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The realization punched me in the gut, stirring up emotions I hadn’t felt in ages.
She’d cracked through my defenses.
Fuck.
The last thing I wanted was to drag her into my fucked-up life.
“Tell me everything, moy syn.”
His words demanded my full attention, and I quickly stubbed out my cigarette, flicking it out the open window.
The ember danced briefly before vanishing into the night.
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his gaze.
There was no room for fucking half-truths or hesitation.
Igor valued loyalty above all else, and betraying that trust was a dangerous game.
But I didn’t even know where to start.
Sorry, boss but I fucked your alleged-but-happened-to-be-fake daughter, and I ate her pussy for so long that I can still taste her on my tongue and feel the tip of her nails digging into my skin and dream of hearing her moans again.
Or worse: Sorry but I found out that your wife fucked your best friend and made a pregnancy pact with his wife to have Vlad children together at the same time and all that behind your back.
Or even worse: Sorry, but the baby your wife gave birth to, the one you believed had died, but then you found out it didn’t. Well, it is not even yours, so you did all of that for nothing.
Sorry boss, I betrayed your trust.
In the dead of night, as Dve guided the car slowly through the fucking forest, surrounded by towering trees, I found the courage to divulge every goddamn detail I knew and every fucking action I had taken to uncover the truth. The darkness outside seemed to echo the weight of the secrets I carried.
I held nothing back. I revealed the tangled tale of Helena, Victoria, and Vlad’s affair.
I spoke of Tanya’s role in it all.
I shared insights into Sofiya’s upbringing, both in Russia and America.
I recounted the chilling incident where Marina, influenced by Vlad, pushed Sofiya into icy waters, nearly fucking killing her.
I laid it all bare, except for what Sofiya and I shared.
That was ours alone.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
“Death ends a life, not a relationship.”
? Mitch Albom
Sofiya
Many, many years ago.
Father Pasha stood solemnly at the church pulpit, dressed in his traditional black cassock with a white stole. Around his neck hung a large gold cross, glinting softly in the candlelight as he began his sermon at my papa’s funeral.
“My dear friends, today we gather in solemn remembrance of our dearly departed, Vladimir Melov,” Father Pasha’s voice resonated gently through the hushed church.
