“I’m very good at hiding it.”
We fall into silence. My mind drifts to places I normally keep locked away. Memories I’ve spent years burying under discipline and control.
My father. The Sharov estate in winter, cold and brutal. Seven years old, knuckles bloody from fighting back against a punishment I didn’t deserve. Ten years old, learning that weakness meant violence.
Twelve, understanding that love was conditional on utility, that children existed to serve legacy, not to be cherished.
Fifteen, watching my father beat myyounger brother [13]unconscious for crying during training. Realizing that this—this violence disguised as discipline—was what family meant in our world.
Twenty-three, putting a bullet in my father’s head when he became more liability than asset to the organization.
Never once feeling regret about it.
This child will never know what I knew. Will never feel disposable. Will never learn that love has conditions.
The thought is so fierce it almost hurts.
“Aleksandr?” Elena’s voice pulls me back. “Where did you go?”
“Nowhere. Just thinking.”
“About?”
I should deflect. Should maintain the walls I’ve built so carefully. But something about this moment—her vulnerability pressed against my side, the possibility of our child growing inside her—strips away the usual defenses.
“My father,” I say quietly. “My childhood.”
She goes very still. “You never talk about that.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Will you now?”
I’m quiet for a long moment. Then: “He was brutal. Believed children existed to serve the family legacy. That weakness needed to be beaten out, that affection was dangerous, that love was a liability that got people killed.”
Elena’s hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. The gesture is small but anchoring.
“He treated you and Lev like tools.”
“Like extensions of power. Tools to be sharpened and deployed.” I stare at the opposite wall, seeing the past instead of sterile white paint. “I was seven the first time he broke my ribs. Punishment for showing fear during a meeting with rival families. Ten when I learned that crying meant escalation, that emotion was weakness, that the only way to survive was to become harder than whatever he threw at me.”
“Aleksandr?”
“Lev had it worse. He was younger, softer. Took longer to learn the rules. I tried to protect him, but that just made Father angrier. Said I was making him weak, that protection bred dependence.” My jaw tightens. “He beat Lev unconscious when he was twelve for crying during weapons training. I watched and did nothing because interfering meant we both got hurt.”
Elena’s grip on my hand tightens.
“When I killed him,” I continue, “when I finally put a bullet in his head years later—I felt nothing. No regret. No grief. Just relief that he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore.”
Silence stretches between us. Heavy with things I’ve never said out loud, with vulnerability I don’t show anyone.
“If there is a child,” I say finally, voice rough, “our child will never know that. Will never be afraid in their own home.Will never be treated as disposable or conditional or anything less than wanted.”
I turn to face her fully. Her eyes are wide, glassy with unshed tears.
“That child will be protected. Cherished. Given everything I never had.” I cup her face with my free hand. “That’s my promise. Whether you believe it or not.”
“I believe you,” she whispers.
