“This is your fault,” Mikhail growls, his eyes wild.
The words hit like a slap.
I stare at him.
“You ran,” my father continues, stepping closer. “You let the Volkov dog get inside your head. You trusted him. And now look where we are. Because ofyou.”
My mouth opens, then closes. For years I swallowed every accusation, every disappointment, every cold dismissal. I toldmyself he was protecting me in his own way. That his hardness was love in disguise.
Not anymore.
I stand. Slowly, legs shaking but holding.
“No,” I say. My voice is quiet at first, then stronger. “This isnotmy fault.”
Mikhail’s eyes narrow.
“You were supposed to stay hidden,” he snaps. “Stay clean. Staylegitimate. That was the entire point. And instead you let yourself be taken. You let that Volkov animal touch you. You?—”
“I hate you,” I snap, my voice brittle but my words fierce.
The words rip out of me before I can stop them.
The room goes still.
Sergei and Yuri freeze. Even the distant gunfire seems to pause.
Mikhail blinks. Once. Then again.
I take a step forward, voice rising.
“I hate you for letting Mom die,” I say. “You always said it was an accident… an ambush meant for you. But you never protected her properly. You never changed your habits. You let her walk into danger because you couldn’t imagine the world touchingyou. And when they took me. When Ivan took me. You didn’t pay. You didn’t negotiate. You didn’t even pretend to care. You let them put a price on my head and decided I was expendable. And don’t give me any bullshit excuse about the business. I’m your fucking son.”
His face darkens. “You don’t understand?—”
“I understand perfectly,” I cut in. “Ivan was a better Daddy to me in weeks than you were since Mom died. He made me feel safe. He made me feelseen. He protected me when you wouldn’t. And you… you were ready to let me die to save face.”
Mikhail’s hand twitches, pistol ready in hand.
I don’t flinch.
“Ivan is different,” I say. “He’s not scum. He’s the only man in your world who ever treated me like I mattered.”
For a moment I think my father might actually strike me. It wouldn’t be the first time. His face twists—rage, shame, something broken.
He lashes out.
But not with his fist.
With words…
“You stupid little boy,” he hisses. “You think that Volkov dog loves you? He was going to kill you. That’s what they do. That’s whatwedo. And you fell for it. You’re weak. Just like your mother was weak.”
The insult lands.
But before I can answer—before the hurt can fully bloom—the door explodes.
Literally.
