Maria froze, her body stiff as she stared at him. The world seemed to stop moving for a moment.
The noise of people and carts faded, replaced only by the fast thump of her heartbeat.
"You…" her voice came out weak, breaking.
Her eyes filled with tears before she could hold them back.
He looked just as shocked to see her. "Maria," he said gently, stepping closer, "please… let's just sit somewhere to talk."
Her lips trembled.
"You took her…" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Maria, please," he said again, his tone soft and nervous.
He motioned toward a small café near the corner of the supermarket.
She followed slowly, wiping her tears, her mind spinning.
They sat down. For a few seconds, no one spoke.
The silence between them was heavy — full of everything they never said all those years.
He finally sighed.
"I heard about your sister's death," he said quietly, not looking at her. "I'm really sorry."
Maria's jaw tightened.
"Don't you dare say sorry," she snapped, her tears still falling. "Tell me where she is."
He looked up at her, guilt all over his face. "Maria… she's all grown up now."
Her eyes widened, anger and heartbreak rising together.
"Why did you take her from me?" she shouted, not caring that people were looking.
He rubbed his forehead, looking ashamed. "I didn't have a choice," he said.
"My family forced me to. My mother said it was the only way — that if I didn't take her, she'd end up in the streets or in the wrong hands.
She said I had to raise her alone."
Maria's voice cracked as she spoke.
"You had no right! You didn't even let me say goodbye. She was my baby too.
I didn't even feed her or raise her.
And you—" her voice broke, "you just took her away from me like I didn't matter."
He lowered his head, whispering, "I know, Maria. I was young and scared. I thought it was for the best."
She shook her head, pain etched on her face.
"For the best?" she repeated bitterly. "You think tearing her away from me was for the best? You destroyed me."
Her tears streamed down her cheeks now, raw and full of years of grief.
"I don't care how long it's been. I just want to see her again," she said.
Her voice was low and desperate.
"Please… I need to see my daughter. I need to hold her."
He looked up slowly, guilt heavy in his eyes.
"Maria…" he whispered. "It's been twenty four years."
She didn't blink. she said firmly, though her voice shook.
"Just tell me where she is."
He looked away, torn and silent. Maria's heart pounded — a mix of hope and heartbreak.
***
Evening wrapped the Volkov mansion in a slow, dark chill.
Damian's car stopped in front of the mansion.
He git down and moved straight into the house.
Irina saw him from the window and went downstairs to meet him.
Her face changed the second she caught sight of him. She hurried forward, hands trembling.
"Damian, what is wrong with you?" she cried, voice soft but sharp. "What came over you?"
He stopped in front of her and, for a second, his hard edges softened.
He reached up and took her face in his hands- his touch quick.
"Please," he said low, looking straight into her eyes
. "Don't stress yourself over that, Mother." Then he let her go and walked away.
Tatiana, who was nearby, stepped into his path before he reached the study.
"I never liked Uncle Leonid anyway," she declared fiercely, folding her arms.
"I support you." Her voice was bright with loyalty, proud and protective.
Damian didn't glance at her. He moved on, the hallway, and went into Grandfather's study.
Grandfather was waiting — already seated, cane across his knees, the lines on his face carved deeper with the kind of anger that had weight.
When Damian shut the door, he didn't hide his fury.
"How dare you shoot at my son and your uncle, Damian?" Grandfather's voice cut the room like a blade.
"Let's not talk about him," Damian said, flat and cold as he took out a chair to sit.
Grandfather's cane hit the floor with a loud stamp. His eyes flashed.
"What is wrong with you? Do you think you can do as you like?
"You are leaving the company. I won't let you run this family like a madman."
Damian's laugh was short and humorless.
"You want to stop me?" he asked, voice low. "Fine. Try."
Grandfather's face went red with pride. He slammed his cane down again, making the lamp tremble.
"I will not have a violent man ruin everything I built!"
"What exactly led you to shooting your uncle?"
Damian's fingers curled into a fist. He slammed his hand on the table so hard the papers jumped.
"Because he killed my father," he said. The words bled out of him, raw and heavy.
The room went stiff. Even the clocks seemed to hold their breath.
Grandfather's face turned near purple with denial.
He bellowed, "Shut your mouth! How dare you say such a thing?
You accuse Leonid? Your uncle? How could you?" His voice rose with the old family honor — anger that hurt and hurt others.
Damian did not back down. He leaned over the table until his face was close to the old man's.
"Do you know me at all?" Damian asked, voice quiet but hard. "I would not say something this heavy if I wasn't sure.
I have been searching for my father's killer for years. I found proof. Leonid arranged it."
The paper on the desk fluttered like a small wind.
Grandfather's chest hitched; his hands trembled as he touched the edge of a file on the table.
Grandfather stood near his desk, face hard with disbelief and fury. He slammed his cane on the floor.
"Call Irina in," he barked to the man waiting outside.
The door opened minutes later, and Irina stepped in, looking worried.
She looked between grandfather and Damian. "What's going on?" she asked softly.
Grandfather's voice rose, full of authority and disappointment.
"Your son has lost his mind, Irina!" He turned toward Damian. "Tell her what nonsense you just said to me!"
Damian lifted his eyes slowly, calm but sharp.
"I said the truth," he said evenly. "Leonid killed my father."
Irina froze. Her lips parted in shock.
"Damian, what—why would you say such a thing?"
Grandfather scoffed, pacing behind his desk.
"Do you hear him, Irina? He's accusing his own uncle of murder!
I swear, I don't know what has gotten into him."
Damian stood now, his voice low but firm.
"Do you really think I'd lie about this?"
"Enough!" Grandfather shouted, his cane striking the ground again.
"You're blinded by anger! Leonid has done nothing, and you—"
"Support?" Damian's tone turned sharp.
"He supported himself, not us! You think I don't know what I'm saying? I found proof, Grandfather. I found out who ordered Father's death."
Irina's breathing quickened. She shook her head slowly, her hands trembling.
"No… Damian, stop. That's enough."
"Look at me, mother" Damian said quietly, stepping closer to her.
"You know I've searched for years. I wouldn't bring this up unless I was certain."
She looked into his eyes — those same eyes that once belonged to the man she lost.
And suddenly, everything around her blurred. A memory flashed — that night, the one she never spoke of.
Her knees weakened. Her hand gripped the chair beside her.
"Mother?" Damian said softly, worried now.
She swallowed hard.
"Leonid… he was there that night," she whispered, almost to herself.
Grandfather's face went pale, confusion crossing his features.
"Irina… what are you saying?"
She looked up at him, tears gathering in her eyes.
"I—I never thought much of it. I tried to forget. But Damian might be right."
The room fell silent. Even the ticking clock seemed to stop.
Damian's voice broke the silence, low but steady. "Now you see why I did what I did."
Grandfather's hand shook slightly as he picked up his cane. He tried to stand tall, but the truth was breaking through his pride.
"I can't… I can't condemn my son without proof."
Damian's jaw tightened. "Then I'll bring proof that you won't be able to deny."
He turned and walked toward the door, his voice calm but full of quiet rage.
"And when I do… remember that I tried to tell you."
The door closed hard behind him.