door quietly behind me. My mind races with implications, with questions, with the beginnings of a plan.

If my mother is alive— if she’s been imprisoned in that place all these years— I will find her.

I will bring her home.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Stella

Polina’s weight in my arms feels both substantial and impossibly delicate as I make my way down the corridor of the Left Wing.

She’s awake but quiet, dark eyes taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with that peculiar alertness newborns sometimes possess. I adjust her blanket, tucking it more securely around her tiny body.

With each step toward Bobik’s room, memories surface like bubbles rising through water. My father’s frantic packing in our St. Petersburg apartment. My mother’s tears as she stuffed clothes into suitcases. The hushed, urgent conversations behind closed doors.

“We have to leave tonight. The Bratva will find us if we stay.”

“What about our things? The clinic?”

“Forget it. This is about survival.”

I hadn’t understood then. At barely seventeen, I’d been devastated to leave my friends, my school, everything familiar. I’d blamed my father’s “career opportunity” in America, resented the sudden upheaval.

Now I know we were running from Aleksei. From his rage, from his vengeance for what my father had done to his son.

The irony doesn’t escape me— carrying Aleksei’s daughter to meet the very child my father damaged. The weight of Polina in my arms is nothing compared to the weight of this knowledge.

I pause outside Bobik’s door, gathering myself. Aleksei is handling some “urgent business” today— something to do with Diana. We’d spoken about introducing Polina to Bobik soon, but I’ve decided not to wait. Something about this meeting feels necessary, like a step I need to take alone.

I knock softly, then push the door open.

“Stella!” Bobik’s face lights up instantly, his smile transforming his features. He sets aside a thick book on quantum physics— light reading for a ten-year-old, apparently— and wheels himself toward us. “My favorite friend! I missed you!”

Despite everything I’ve just learned, I find myself smiling genuinely in response. There’s something about Bobik that makes it impossible not to. His enthusiasm, his sweetness, the intelligence shining in his eyes— my daughter’s eyes, her father’s eyes.

“I missed you, too,” I say, moving closer. “Someone special wanted to meet her big brother.”

His gaze shifts to the bundle in my arms, awe spreading across his face. “Is that…? Is she…?”

“Your baby sister. Yes, sweetheart.” I feel my heart swell at the sight of his genuine joy.

He peers into her tiny face and then looks up at me, eyes shining. “Can I… can I hold her?”

“Of course.” I carefully place Polina in his lap, adjusting his arms to support her head properly. “Just like that. Perfect.”

He doesn’t need much guidance. Despite his age, there’s a natural carefulness to his movements, an intuitive understanding of how to hold a baby. They look at each other—the newborn and the boy— and something passes between them, recognition perhaps.

They have the same eyes. The same dark intensity that their father possesses, though softened by childhood innocence in Bobik and newborn wonder in Polina. The same strong profile, the same determined set to their mouths.

Half-siblings bound by their father’s blood and separated by circumstance.

“She’s so tiny,” Bobik whispers, gently touching Polina’s cheek with one finger. “Hello, little sister. I’m your big brother.”

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