Читать книгу: «Damir. The Exposure»

Part I

Chapter 1

1980

The young man knocked on the door of a roadside motel room.

A minute later, a rather beautiful girl with long, blonde curls and a light, short dress appeared on the threshold, her face filled with surprise.

«Why are you here? Where’s your brother?» she asked, glancing around.

«He’s not coming.» The tall, dark-haired man narrowed his eyes and, without waiting for an invitation, stepped inside.

Startled by his audacity, the girl instinctively moved to the side. Meanwhile, the visitor stopped in the middle of the room, noticing an open suitcase on the bed, filled with neatly folded clothes. His gaze swept over the surroundings before he spoke in a commanding tone:

«You need to go back home and forget about him forever.»

Looking at him in confusion, the girl immediately responded, «That will never happen!»

«If you truly love him, you’ll listen to me.»

He turned to face her, his black eyes locking onto her large, blue ones.

His gaze made her take a step back. Yet, in a quiet but firm voice, she said, «That’s not for you to decide.»

«You don’t understand. Family bonds mean everything to us. If he stays with you, he will suffer. He’s going against our father because of you,» he growled, his brows furrowing as his voice took on a harsher edge. «This won’t end well. Disaster will follow. Leave and forget about him!»

He was trying to make her see the seriousness of the situation. But she was stubborn, snapping back at him with a defiant «No!»

Yet at that moment, a shiver ran through her body. A strange, unsettling feeling washed over her—an anxious fear, as if something terrible was about to happen.

She kept backing away until she felt the cold press of the wall against her back, right next to the window. Her wide eyes never left him.

Noticing her distress, the man was momentarily puzzled. He hadn’t moved from his spot—his hands were casually tucked into his pockets, and he was simply talking. And yet, she was trembling.

With bated breath, she cast a desperate glance out the window, as if hoping for salvation. The day had dragged into the evening in endless waiting for her beloved. Until the very last moment, she had clung to hope, listening intently for his footsteps. But they never came.

Meanwhile, the man stood still, analyzing the situation. Leaving things as they were and walking away now seemed impossible. Since he had come this far, he had to at least try to change something. He saw it as his duty to save his brother from the looming threat—no matter the cost.

As he studied her closely, an unsettling realization formed in his mind. His brother’s chosen woman was undeniably alluring—her porcelain-white skin, full lips tinged with the soft pink of a newborn, framed by a halo of golden hair. Her body was already that of a mature woman, with a graceful, feminine shape and long, slender legs. She was a sight to admire… and a temptation strong enough to make a man lose his senses.

But his brother had to be stopped.

And so, he made a decision—he would go to the extreme.

The fear in her eyes deepened as she noticed the man, who had so suddenly appeared in their love nest, start moving toward her—slowly, deliberately. And the look in his eyes promised nothing good.

Chapter 2

More Than Thirty Years Later

Damir sat on a bench along the alley leading to the business centre, where he had just met with the Saidi family's lawyer. He lowered his head into his hands and closed his eyes. He couldn't wrap his mind around the news he had just received.

In a single day, his entire life had been turned upside down. And he had no idea what to do with it now. Seeking advice or telling anyone about what he had just learned wasn't something he was rushing to do. But making a decision in this situation didn't seem to make much sense either. All that was expected of him was to accept the reality placed before him and simply go with the flow.

For some time, he paced back and forth, then sat down again, lost in thought. Emotions were tearing him apart from the inside. He couldn't even decide whether to feel happy or devastated. But for some reason, his soul was in turmoil, feeling more pain than joy.

Rationally, he understood that there was no one to blame. And yet, he felt deceived by fate—like a defective toy, discarded into a pile of trash. Just when his identity had already been shaped, when he had learned to survive alone without anyone's help, after enduring all the hardships, he was suddenly presented with an entirely new version of his life.

It turned out that he hadn't needed to struggle so much to survive. That even his poor mother hadn't needed to work herself to exhaustion just so he could get an education. And now, when he had already fought his way up from the ground, he learned that things could have been much simpler. That his life could have been entirely different.

The thought of his mother tore at his heart.

Still, after some time spent in painful turmoil, he finally returned to the university dormitory, where he had been living for the past five years since his first year in law school.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah… yeah," Damir muttered absentmindedly, lying on his bed with his boots still on.

