Page 143 of Scarlet Thorns
My son.
My Slava.
And then—Christ, and then— the little head turns toward me. Through the rain and glass and impossible distance betweenus, our eyes meet. Recognition flickers in that tiny face, some inborn understanding that defies logic and reason.
The small hand lifts in a wave.
The little lips form a word that stops my heart: “Pa-pa.”
The sound doesn’t reach me— couldn’t possibly reach me over the rain and engine noise— but I read it on his mouth as clearly as if he’d shouted it.
My son recognizes me.
Knows me.
Calls to me across the void.
“SLAVA!” His name tears from my throat before I realize I’m about to call it, and then I’m running. The rain makes the pavement slick, treacherous, but I don’t care. Nothing matters except reaching that car, reaching my son, bridging the gap that’s about to become permanent.
But Elena is already back in her seat, already closing the door. The Land Rover lurches into motion just as my fingers brush the rear bumper, and I watch helplessly as it accelerates down the street. The red tail lights disappear around the corner, taking my son into a life where I’m nothing but a shadow.
I stand there in the middle of the empty street, rain pouring down my face, and feel something inside me die.
Not break.
Die.
There’s a difference. Broken things can be fixed, rebuilt, made stronger than before. But death is final. Absolute. The part of me that believed in redemption, in second chances, in the possibility that love might conquer all— that part flatlines right here on this rain-soaked Boston street.
My world has ended.
Not with violence or betrayal or any of the dramatic finales I’ve imagined for myself over the years. But with a little boywaving goodbye from the backseat of a stranger’s car, calling for a father who failed him before they ever had a chance to meet.
I sink to my knees on the wet asphalt, letting the rain wash away the last traces of hope I’ve been carrying. Somewhere in this city, my son will begin a new life with people who will love him, protect him, give him everything I never could.
I am Osip Sidorov, and I have lost everything that ever mattered. The rain falls harder, as if the sky itself is mourning the father I’ll never get to be.
In the distance, thunder rolls across the Boston skyline like the sound of a closing door.
And I am nothing.
Nothing.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Ilona
The driver doesn’t speak on the way to the airport, which suits me perfectly.
I need the silence to process what I’ve just done.
I actually did it.
I got out.
The city lights blur past the window, each one taking me further from the man who’s torn my world apart. Further from the twisted love that’s been slowly destroying me from the inside out. The evening air seeps through the taxi’s windows, carrying the scent of freedom and fear in equal measure.
“Terminal 2, yes?” the driver confirms again in heavily accented English.
