August 10th, 2025
In Rublyovka village, Moscow - 5:06 AM
The first light of dawn crept faintly through the frosted windows of the Shestakov residence.
Outside, the air was brittle with cold, the kind of Russian morning where the earth seemed to still slumber under a blanket of frost. Inside, however, Astrid moved quickly and quietly, her heart hammering with a rhythm of both fear and determination.
Her suitcase wheels rattled against the polished wood floors as she set them down by the door. She had tried so hard not to make a sound.
Every item folded into the luggage was deliberate, every step rehearsed in silence. She had even hidden her passport between two layers of clothes, as though the documents themselves might betray her intentions if they made the slightest rustle.
In her coat pocket, her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the necklace. The necklace Étienne had given her two decades ago.
Her Frenchman. Her sin. Her love. A memory so far buried she had sworn it would never resurface in this household.
She closed her eyes as she gripped it tight - reminded not of her tragic past, but of Ian's face as a baby. His first cry. His warmth. The weight she abandoned.
But as she stepped into the living room, ready to finally leave for the airport, a voice cracked the silence.
"Mama?"
Astrid froze.
Standing at the archway was Tasha, her eldest daughter, her red hair messy from sleep, her nightgown clinging lazily to her frame.
Despite the early hour, her sharp blue-gray eyes were alert. Tasha's gaze fell on the suitcases immediately.
"What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously, her voice pitched low, but lined with curiosity.
Astrid stiffened. "Shhh. Go back to sleep, Tasha. And why are you sleeping here again? Go back to your room."
But Tasha folded her arms, leaning on the doorway with the faintest smirk. "Not until you tell me why you're sneaking around like a thief."
Astrid sighed. "I'm not sneaking. I… I just have to go somewhere."
"Where?"
"It's nothing important. Just business."
Tasha raised a brow, unimpressed. "Business? At five in the morning, with three suitcases, your passport, and-" she pointed at the glinting chain dangling from Astrid's pocket- "a necklace you haven't worn in twenty years?"
Astrid froze again. Her daughter's perceptiveness was too sharp.
"Tasha, please. Just… let me go."
But Tasha's smirk widened into something sly. She crossed her arms and tilted her head. "Oh, no. Not unless you tell me. Or maybe I'll just wake everyone else up. Papa, Rose, Dmitri, Nico…" She turned dramatically, already opening her mouth as though preparing to yell.
"Anastasia!" Astrid snapped in a whisper, her voice trembling.
Her daughter stopped, satisfied. She had cornered her mother. She had always had a streak of mischief, of playful coercion - sometimes endearing, sometimes infuriating.
Now, in this quiet moment, Astrid realized that her eldest had grown into a woman too clever for her own good.
Astrid's shoulders sagged. She pressed a hand to her forehead. "You never stop with your blackmailing, do you?"
Tasha grinned. "What can I say? I'm a natural."
Astrid exhaled, long and tired. She lowered herself onto the couch, her suitcase standing by her side like a sentinel of secrets. "Fine. I'll tell you something. But you must promise me… promise me you'll keep this to yourself."
Tasha's grin faltered, curiosity tightening into something more serious. She padded over and sat beside her mother. "Alright. I promise. Cross my heart."
Astrid hesitated. For a moment, she wondered if she should lie, just as she had for decades. But then she saw the glimmer of sincerity in Tasha's eyes, faint but real. She couldn't carry this alone any longer. The weight was crushing.
She clasped her hands together and whispered: "I'm going to America."
Tasha tilted her head. "America? What for?"
Astrid bit her lip. Her throat ached.
"Because… I have a son there."
The words fell heavy between them, like stones dropped into a frozen lake.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then Tasha laughed - soft, disbelieving, almost mocking. "Oh, mama. That's… that's funny. You almost got me there."
But then she caught the look in Astrid's eyes. Not humor. Not trickery. Just… sorrow.
Her laughter died. "Wait. You're serious?"
Astrid nodded, her lips trembling with a melancholic smile. "Yes. I am."
Tasha's mouth fell open slightly, her hands curling into her lap. She blinked rapidly as though the revelation itself was blinding. "You… you mean I - I have a brother?"
"Yes."
