Roman
"If it's fate, then fuck it."
Can a person influence their own fate? Many would say no. Fate is predetermined, known in advance, and life merely adjusts to its plans. Everything happens according to the map of your destiny.
But what if even a single step aside can drastically change the course of events? Will fate change? Or are all our decisions and actions, right or wrong, also predetermined, and everyone is merely following the steps of a scripted algorithm? We think we're defeating fate, when in reality, it is manipulating us. Like a puppeteer. If this is true, does that mean everything I knew about myself and my life is a lie?
I've always believed I could change my destiny by making certain decisions. But what if my life's path ultimately leads me to the bottom, no matter how hard I try to avoid it?
I grew up in a world of cruelty and violence, where death was perceived as something ordinary. No one would be surprised by news of another victim, murder, or kidnapping because, for the mob, it was business as usual. Just like it was for me.
People who grew up under different conditions find it hard to understand what the mafia is. In books or films, they see only the tip of the iceberg, having no idea what's hidden below the surface.
The worst part is that, no matter how hard you try to stay away, this world, once it gets its claws into you, won't let go and will ruthlessly drag you down with it. Because you belonged to this world from birth. And now, more than ever, I felt its grip, its claws digging in. All because of decisions that led to me standing in the hospital bathroom with bloodied hands.
Her blood. Only her blood couldn't be ordinary for me. What for others might have been just another victim of a psychopath was, for me, the end of my own life. There's so much filth around us that it seems I've stopped distinguishing whether there was any truth in my relationship with Melissa.
The children. Melissa and I had children. Those little monsters from the kindergarten were my daughters. I knew she was pregnant. I wasn't blind. I could pretend to be drunk and stay out of our bedroom for days, but I knew about every step she took. Yes, she didn't want me around, yes, I disgusted her, and most likely, I'm still the main character in her nightmares. But I couldn't just stay on the sidelines.
When she came home and mentioned something about surgery, about removing some cyst, I realized the children didn't survive. And that probably affected me more than her conversation with her mother. But now? When shortly after I left Mel at the kindergarten and received a letter from that damn doctor, the only option was to go after her and the girls in that damn Italian mafia mansion. But it was already too late.
I opened my eyes and turned on the faucet. Plunging my hands under the cool stream, I tried to wash off the blood. It had dried under my nails, soaked into my skin. I rubbed my hands with soap, but even that didn't help: the red color wouldn't come off.
I had to give up on that idea, but the stains remained on my pants and shirt. And even these attempts were futile. Out of anger and frustration, I threw the soap into the sink. The stains on my clothes grew even larger. It felt like they were mocking me, reminding me of what happened, as if the images I saw every time I closed my eyes weren't enough.
What had happened exhausted me, and I wanted to sleep, but sleep was out of the question. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping to freshen up a bit. It was useless.
My gaze slid to the mirror on the wall, which was tiled in white. The whole room was white, and the brightest spot in it was me. Dirty and disheveled.
Shaky hands reached for my hair as I tried to straighten it, but only smeared more blood on it. I was covered in blood, I could smell it, taste it on my tongue. If my stomach had been full, I would have vomited.
My legs gave way treacherously. Kneeling on the cold floor, I didn't feel any pain. But inside, there was another, much more familiar pain that tore me apart. I wanted to rip my heart out, scream, and even cry, but I wasn't capable of that either. My throat tightened and went dry; there were no tears left.
Yes, I cried. For the first time in my life, I wept over someone's injury, someone's clinical death, yes, I did. The biggest problem in Melissa's life was me. And if I had realized this sooner, if I had let her go, forgotten my obsession, she wouldn't be fighting for her life right now.
But is such an outcome possible now? Especially when it's unclear if her heart will hold up? And when suddenly we have three children?
I ran my hand over my chest, trying to ease the pressure, but my body rejected this pitiful attempt. I was so tired of this mess. The mess I had started myself.
Slumping against the wall, I hugged my knees to my chest and started rocking, trying to calm the trembling and stave off sleep. Every time my eyelids closed, I heard that shot and tried to stop the horrible vision from appearing again in my mind.
