Page 89 of Porcelain Vows

I suck in a breath. “My God, how was that even possible?”

Her bitter laugh holds no humor. “In Russia then, with money and connections, it was easy to make someone disappear. And that was the start of the nightmare. Locked in that place, wondering if my children were safe, if Diana—”

“She was safe,” I assure her quickly. “Aleksei protected her. He told me how they looked after each other.”

Maria nods, tears forming in her eyes. “Knowing that would have made the years easier,” she sighs. “After a while, the staff could see that I wasn’t truly ill. They let me work in the sewing factory, and then the kitchen. I even became a chef and found comfort in prayer. I am glad that God answered those prayers and guided Aleksei well.”

“He’s a good man,” I say too quickly, surprised by my own statement.

She gives a small smile. It’s tinged with sorrow. “My son became everything his father wasn’t. Protective. Loyal. When I saw him at Vostok, standing on the other side of that glass… it was like seeing Rodion again, but… with a soul behind his eyes.”

She looks toward Polina’s bassinet. “And now he has children of his own. A daughter to protect. A son to guide. The cycle could have repeated— so often it does. But he broke it.”

I think of Aleksei with Bobik, his patience. With Polina, his gentle touch. The fierce protection he extends to all of us. The way he touches me…

“He’s a good father,” I acknowledge.

“I can see that,” Maria agrees. “Because he knows exactly what a father should not be.” She squeezes my hand. “And he found you— the woman I prayed he would find. Someone strong enough to stand beside him, to love him despite knowing his darkness.”

Her words touch something within me, something deep. Something I can’t put into words. The complex reality of being in love with Aleksei Tarasov while carrying the knowledge of what he did to my family. Context doesn’t excuse what happened to them, but it provides a frame for the painting, a border for understanding what might otherwise be incomprehensible.

“My children aren’t ready for this truth,” Maria says softly. “About their father’s worst crimes. About why I was really taken from them. Especially Diana— it would destroy her to know she was the catalyst, that her safety came at such a cost.”

“Your story is safe with me,” I promise, understanding the weight of this confidence.

Tears spill down Maria’s cheeks now, and mine join them. We sit together, hands intertwined, two mothers separated by a generation but united by a shared secret, by love for the same family.

I understand something profound as we sit there— Aleksei had become a good father precisely because he knew what a terrible one looked like. The man who caused my own father’s death was shaped by a monster who trafficked young girls, whobeat his children, who imprisoned their mother for trying to protect them.

And somehow, that makes me inexplicably sad.

As Maria hummed those Russian melodies to a stirring Polina, I saw the chain of motherhood stretching back. The sacrifices made. The secrets kept. The love that somehow survives the darkest circumstances.

And I realize that my place in this family is not just as Polina’s mother or Aleksei’s partner— if I ever make that choice— but as a keeper of its truths. A guardian of its future. A woman who could help ensure that the darkness of the past never touches the children who represent its hope.

And as hard as it may be, it’s a role I intend to take seriously.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Aleksei

I stand in the hallway outside my father’s room, hatred burning in my gut.

My hands clench and unclench, knuckles cracking, teeth grinding.

Ya khochu razorvat' etogo starogo pridurka na chasti!

It’s hard to feel sympathy for the man rotting away on the other side of that door. The cancer eating him from inside is just karma finally catching up. For years, I thought about this moment— for something to break him the way he broke everything he touched. My father, the great Rodion Tarasov, reduced to a withering husk in a bed borrowed from the son who despises him.

I should feel something— relief, perhaps satisfaction— but there’s only this cold void where forgiveness or compassion should be. The universe is finally extracting payment for his sins where I couldn’t.

I called Dr. Malhotra to verify what the old bastard told me— pancreatic cancer, stage four. Part of me wanted confirmation that his death would be painful. That he’d suffer like he made others suffer. I don’t care that it’s fucked up; this whole situation is fucked up.

The door opens. Malhotra steps out, medical bag in hand, face professionally blank as he pulls the door shut. The sharp tang of antiseptic follows him.

“Mr. Tarasov,” he says crisply. “I’ve completed my examination.”

“And?” My voice stays flat despite the storm raging inside.

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