Page 111 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
"Hello, Andrey," he says quietly.
51
MARIYA
The library is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. I'm curled up on the leather couch near the window, a book resting against my rounded belly while afternoon sunlight streams through the glass. The baby kicks occasionally, little flutters of movement that still make me smile despite how common they've become.
I've read the same paragraph three times now, my mind too distracted to focus on the words. Andrey's been gone for a week, and even though he texted this morning saying he was on his way home, I can't shake the anxiety that's been my constant companion since he left.
The sound of the front door opening makes my pulse quicken. I set the book aside and push myself up from the couch, my hand bracing against the armrest for support. Getting up is awkward at seven months pregnant, my center of gravity completely thrown off by the weight of my belly.
Footsteps echo through the hallway, familiar and steady. Andrey's boots against marble floors, the sound I've been waiting to hear all week.
I move toward the library entrance, a smile already forming on my lips. When he appears in the doorway, relief floods through me so intensely, it makes my chest tight. He's here. He's safe. He's home.
"You're back," I say, my voice catching slightly.
His blue eyes find mine immediately, warm and intense in that way that still makes my stomach flutter. "I'm back."
I start to move toward him, ready to throw myself into his arms despite my awkward waddle. But then I see movement behind him.
Another man steps into the doorway, and my breath stops.
I know that face. I know the shape of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way his blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he looks at me. I've dreamed about seeing him again for nine years, imagined this moment so many times that for a second, I think I'm hallucinating.
"Papa?" The word comes out as barely a whisper.
Yegor Pushkin stands in my library, older and more weathered than I remember, but unmistakably my father. His dark blond hair has more gray in it now, and there are new lines around his eyes and mouth. But when he smiles at me, it's the same smile I remember from childhood.
"Mariya," he says quietly, his voice rough with emotion.
I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except stare at him like he might disappear if I blink. For so long, I've been wondering if he was alive or dead while I built a life without him, carrying the weight of his secrets. Seeing him outside the property when I was jogging seems like a lifetime ago, and sometimes, I wonder if I'd made the whole thing up in my mind.
But he's really here, standing in front of me and smiling at me.
My legs finally remember how to work, and I cross the distance between us in three awkward steps. He meets me halfway, his arms wrapping around me carefully, mindful of my belly. I press my face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something earthier, and the tears I've been holding back for years finally break free.
"I thought I'd never see you again," I sob against his shirt.
His hand strokes down my hair, the gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. "I'm sorry,dorogaya. I'm so sorry."
We stand like that for several minutes, just holding each other while I cry. Andrey moves past us quietly, giving us space, and I hear him speaking in low tones to someone in the hallway. Probably Matvey.
When I finally pull back, my father cups my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away my tears. "Let me look at you." His gaze drops to my belly, and his expression softens. "You're pregnant."
"Seven months." I place my hand over his where it rests against my cheek.
His eyes fill with tears, and I've never seen my father cry before. Not when my mother died, not ever. But now tears stream down his weathered face as he stares at my belly.
"A grandbaby," he whispers.
Andrey clears his throat from across the room. "We should sit. There's a lot to discuss."
My father nods and releases me reluctantly. I wipe at my face, trying to compose myself as we move to the large table where all the evidence is still spread out. Matvey appears in the doorway, his massive frame filling the entrance as he takes in the scene with his usual unreadable expression.
We settle around the table, my father and me on one side, Andrey and Matvey on the other. It feels surreal, sitting here with the four of us like we're about to have a normal family meeting instead of discussing conspiracy and murder.
My father's gaze sweeps across the documents, the photographs, and the decoded messages. "You figured it out," he says quietly. "I knew you would eventually."