"Where's that damn bastard?" I stopped tapping my boot against the floor when I heard a familiar male voice behind the door. Dean. I was indeed a bastard, but I had to tell everyone in the penthouse what had happened. It seems over the past two weeks, Melissa had really become something special to him if he was now shouting at Alex like that.
He was a bit crushed too, so I had no desire to deal with him. Or Dean, for that matter.
"Answer me, you damn Italian!"
It seems the adrenaline had gotten to him.
I didn't have time to get up and calm him down before the door swung open, hitting the wall and leaving a crack in the tile. Dean burst into the small bathroom, and I saw his lifeless eyes. Different. And under them â huge bruises. But I saw a red haze in them as he clenched his fists.
"What the hell did you do to her?" Dean looked down at me.
I was still sitting on the floor, staring into space. Then he lunged at me and hauled me to my feet by my neck.
"Well? Where's your confidence now, tough guy?" Dean asked, looking into my face.
His eyes were full of worry. It was as if he was cautiously searching for something in my gaze, and I didn't bother hiding anything, though I wasn't sure what exactly he was expecting. Dean should have been used to the sight of blood by now, yet his expression changed: worry and anger crept into it. He stared at me, waiting for an answer, but not getting one, he asked another question:
"What happened to her?" He tightened his grip on my neck.
I couldn't find the strength to answer him. I knew that there was nothing left of me. I had turned into an emotionless puddle. And all because she made me strong. I didn't believe in the quote, "Behind every strong man is a strong woman." But now, I felt it sharply. Only someone like Melissa was always by my side, not behind me. But I had to pull myself together. While she was there fighting for her life, I had to fight for mine too.
My hand gripped Dean's neck, and our eyes met. "What the hell are you doing?"
"That's what I should be asking you!" I snapped. "You've known her for only two weeks! Why risk threatening me?" He froze, then slowly let go of me and stepped back. I let him go too.
"You're pathetic. Those words? That you'd always protect her? But how is that possible if you don't care about her?" He stuffed one hand into his pocket.
"She's my everything!"
"She's your obsession! It doesn't matter how much time has passed â I consider her a friend, but to you? You don't even understand how you're ruining her life, Kirillov!"
"Do you think she's better?" I loomed over him, pushing him in the chest.
"What did she do? Ran away from her jerk of a husband? Hates you? Open your eyes, it's your fault! And no one else's!"
I froze as he noisily stormed out.
I couldn't just leave. I had to stay here, until...
Until what? And how do you act in such a situation? Yes, I'm guilty, I made a terrible mistake, one I'll never forgive myself for. But what should I do?
Leave or stay?
I slowly turned back to the mirror.
"Maybe it's really time to let go of your obsession, Kirillov?" I bitterly smirked at myself. "Even if she's your anchor, you must let her go to sink."
But then everything went dark.
***
I opened my eyes. The bright sunlight was too much. Perhaps it was because of the sun, or maybe because of the long unconscious phase, but I felt discomfort from the dryness in my eyes. And in my mouth. It was as if I were in a desert. I was very thirsty.
I turned my head and saw a young woman in a dark blue medical uniform. She stood by the noisy machines, recording something on a tablet.
But what I certainly didn't expect to see was Alex, talking on the phone at the other end of the room.
His face looked especially stern and hard. His jaw was clenched, brows furrowed, and his hair was slightly disheveled. His suit was wrinkled, and the usual perfectly tied tie was absent. Perhaps now there was simply no one left to tie it for him, because knowing a man like this, his psychopathic wife was probably dead.
"Mr. Kirillov, how are you feeling?" A girl with a warm smile addressed me, catching Alex's attention.
He immediately ended the call and approached me.
"Leave," he ordered the girl. "Quickly."
Terrified, she widened her eyes, nodded quickly, and fled the room.
"Too bad. I thought you were dead," he said, leaning over me.
For the first few minutes, I couldn't remember how I ended up here, but overall, I felt better than I had in the bathroom.
"So, what stopped you from killing me?" I raised myself slightly, feeling an IV attached to my right arm.
"Melissa." He looked at me harshly. "If I had killed you, she would never have forgiven me."
