Chapter 2 - Cold Blood and False Records
The armored tires of the Maybach tore through the gravel as Andriy floored the accelerator, sending the vehicle rocketing down the highway toward the private hills overlooking Kyiv. The heater in the sedan was set to maximum, blasting warm air that filled the leather cabin with the sharp, tragic smell of damp rags and decaying garbage.
In the back seat, Taras sat stiffly against the cream leather upholstery, looking terrified that he might soil the interior. Alina and Polina were curled into tight balls on either side of Andriy, their heads resting on his thighs. They refused to let go of his sleeves. Every time the car hit a bump, their grip tightened with panic.
Andriy took out his phone with an unsteady hand, dialing a private, encrypted number.
"Dr. Koval," Andriy barked into the receiver the second the line clicked. "Clear your entire private clinic. Evacuate the third-floor recovery wing. I don't care about your other patients—bribe them, discharge them, move them to the state hospital. I need your absolute silence, your best trauma team, and a pediatric specialist on standby in fifteen minutes."
On the other end, Marko Koval, Andriy’s personal physician of twelve years, sounded stunned. "Andriy? What happened? Are you having another cardiac episode? Did you take the sedatives?"
"My daughters are alive, Marko."
A dead silence hung on the line. Then, a sharp inhalation. "Andriy... you've had a psychotic break. The grief is overwhelming you. Where are you? Pull the car over. I'll send an ambulance."
"I am looking at them, damn you!" Andriy roared, slamming his fist onto the steering wheel with such ferocity that the horn blared. Both girls jumped, whimpering in the back. Andriy instantly softened his voice, turning back to stroke their matted hair. "Shh, it's okay, my loves. Papa is here. I am so sorry. Marko... listen to me. Alina and Polina are in the back of my car. They are severely malnourished, dehydrated, and hypothermic. If you leak a single syllable to anyone—including the board, including Elena—I will destroy you. Have the clinic ready."
He ended the call and tossed the phone into the passenger seat.
*Elena.*
The name hit him like a plunge into freezing water.
Elena Vaneva had been his late wife’s closest friend before cancer took Sofia three years ago. In the agonizing months that followed, Elena had inserted herself into his home with practiced grace. She brought home-cooked meals, played with the girls, and managed his chaotic schedule. After the fire gutted the Bondarenko manor six months ago, Elena was the one who held him as he collapsed on the smoking lawn. She was the one who took charge of the funeral arrangements. She was the one who held the umbrella over his head at the cemetery.
And just two weeks ago, under the soft candlelight of an exclusive restaurant, Elena had gently placed her hand over his and said, *“Andriy, we have to keep living. The girls would want us to build something beautiful from the ashes. Let me help you carry the burden of the foundation. Let me take over the estate’s voting shares so you can rest.”*
Andriy felt a sickening nausea rise into his throat.
Ten minutes later, the Maybach screeched into the subterranean ambulance bay of St. Luke’s Private Clinic. The heavy steel roll-up door shut behind them, sealing them away from the gray drizzle outside.
Dr. Marko Koval stood waiting, flanked by two nurses pushing pediatric stretchers. When the car doors opened and Marko looked inside, the doctor turned as white as surgical gauze. He staggered back a half-step, clutching the side of a metal cart.
"Dear God in heaven..." Marko choked out, crossing himself. "It’s... it’s them."
"Move!" Andriy barked, carrying Polina while Taras helped Alina onto the first gurney. "Check their vitals! Run full toxicology! I want an IV line in them immediately, warm saline, glucose, and a complete systemic check. Look for old burns. Look for chemical exposure."
The medical bay erupted into controlled chaos. The nurses worked with quiet efficiency, cutting away the filthy clothes with trauma shears. Andriy stood over them, his eyes wild, watching every swab, every needle prick. When a nurse attempted to pull Taras aside, the boy bared his teeth like a cornered wolf, backing against the sterile white wall with clenched fists.
"Leave him alone," Andriy commanded softly. "He stays with us. Get him a clean set of scrubs, warm water, and food. Now."
Marko approached Andriy twenty minutes later, his face pale and drawn. He led Andriy to a corner of the private observation room while the children were placed under warming blankets, their arms wired to monitors that beeped in a steady, reassuring rhythm.
"They are severely starved, Andriy," Marko said in a low whisper. "Their body fat percentage is dangerously low. They have minor bronchial irritation from whatever smog they were breathing, and their feet have deep chilblains. But... there are no fire injuries. No third-degree burns. No graft scars. Andriy, these girls were never in that fire."
Andriy closed his eyes. The room seemed to plunge into absolute zero.
"The forensic coroner, Dr. Sidorov," Andriy whispered, his voice trembling with a cold, terrifying fury. "He personally brought me the report. He handed me the dental match. He said their jawbones matched Sofia's family dental records."
"Sidorov lied," Marko said grimly. "Or someone bought him. If those girls weren't in that house, Andriy... who was buried in the cemetery?"
Before Andriy could answer, the small, raspy voice of Alina cut through the sterile room.
"Papa?"
Andriy rushed to the bedside, dropping down so his face was level with hers. "I'm right here, my sweet girl. I'm right here."
Alina reached up a tiny, bruised hand, touching Andriy's beard. Her eyes darted around the room, full of sudden, sharp terror.
"Papa... is the lady with the red perfume going to come back? She said if we woke up, she'd put us in the dark box again."
Andriy's heart froze.
May you like
Elena’s signature scent was a custom-blended, heavy French perfume. *Scarlet Jasmine.* A fragrance so distinct, it lingered in every room she entered for hours.
***
