"We have a… situation," he says, and then he hangs up before I can ask anything else.
I shove the phone in my pocket and leave the study, heading toward the stairwell. Whatever this is had better be deadly important for him to interrupt my work. He knows exactly what situation I'm in and what's expected of me. And he knows how delays will only make my job harder.
Lazar is standing outside the guest bedroom door when I hit the bottom of the stairs and round the corner. His broad frame blocks most of the entrance and his arms are crossed over his chest in a tense posture. His dark blond hair is disheveled, sticking up at odd angles where he's run his hands through it, and his hazel eyes meet mine with a tired and weary expression.
I stop in front of him and wait for an explanation, but he just steps aside and pushes the door open without saying anything. The hinges creak softly and light spills into the hallway fromthe window inside the room, and I move past him and cross the threshold, my eyes adjusting to the brighter space.
A boy sits on the edge of the bed with a book resting in his lap. His small hands grip the pages but don't turn them. He can't be more than ten years old, small-framed and thin, with dark hair that falls across his forehead and partially obscures his eyes. He's staring at the wall opposite him with a blank expression and his cheeks are flushed and damp, streaked with the evidence of recent sobbing, and his breathing comes in shallow hitches that make his narrow shoulders rise and fall unevenly.
I stand there frozen in the doorway, unable to process what I'm seeing. There's a child in my guest room, sitting on my bed. Nothing about this makes sense. I turn back to Lazar, who's still hovering in the hallway, and wait for him to explain what the hell is happening.
He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and extends it toward me. "Boss… an advocate stopped by. It's been about ten minutes. He refused to stay even when I pulled my gun on him. Like he knew I wouldn't shoot him in front of a kid." Lazar's eyes are wide, his eyebrows high.
I take the paper and unfold it slowly, feeling the expensive stationery between my fingers. The handwriting is neat and precise, each letter formed perfectly in black ink that hasn't smudged or faded on letterhead that announces it came from a college of advocates. My eyes scan the first line, then the second, and the house seems to shift around me.
Mr. Gravitch,
I am writing on behalf of my client, Murial Koryabin, to inform you of the existence of your son, Sasha Koryabin. DNAtesting has confirmed paternity with 99.9% certainty. Enclosed documents support this claim. Ms. Koryabin is currently unable to care for the child due to medical circumstances and has requested that he be placed in your custody, effective immediately. All legal documentation has been filed with the appropriate authorities.
The words blur togetheras I read them again, trying to make sense of a message that seems straightforward but feels impossible. I look up at the boy again, really studying him this time, searching his features for anything familiar. The dark hair matches mine. The shape of his face, the set of his jaw, the way his eyebrows draw together like he's uncertain—all of it mirrors aspects of my own reflection that I see every morning in the bathroom mirror.
My hands have a slight tremor, and the paper crumples where my fingers grip the edges too hard. I force myself to breathe slowly, pulling air deep into my lungs and holding it there before releasing it through my nose. The boy is watching me now with wide, red-rimmed eyes, tracks of tears still visible on his cheeks.
He's terrified. I can see it in every line of his small body, the way he's drawn in on himself and clutched that book like it's the only solid thing left in his world.
"Where's the mother?" I ask harshly, snapping my gaze to Lazar, who shifts his weight behind me and scuffles his boots on the floor.
"The lawyer wouldn't say. He just dropped the kid off and left. He said someone would be in touch if we needed documentation."
I read the letter again, focusing on the name this time—Murial Koryabin. The name is vaguely familiar, tugging at memories I can't quite grasp. There've been too many women over the years, too many nights that fade together into meaningless encounters I never bothered remembering. But if this DNA test is legitimate and the documentation is real, then this child standing in front of me is my son. The concept feels foreign, impossible, completely at odds with everything I know about my own life.
I fold the letter and shove it into my pocket, then turn back to Lazar. "Find her. Use our investigator. I want to know where she is, why she can't take care of him, and what 'medical circumstances' means in this context."
"I already made the call, Boss. We should have something by tomorrow." He glances past me at the boy, then back to my face. "What do you want me to do with him in the meantime?"
I don't have an answer because I don't know what to do with a child. I've never had to care for anyone but myself, never had to consider what another person needs or wants or requires to survive. My life is structured around solitude and work, around tasks that demand focus without the complication of dependents.
A child changes everything, introduces variables I'm not equipped to handle, especially not now when I'm supposed to be hunting down a witness who's slipping farther out of reach with every day that passes.
I step fully into the room and close the door behind me, leaving Lazar in the hallway. The boy watches me approach, and I notice his posture shift as I approach. He presses himself back against the headboard, putting as much distance between us as the small space allows. His knuckles turn white where he grips the book.
I stop a few feet from the bed and look down at him, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say. "What's your name?"
"Sasha." His voice is barely audible, a whisper that trembles with fear.
"Sasha." I repeat it, testing how it sounds in my mouth. It doesn't feel like mine to say. "Do you know who I am?"
He nods, a jerky movement that makes his hair fall farther into his eyes. "The man said you're my papa."
The word is so foreign and surreal. I can barely wrap my mind around it. If a woman told me she was pregnant, I'd believe her. But this? A ten-year-old showing up on my doorstep? It's inconceivable.
"Where's your mother?" I ask without turning around.
"She's at home, I think." His bottom lip trembles and I sigh hard. Like they'd tell this kid anything. For all I know, she just dropped him here and ran, and I don't even know who she is.
I close my eyes and press my palm to my forehead, feeling my head beginning to throb.
"I wanna go home." Sasha's voice rises higher and there's an added tremor to it now. "I want mymamochka."