"You stole our children and think she'll still forgive youâif she even survives your psychopathic wife."
My voice had become hoarse.
"Oh, so you already know," he sighed, then pushed a chair closer to the bed and sat down. He leaned back and crossed his legs.
"So, what stopped you from killing me?" Alex smirked.
"Melissa."
"We are both connected by her," he shook his head. "And that bridge was nearly destroyed."
"So, did you really want war that much?"
"Not quite. I love my sister. I wanted her to be on my side, and only mine."
"And that's why you stole the girls?" I decided to keep a cool head now.
"Yes, I thought that when she lost them and you weren't around, she'd leave you, and then I'd tell her about the children."
"You're a jerk."
"Right. But she would never have chosen sides. I realized that when, even while running away from youâno, fleeingâshe still didn't come to me."
"And then your psychopathic wife shot her. Tragic." Alex would never see my concern. He had already seen enough.
"So what are you doing here?"
"Melissa is alive," he said simply.
After his words, something clicked in my chest, and I exhaled, although I hadn't even noticed when I'd stopped breathing. A wave of emotions surgedâjoy and sadness mixed together, and I couldn't understand what caused the storm inside me. Was it the guilt I felt? Regret for what I had done? Or what I hadn't done? Or was I just relieved that Melissa was alive?
She's alive. God...
I was happy, even if I should have felt something elseâanger, perhaps, or self-hatred for dragging her into this again. But my heart found neither of those things.
When I returned to Alex's mansion and saw her limp, motionless body in a pool of blood, fear engulfed me. Melissa's pale face was contorted in pain. And there was so much blood...
At that moment, all my anger suddenly vanished, and the only thing I could think about was saving her life while help was on the way. I had no idea what you were supposed to do in such situations, because usually, I didn't save those who were dying. My hands moved on their own when I grabbed her and pressed my palm to her wound, trying to stop the blood. My lips involuntarily whispered, begging Mel to stay with me. But she heard nothing and didn't respond.
Her pulse under my fingers slowed, and her breathing became quieter.
I stroked her hair as she liked. I kissed her chapped lips, as I had done before this nightmare. I held her hand close to my heart, hoping it would help her keep hers, at least until Alex's men and the medical team got us to the hospital.
My enemy's harsh voice enveloped me, pulling me out of the dark memories of the events in the mafia residence.
"So don't leave her life, and I'll forget everything before you ruin it all again."
"Go to hell. You leave her life. I'm not the only one ruining things." I quickly yanked the needle out of my vein and got out of bed. "Remember, if I need to, I'll start a war to reach her again and again."
I was about to take a step, but Alex grabbed me sharply by the elbow. I only clenched my jaw but didn't turn around.
"I'll let you see her one last time. If I see you near her or the girls again, then war will truly begin."
"I don't need permission to see my woman. Especially not yours."
I broke free of his grip and quickly left the room. The hallway was in chaos, but I didn't notice anyone. I just approached the reception and loomed over another young girl.
"Melissa Kirillova. How is she?"
"Sorry, but we can'tâ"
"I'm her husband," I interrupted, slamming my palms on the counter in anger.
"Please don't shout." She looked something up on her computer. "She's stable. We've transferred her to a room."
"Thank you." I didn't know who I was thankingâher or God. Even though I didn't believe in either gratitude or God.
The most important thing was that Mel was alive, and I would have enough time to beg her forgiveness for everything that happened.
She shot me a disapproving look but said nothing. She clearly wanted me to leave, but I stopped her before she could chase me away.
"Wait. What's her condition?"
The girl glanced at me again and began to speak:
"We were forced to induce Miss Kirillova into a medical coma due to severe blood loss and internal bleeding." My hands clenched when I heard those words. "Her internal organs are intact. She's lucky the shooter missed. If the bullet had hit just a few inches higher, it would have grazed her lungs at best, or her heart at worst. In that case, we wouldn't have been able to save her."
Her words echoed with a strange pain inside me.
The shooter missed. She was talking about me. That's the problem with peopleâthey always jump to conclusions.
A few inches higher, and she wouldn't have survived. The bullet could have hit her heart, and then I would've lost her.