"And he's in America?"
"Yes."
Tasha sat back, stunned. "All this time? You - you never told us? You never told Papa?"
Astrid lowered her gaze. Her voice was barely audible. "Some secrets are too heavy. I thought if I buried it, it would stay buried."
Tasha's eyes darted around the room, as if the very walls of their house had changed. She rubbed her temples. "So let me get this straight. Before us, before everything, you… you had a child. With someone else. And you left him in an orphanage in America?"
Astrid's voice cracked. "Yes. I was young, foolish. I thought it was the only way."
"Who was the father?"
Astrid hesitated, her hand going instinctively to the necklace. She pulled it out slowly, letting the morning light glint against the small silver locket. "His name was Étienne. A Frenchman. My… my first love."
Tasha studied the necklace, her expression softening despite herself. "Étienne…" She tried the name on her tongue, foreign yet heavy with implication.
Astrid's eyes grew misty as she spoke. "He was kind, gentle. He gave me this necklace before he left. But fate was cruel, and I was left with a child I couldn't raise. My family would have never accepted him or worse, harm him. I made the hardest choice of my life."
Tasha reached out, touching her mother's hand gently. "And you never saw him again?"
Astrid shook her head, tears spilling at last. "No. Not once. But I never stopped thinking of him. Not a single day."
The room fell quiet again, save for Astrid's stifled sobs. Tasha squeezed her mother's hand.
Then, after a pause, Tasha leaned back with a wry grin. "Well… I guess this explains why you always cry during those cheesy French films."
Astrid blinked at her through her tears - then laughed softly, shaking her head. "Even now, you find a way to make jokes."
"That's my specialty."
For a while, they sat in silence, mother and daughter bound by a new truth. But then Tasha leaned forward, her mischievous spark reigniting.
"So… America, huh?" Tasha jokingly raised her voice.
Astrid uncontrollably yelled. "Anastasia!"
"Mama, lower your voice. You're gonna wake them up." Tasha giggled.
Astrid groaned softly, realizing it.
Tasha's grin widened. "So here's my deal. I won't tell anyone - Papa, my siblings, nobody. But only if you let me come with you."
Astrid's jaw dropped. "What? Absolutely not. You have school, responsibilities-"
"Oh, please. You can't just drop a bombshell like 'Hey, surprise, you've got a secret brother in America!' and then expect me to sit at home like nothing happened. No way."
"Tasha…"
"Nope. Non-negotiable. Either I go with you, or I tell Papa everything."
Astrid stared at her, incredulous. "You… you little blackmailer. You didn't get this from me."
"Oh, I definitely did." Tasha winked.
Astrid pressed her face into her hands, groaning. "Why did I raise you like this?"
Tasha chuckled and rested her head on her mother's shoulder. "Because deep down, you love me. And admit it, mama - this will be less scary if I'm with you."
Astrid slowly lifted her head. Despite her frustration, she found herself smiling faintly. Her daughter was right.
The thought of facing Ian after all these years was terrifying. Perhaps having Tasha beside her would ease the weight.
She sighed, long and heavy. "Fine. But you must promise me one more thing. When we meet him… you must let me do the explaining."
Tasha grinned victoriously. "Deal."
They sat there as the sun rose higher, the light spilling across the living room floor, illuminating their shadows. For the first time in decades, Astrid felt the burden of her secret lift - just slightly. And in her daughter's mischievous grin, she saw hope that maybe, just maybe, reconciliation was possible.
Back at Georgetown, South Carolina - 6:13 AM
The hard clang of metal against metal echoed inside the dim jailhouse. The sound cut through Leo's shallow, restless sleep. His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and heavy with fatigue.
He sat hunched on the narrow cot, his fists clenched even in slumber, his whole body still vibrating with rage from the day before.
The thick Southern drawl of the sheriff broke the silence.
"Well now, look who's awake. Rise 'n shine, stranger. Hope you enjoyed our lil' hospitality."
Leo squinted. He caught only fragments of what was said. The man's English was twisted and slow, like honey dripping over gravel. Too thick, too foreign. Leo's jaw tightened. What the hell is this man saying?
He sat up, his black shirt wrinkled, his body stiff from the cold iron bed. His eyes darted to the barred window where pale light seeped through.
