Page 80 of Cruel Obsession

Rosanna, who’s been looking like shit recently. Rosanna, who is carrying a child that might be mine. Rosanna, whose father I murdered after he threatened what’s mine.

I killed Sergei Tulikov, and while I don’t regret it—the man was scum—the consequences spider outward, touching lives I never intended to affect. Including his daughter’s.

I pull up the latest surveillance photos of Rosanna. The dark circles under her eyes. The way her clothes hang on her frame despite the pregnancy. The flat, empty expression. Depression wears its own distinctive uniform, and she’s dressed in it head to toe.

Not your problem, Laurov.

She’s a beautiful woman. Wealthy. Intelligent. She’ll find a new husband. And if the baby is mine, I’ll do what’s necessary.

But the words ring hollow. I’m making excuses, and I know it.

Sergei might have been a cruel bastard to the rest of the world, but he loved his daughter. He would have supported her and her child, despite everything. He was a monster, but he understood family in ways I’m still struggling to grasp.

But he weaponized Mishka’s death. He left me no choice.

Ublyudok!

I push away from the computer, disgusted with my own circular justifications. The truth is simpler and uglier: I killed a man because he touched the raw nerve of my greatest shame, and now his daughter suffers for it.

No matter how much I don’t want Rosanna in my life, her child is innocent and needs a father. The thought catches me off guard—a strange, unfamiliar yearning taking root. What would it be like to hear a small voice call me “Papa”? To teach someone to walk, to speak, to… become a person?

I’ve spent fifteen years convinced I don’t deserve fatherhood. That I’m too damaged, too dangerous to be trusted with a child’s life. That I’d only destroy anything pure and innocent that came into my orbit.

But now, faced with the reality of Rosanna’s pregnancy, I find myself imagining possibilities I’ve always denied.

No.

Chert voz’mi.

Fuck no.

Loving someone is dangerous. At 12, Mishka was gone. Mother was gone a few years later. And it’s all my fault. Besides, Rosanna’s child is probably someone else’s—we barely slept together, a calculated attempt to seal our families’ alliance that neither of us particularly enjoyed.

But what if it’s not someone else’s? What if it’s mine?

My fingers hover over the keyboard, the cursor blinking accusingly on the empty screen. After a moment of hesitation, I begin to type:

Subject: Financial Arrangements

Rosanna,

I’m setting up a direct debit of $200,000 per month into an escrow account. If the DNA shows the baby is mine, it will be released.

When the baby is born, I will purchase a penthouse in the child’s name, and, as I said, I will bear all the financial costs for the child.

I hope this helps. Contact me after the baby is born for the DNA test.

A.L.

I read over the email twice. It’s cold. Impersonal. Focusing on money as if that’s all a child needs. As if that’s all I’m capable of providing. But money is something I understand, something I can control, unlike the mess of emotions threatening to drown me.

Yes, the arrangement is unnecessary given how wealthy Rosanna is in her own right. But there is no other way I can calm my guilty conscience. No way to wash the blood from my hands.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then lean back in my chair, exhaustion settling over me like a shroud.

Mirabel in my bed. Rosanna carrying what might be my child. Sergei’s blood on my hands.

And at the center of it all, Mishka’s ghost, watching me struggle with the burden of living when he never got the chance.