But was she still mine to lose?
"We'll keep her in this state until her body is ready to wake up. After that, Miss Kirillova will need time to recover. It will take time, but she fought so hard for her life that I'm sure she'll recover quickly."
"I have no doubt she will," I said, my voice sounding too proud for the situation.
"Can I see her?"
"Yes, butâ"
"I was with her. You don't belong there." I turned to Dean's voice. "This is your fault. If you don't want this to be the last time you see her, I won't let you through."
The very thought that this might be the last time I see Mel frightened me. Perhaps it was for the best. We weren't meant to meet, and I should never have felt what I did for her.
I could have killed Alex and Dean for how fiercely they defended Mel from me, even using only words. But what I felt over the last 24 hours made me realize they were right. I had to let her go again because it was for the best.
"For the last time." My tone was so serious that Dean just nodded. The guy knew I could kill him, but it seemed he was still coming down from the adrenaline of everything that happened.
All the way to the ward where she lay, I tried to think of what I would say to her. Some would consider it foolish since she was in a coma and probably wouldn't hear me, but I knew it was worth trying.
"You have enough time, but don't drag it out," Dean said when we reached the ward. Yes, it seemed talking to Mel had taught him to be more confident.
They made me wear special clothing when Dean left. Alex's security guard stood silently by the wall, staring at one point.
Gathering my thoughts, I turned to the closed door that separated me from the woman who once stole my heart. From here, I could only hear the faint sounds of the machines inside. Fear gripped meâanother feeling I had never experienced. I didn't know if I was doing the right thing this time. Maybe I shouldn't have entered, or maybe she wouldn't want to see me.
What would happen next was anyone's guess, but no one would leave this matter unresolved.
I promised myself I would never get close to her again. She needed to be safe, even if it meant my entire empire crumbled.
But hadn't what I already done shown her that being near me was dangerous?
I took a deep breath and carefully opened the door. The room reminded me of my own, but there were far more machines here. Melissa lay in the bed, tubes running from her body to various devices that monitored her organs and kept her alive. An oxygen mask covered her face to help her breathe.
I slowly approached the bed. My legs felt strange, each step shorter than the last. Seeing her like this made me want to kill someone. I looked at her, covering my mouth with my hand, trying to suppress the awful feeling inside.
"God..." It felt unreal. This woman had tried to kill me so many times, but instead of me, she was the one lying here.
I had watched Melissa so many times while she slept. I had studied every curve of her face, knew every wrinkle when she frowned. Even with my eyes closed, I could draw her portrait.
But the beauty lying here didn't look like herself. Her pale, lifeless skin reminded me of the moments when I had found her, barely conscious, in the house. Her beautiful dark eyes were closed. She seemed to have lost several pounds.
Melissa had changed. Because I had gone too far. Because that psychopath had shot her...
The oxygen mask covered part of her face. A blue sheet covered her lower body. Her stomach was bandaged, her chest covered in electrodes that sent vital signs to the monitor. Her pulse, though weak, painted an uneven line on the EKG. And that was the most important thing.
"She was lucky the shooter missed. If the bullet had hit just a few inches higher, at best it would have pierced her lungs, at worstâher heart. Then we wouldn't have been able to save her." Those words echoed in my head like a broken record.
I cautiously sat on the chair next to her bed, afraid to disturb even one wire that kept her tethered to this world. I looked at my wife, at her bandaged stomach, at the place where she had been shot, and waited for the negative emotions to flare up within me, just like that night when we ended up in this ward. When I found out what she had been hiding. But nothing happened. I no longer felt hatred, anger, or disgust. I didn't remember the words I had heard from her so many times or her actions. It all seemed so long ago, like a dream.
But now, seeing Mel in this state, all I felt was guilt, regret, and pain. Not for myself, but for the person lying here because of me.
I am a monster. But not for her. I didn't want to be a monster for her. I didn't want to be the reason for her clinical death. But here we are. If I had known everything she went through, maybe that psychopath wouldn't have shot her. This. Is. Only. My. Fault.
She didn't deserve to die, even if she was guilty of something. She's breathing, and so am I.