Morning. A new day. But his anger had not cooled overnight. No - his fury boiled hotter.
The sheriff, a burly man with graying beard and a cowboy hat tilted low, leaned lazily on the cell bars.
"Ya lookin' mighty sorry, boy. Paperwork says you're an obsessive fella - tailin' yer wife, causin' her trouble. Don't take kindly to that 'round here."
Leo frowned, not fully comprehending. He caught words like "wife," "obsessive," "trouble." His heart sank. Ruth.
His chest burned as yesterday's events replayed in his mind. He had followed her car through the winding streets of Georgetown, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
But then - suddenly - her car was gone, like a ghost disappearing into mist. And before he could search, before he could even breathe, three flashing police cars boxed him in.
They dragged him out, shouting words he barely understood. Obsessive. Abusive. Stalker. His wife's name thrown between their English syllables. His protests in broken English fell flat.
He told them he was no stalker, no criminal - only a man walking, searching for food. But the officers sneered. One even laughed.
And then, without warning, the cold cuffs locked around his wrists.
Now, sitting in this stinking cell, Leo realized the truth. Ruth had set him up. She had made a deal. She had thrown him to the wolves.
His veins throbbed with rage.
"Ruth, Ian, just you wait." He spat in Japanse under his breath."
The sheriff squatted a little, pressing his face closer to the bars.
"Didn't quite catch that, foreigner. Y'know what I do catch? You're goin' on a lil' trip back to where ya came from. Deportation. That's what's comin' for ya. Ain't my business where. Japan, China, Mars - don't matter."
Leo's glare was cold steel. Deportation? Back to Tokyo? That wasn't just humiliation - it was Ruth's victory. He could almost see her smug smile beside Ian. That bastard.
The sound of heavy boots broke his spiral. Two police officers entered the corridor, keys jangling.
"Alright, Kawasaki, on your feet," one said, though his tone was mocking.
Leo rose slowly, his movements deliberate. His fists clenched.
The door creaked open. One officer stepped in, reaching for his arm. But the moment their eyes locked - Leo struck.
His fist smashed against the man's jaw, sending him sprawling backward into the bars with a grunt.
The second officer lunged, but Leo's knee drove hard into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. Both men collapsed, groaning.
Leo stood above them, his face dark with fury.
"Don't fuck with the Kawasaki family," he hissed in Japanese.
The sheriff didn't flinch. He simply tipped his hat back and muttered to the deputy nearby.
"Get this sonuvabitch outta my sight. He's got a bad attitude, and I got no patience fer foreigners with bad attitudes."
Two more officers arrived, heavier built, gripping their batons. They wrestled Leo's arms, forcing him forward despite his struggling.
He spat at the ground, his breath ragged, his heart pounding like war drums.
As they dragged him down the hallway, he muttered, low but venomous:
"Fucking Americans"
The precinct doors opened, sunlight pouring in. The morning air was fresh, laced with the faint smell of damp earth and gasoline. Parked before them was a sleek black SUV, tinted windows gleaming like obsidian.
One officer pulled the door open. Inside, Leo's blood froze.
On the passenger side sat his younger brother, Leon. His sharp features mirrored Leo's, though his expression was calmer, colder. Leon's dark suit was pristine, his tie perfectly knotted. His eyes met Leo's with a mixture of disdain and pity.
And behind the wheel - his father. Lionel. The patriarch. The shadow that loomed over them both.
His eyes were hard, his face unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line. The scent of cigars lingered faintly in the air around him.
In the backseat, two unfamiliar figures sat in silence. Men of wealth and influence, their tailored suits immaculate, their gold watches gleaming. Lionel's associates. Ruth's shadow games had been met with Lionel's iron hand.
"Get in," Lionel said flatly, his voice carrying the weight of command.
For a moment, Leo hesitated. His fists clenched. His pride screamed. But his father's glare cut into him, leaving no room for rebellion.
Slowly, stiffly, Leo climbed into the SUV. The door shut behind him with a heavy finality.
Inside, silence suffocated the air. The hum of the engine was the only sound.
Leon finally spoke.
"How's the jail here in America, bro?"