Chapter 35: Filthy Lies: Chapter 35

Death wears a lot of disguises. I’ve seen more than my fair share of it lately.

It looks like the cold barrel of a gun, like blood splattered across marble floors, like the ruthless glint left simmering in Vince’s eyes after he wrapped his hand around Boris Barsukovic’s throat at yesterday’s council meeting. Death lurks in every shadow of our fortified little hideout, follows us like a loyal pet begging for scraps of our souls.

But nothing prepares you for the face of death when it wears your mother’s skin.

I sit in the sterile hospital room, watching Mom’s chest move in shallow, labored breaths. The machines track her vital signs in green and red lines.

Whoever coined the phrase “cancer is a bitch” really hit the nail on the head.

Dr. Patel’s voice still echoes in my skull from this morning’s discussion. “The cancer has metastasized to her brain,” he said, clipboard clutched against his chest like a shield. “Days, Mrs. Akopov. If that. I’m sorry.”

I’d only nodded, numb. Expecting it doesn’t soften the blow one bit.

Mom’s eyes flutter open, finding me in the dim light. “You’re such a beauty, my love,” she whispers, her voice a dried leaf skittering across pavement.

I force a smile. “Thanks, Mom. You’re always good for my ego.”

“Where’s my granddaughter?”

“At home with Vince.” I take her skinny hand, shocked anew at how little substance remains. “She’s cranky.”

“I’d like to see her.” Her eyes close again. “Before I go.”

I wince. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what? Like a dying woman with unfinished business?” She manages a weak laugh that dissolves into coughing. “Bring her, Rowan. Please.”

I swallow the knot in my throat. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When her breathing evens out into sleep, I step into the hallway and call Vince.

“She’s asking for Sofiya,” I tell him, voice cracking despite my best efforts.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll bring her. Give me an hour.”

True to his word, Vince arrives exactly sixty minutes later, Sofiya bundled against his chest in a carrier that looks comically domestic against his broad frame. Four armed guards flank him. Their eyes never stop roving.

Sofiya gurgles when she sees me and reaches with pudgy hands. I lean over to bury my face in her sweet-smelling hair and inhale her innocence like a drug.

“How are you holding up?” Vince asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

I meet his eyes, those impossible blue eyes. “I’m fucking disintegrating, Vince. Is that what you want to hear? That I’m watching my mother die while trying to keep our daughter safe from men who want to kill us, and it’s tearing me apart molecule by molecule? Does that satisfy your need for honesty?”

He doesn’t flinch at my venom. “Yes.”

The simplicity of his answer deflates my anger. I lean into him, just for a moment. “They’ve increased her pain medication,” I mutter against his chest. “She’s lucid, then gone, then lucid again. It’s like watching someone drown in slow motion.”

His hand strokes my hair, just once. A gesture so gentle it threatens to unravel me. “I can have specialists flown in from anywhere in the world. Just say the word.”

“There’s nothing to be done,” I say. “Except this. Let her see Sofiya.”

We enter the room together. Mom’s eyes open at the sound, then widen further at the sight of Vince carrying our daughter.

“Well, look at that,” she whispers. “The Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood.”

Vince’s mouth twitches. “Mrs. St. Clair.”

She gestures weakly. “Bring her closer. Let me see her.”

I watch as Vince places Sofiya gently on the bed beside my mother. Our daughter immediately reaches for Margaret’s tubing, fascinated by the new toys within reach.

“No, baby.” I guide her hand away. “That’s helping Grandma.”

“Let her explore,” Mom tuts, her fingers brushing Sofiya’s dark curls. “She’s perfect, isn’t she? Looks just like you did. Except those eyes. Pure Akopov blue.”

“Like ice,” Vince murmurs.

“Like the sky after a storm,” Mom corrects him, and something passes between them—a moment of understanding I can’t quite grasp.

For twenty minutes, we exist in a bubble of almost-normalcy. Mom babbles at Sofiya in sing-song. Sofiya babbles back in her secret language. Vince stands guard.

When Sofiya grows fussy, Vince takes her into the hallway for a change of scenery.

“He’s good with her,” Mom says. “Better than I expected from a man like him.”

I bristle instantly. “‘A man like him’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A man born into violence. Raised to be ruthless.” She reaches for my hand. “Don’t misunderstand me, Rowan. I’m not criticizing. I’m observing.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She’s silent for a long moment, gathering strength. “I wanted to hate him, you know. The man who dragged my daughter into his dark world.” She pauses, swallowing painfully. “But I can’t hate him. Because I see how he looks at you.”

“And how’s that?”

“The same way Grigor looked at me.” Her eyes meet mine, sharp with sudden clarity. “Like nothing and no one else exists. He would burn down heaven and build it back up from hell if you asked him to, I just know it.”

“Mom—”

“No, let me finish while I can think straight. Goodness knows those moments are getting rarer and rarer.” She clutches my hand harder. “Men like Vincent, like Grigor—they love with their entire being. It’s terrifying in its completeness. It’s why I ran from Grigor. I wasn’t strong enough to be loved that way.”

“But you think I am?”

“I think you’re stronger than I ever was,” she replies. “Strong enough to stand in the fire without being consumed by it.”

Tears burn behind my eyes. “I don’t feel strong. Most days, I feel like I’m barely holding it together.”

“That’s exactly what strength is, baby girl. Holding it together when everything wants to fall apart.” She tugs at my hand, pulling me closer. “Vincent is darkness, yes. But he’s also something else entirely when he looks at you and Sofiya. And that something else… it’s worth fighting for.”

“Even if it means living in his world? With all its violence and danger?”

“Even then.” She licks her dry lips. “Because the alternative is living half a life, the way I did after I left Grigor. Always looking over my shoulder, always wondering what might have been.”

A sob escapes me before I can swallow it back. “I’m scared, Mom. You’re going, and Sofi is—is— She’s just so perfect, Mom, and I love him, too; I love him so much it blinds me to what we’re becoming.”

“Oh, Rowan.” Her frail hand cups my cheek. “Love doesn’t blind you. It gives you new eyes.”

The door opens, and Vince returns with Sofiya, who’s now calmer, sucking contentedly on her own fist.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

I wipe my tears quickly. “Fine. Just having a mother-daughter chat.”

Mom beckons him closer. “Bring my granddaughter for one more snuggle before I get too tired.”

Vince places Sofiya back on the bed. Mom strokes her chubby cheek, her eyes drinking in every detail as if committing them to whatever memory remains.

“Take care of them, Vincent,” she says suddenly. “They’re the best parts of me.”

“With my life, Margaret. With my life.”

That night, as Vince and I stand over Sofiya’s crib watching her sleep, I finally voice the question that’s been burning in my throat.

“Do you think she’s right? That you and Grigor are similar in how you love?”

Vince’s jaw tightens. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never spoken to the man about anything other than territorial disputes and body counts.”

“But hypothetically,” I press. “Is it possible two men who hate each other could love in the same devastating way?”

He turns to me, eyes darkening. “It’s not how we love that matters, Rowan. It’s what we’re willing to do for that love.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “And I’ve only just begun to show you what I’m willing to do for mine.”