I didn't know why she acted the way she did. If I had been so repulsive to her, why did she hide her pregnancy or silently stay near me? But the way she ranâit was a red flag. And yet I found her only to use her. I was human only when I thought we had love, but when it all turned out to be a lie? I truly became her personal monster. Even back then.
That's why I wanted to hate, seek revenge, and still want her.
But things didn't go as planned. I never intended to cause Mel this kind of pain when I saw her covered in blood. I realized that everything I had done to her, both during our marriage and afterward, had been the actions of a bastard. I'm a monster. I'm not the one she needs. She's strong enough. Mel was right. She doesn't need a man anymore, she's become better than her teacher. And what still binds us is just obsession. But I wasn't sure that would disappear if I simply walked away.
I hesitated but finally took Mel's hand gently and touched it with my lips. Before, her skin had been hot, warm, just like the rest of her body that burned me every time. Her warmth had always been everywhere, inside and out.
But now her skin was icy.
I remembered every touch of her hands and wanted to believe that all this was a lie. How could something so horrible between us be true? Had Mel hidden it all so well and pretended so skillfully for all those years that she made me believe in my own lie? Her smiles and laughter, her care and tenderness, our conversations, our looks... Even after that perfect year of marriage... I believed her.
I squeezed her hand tighter as if it could wake her. But Mel didn't move, didn't open her eyes, dark as the night sky. If it weren't for the line on the monitor tracking her heartbeat, I wouldn't have believed she was alive.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered, hoping she could hear me. "I was a terrible husband because I'm a terrible person. You once gave me a chance to see my own light, but I realized you never wanted that. But you need to wake up. You have a purposeâto kill me. So do it, but just wake up." I swallowed.
"I'm sorry I never gave you a chance to explain yourself when I heard those words. After them, everything between us turned into a nightmare. I regret believing the words I heard from you during that conversation but not having the courage to disbelieve you, deciding that running away was the best way to avoid the pain. I was so scared when I realized you had broken my heart." The words caught in my throat and burned, but this was probably my last chance to say them, so I had to find the strength and the right words. "If I had known then whether I truly repulsed you, maybe things would have turned out differently. We could have raised children together. There wouldn't have been Alex, his psychopath wife. And most likely the traitorous brotherhood would have been too scared to meddle in our business if my queen had been by my side. But I thought that by running away and not hearing words that confirmed the reasoning, I could keep a part of the beauty you gave me in my heart. Like the selfish bastard I am."
I raised my eyes and looked at her face. God, she was so beautiful... even in this state.
I remember the first time I saw my krasavica in a photograph: I immediately thought she should have been mine, not some grain for her bastard of a father.
My suspicions, it turned out, were partly justified. This thought made me smile and continue, despite the growing pain in my chest.
"I shouldn't have made you mine back then because, in the end, you became my prisoner. I'm sorry I did that." My hand rested on her cheek, careful not to disturb the tubes and mask. "I think those words would have been true even if everything else turned out to be a lie. But even I'm not sure. You know, maybe I just lied again, but you've always been better at handling lies than the truth. So if it's true that you hate me, then please, wake up." My fingers traced the contours of her face, moving up to her hair. "Come back. Fight. And like a true queen of snakes, put me on my knees to kill me. I wouldn't mind dying at your hands, krasavica."
There was so much more I needed to say, but I let go of her hand, stood up from the chair, and leaned over her. I wanted to take off the mask and feel her lips again, but I wasn't sure it wouldn't hurt her. Instead, my fingers gently traced the curves of her chin and brows. I touched her for the last time.
I whispered words in her ear that she might never hear, that might mean nothing to her. But they meant everything to me.
"Live, Mel, because hating you was just as easy for me." I lied for the last time, just like she did before closing her eyes.
I kissed her collarbone one last time, where her pulse beat, hoping that it would heal and grow stronger again.
But as long as the heart beats, it means she will live.
"Goodbye, moya krasavica," I said as I turned around. "But don't relax for too long."
Because I will come back. No matter what happens next, even if it's war, I will return to her, because an egotist like me needs his own poison.
Her.