"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Roman says, raising his hands immediately. "Okay. Calm down. We're not here to hurt you."
"Stay back!" I yell, gripping the vase tighter. Kirill steps forward slightly, raising his two hands up. "Iris, listen to me."
"I said stay back!" I scream.
Roman glances at Kirill, then back at me. "Okay. Okay. We're leaving. We'll leave, all right? Just put the vase down. You're gonna hurt yourself."
"Leave," I say, choking on the words. "Just go." Roman nods slowly. "Okay. We're going. But if you need anything, just call out. We'll be right outside."
They both back toward the door, with their hands still raised, then step out into the hall. The door closes behind them. I sit on the floor, clutching the vase, my whole body shaking. I don't understand what's happening.
A few minutes pass, then the door opens again. The older maid comes back in, smiling at me. "Miss," she says softly. "Let me help you." She helps me up gently, supporting me as we move to the bathroom. She helps me wash, careful not to touch the bruises or the bandages. I'm too tired to stand on my own, so I let her guide me through it.
After I'm clean, she helps me back into bed, tucking the blanket around me and reattaching the IV to my arm.
"Rest now, miss," she says gently. "You need your strength."
She's about to leave when there's a soft knock at the door. A tall, distinguished man steps in. Silver-haired, with kind, weary eyes. He moves cautiously, sitting beside the bed as if approaching a skittish animal. My heart is a frantic bird in my chest.
Then he asks, "How are you feeling?" I offer no reply, caught between rage, fear, and confusion. He glances over his shoulder at the maid. "Did she talk when she woke up?"
The maid nods, wringing her hands a little. "Yes, sir. But not much. Just a few words."
He turns back to me, asking gently, "Does your cheek still hurt?" I swallow and answer, my voice coming out hoarse and dry. 'It hurts, but I'll be fine." He nods, looking relieved. "Good."
I know it isn't. Nothing about this is. I look at him, at a man whose eyes are too familiar, too soft for someone I should hate. "Who are you?" I ask, even though part of me already knows.
He sighs heavily, then quietly, with warmth in his tone, he says, "I'm your father."
"Oh." I say plainly.
He laughs awkwardly, almost embarrassed. "You don't seem surprised."
"I suspected you were alive, that's why I came to Russia in the first place. To find you. Now that I have, I need to talk to you. About my mother's last request. Her last words."
His expression sobers immediately. "Of course. But first, you need to recover fully. You've been through a lot. You were stressed and hurt yesterday, and that's on me. I'm sorry for what my security did. They've been dealt with."
"I don't care how you punish your men," I cut in, steeling my voice. "Mafia men are all the same. I don't want anything to do with any of you."
I look away, the pain in my cheek getting worse as I clench my jaw. "So I'll talk to you tomorrow. When I'm strong enough. Right now, I just want to be left alone."
He nods, his voice coming out in tumbles. "Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you while you're still recovering. Please, rest." He stands, glances at the maid and nods, then turns to leave. He walks out, closing the door behind him.
After he's gone, my thoughts are a tangled mess, too many emotions pulling at me from different directions.
Exhaustion wins.
Sleep takes me, but it's not peaceful. I dream of strange, restless things. I am running across a wide pasture, the same one we ran through the other day trying to survive. The tall grass whips against my legs.Moonlight slices the darkness in thin beams, but it doesn’t comfort me. I don’t know what I am running from — only that fear grips me like iron around my chest, tightening with every step. The wind carries whispers I can’t understand, rustling the grass and the distant trees as if the world itself is watching.
Ahead, the pasture melts into the edge of a dark forest. The trees loom like giants, their branches clawing at the sky, shadows pooling between them. I push forward, desperate, and then stop. My breath catches. Eyes glint in the darkness — cold, calculating, and unblinking.
Ilay steps from the shadows, but I don’t run to him, it doesn’t feel like him. His blue eyes are gone. In their place are black, empty pools, unreadable and unfeeling, and they seem to swallow the moonlight around him. He does not run to save me. He walks toward me slowly, with precise, deliberate movements, as though each step is measured to tighten the invisible leash around my chest. My heart hammers, and I cannot move, cannot speak.
Just as he reaches for me, the world narrows to the black of his eyes and the sharp intake of my own breath, and then — I jolt awake.
My heart's racing as I wake up soaked in sweat, my chest rising and falling like I've just run a marathon. I push the covers off and force myself to the window, gripping the frame while I stare out at the unfamiliar estate bathed in moonlight.
It looks like the place my mother used to describe when she told stories about her time in Russia. She always said she liked it, that she enjoyed the work, until things changed. I know what she meant.