His roommate and best friend, Vadim, had just come back from the shower. He glanced at him in surprise. Damir was usually obsessively meticulous about cleanliness, yet here he was, sprawled on the bed in his jacket, fully dressed, with his arms thrown behind his head. Shrugging, Vadim turned to the wardrobe in the corner and started changing, deciding not to press the conversation. He must have understood that his friend needed to be alone. Without another word, he quickly left the room, giving Damir the solitude he seemed to need.

Two days later, Damir headed to Bolgar, his hometown. The last time he had been there was almost five years ago. So much had changed since then…

He sat in the airplane, staring out the window, but his mind was flipping through different images. His memory replayed scenes from a carefree childhood spent in the suburbs of Bolgar. Then came the years of growing up, filled with struggles and thorns he had to endure alone. His father had died in a car accident before he was even born, and he had no siblings. He had been forced to grow tough—perhaps from the cradle.

For as long as he could remember, his mother had always been working. He had largely been left to his own devices, facing every victory and every failure alone.

Recalling the reckless moments of his youth, he he grinned. I wonder how Marat is doing… a bold guy.

Marat had left a special mark in his memory, a label reading "different." Damir chuckled as he remembered their fight. Though, in truth, there had been nothing pleasant about it—none at all.

"You'll be whining like a beaten dog on your knees soon!" Marat had snarled, swinging a massive chain in the air, drawing figure eights with it.

Damir silently watched the chain's arc, calculating when to dodge the deadly weapon heading his way. He let his opponent attack freely, never once hindering him. On the contrary, taking advantage of the moment, he deliberately taunted him—stepping closer, gesturing for him to continue, only to retreat again at the last second.

The chase continued across the entire lot where their brawl had broken out. Marat pursued him relentlessly, attacking with a furious yell, trying to land a hit. But each time, Damir managed to slip away.

Finally, his opponent began to weaken. His voice grew strained, his swings less powerful.

Sensing the shift, Damir knew it was time. The next time the chain came flying, he seized its end and yanked it toward him. Marat barely had time to react before he found himself ensnared in his enemy's grasp.

In an instant, Damir wrapped the chain around his neck like a scarf and pulled.

Marat choked, his legs giving out beneath him.

"Who was it that was supposed to end up on their knees?" Damir asked mockingly, prying the brass knuckles off his barely conscious rival's hand.

Marat looked up at his "executioner" in horror, expecting the worst. But Damir ignored his frightened stare, pressing his lips into a thin line as he fitted the brass knuckles onto his own fingers.

A split second later, with a crushing blow to the face, Marat felt a flash of searing pain—then blissful silence.

Satisfied, Damir let the bleeding gang leader collapse to the ground. He whistled to his men, signaling them to halt the ongoing fight.

While he had been dealing with Marat, his ten or so guys had been engaged in their own battles.

"Boys, leave them be!" he shouted, waving them off.

Seeing their leader unconscious in a pool of blood, the opposing gang also reached a grim conclusion and had no choice but to surrender.

That was how the two criminal groups "signed" their agreement on territorial control. From that moment on, Damir and his crew could operate freely, without threats.

Marat and his gang, on the other hand, were forced to keep their heads down and stay out of the way. There were no more clashes between them, and Marat faded into the background.

But similar fights continued to break out with others. Somehow, Damir always emerged victorious. His reputation as a leader of his still-small criminal group grew rapidly. The neighborhood boys were turning into hardened criminals.

Their operations expanded along with their limits, though they never quite crossed into heavy crime. Still, the gang made money however they could—usually illegally. Robberies, car thefts, and more became part of their daily business. The more they did, the more connections they gained. The network grew, along with influence and protection.

And things might have gone on like that indefinitely—until Damir made a mistake.

Chapter 3

His mother greeted her son with joy. After standing in an embrace for about half an hour on the doorstep, she wiped away her sudden tears and began to chatter.

She told him how she had eagerly waited for this moment, how she had baked his favorite pastries, and about all the other treats he had missed during his student life.

Damir smiled warmly and nodded.

“Mom is in her element,” he thought.

She also mentioned the neighbor’s daughter, who had been helping and supporting her.

«She’s become such a grown young woman, a real bride already. A good girl, a beauty,» his mother said warmly.

Damir managed to listen to all of it while taking off his coat and shoes in the small hallway of their three-room house. He was touched by his mother's attention and care.

«Thank you, Mom, but you really didn’t have to go to all that trouble,» he said, bending nearly in half to hug his petite mother again.

She began kissing both of his cheeks and crying once more. She stroked his thick black curls and looked into his large dark eyes with deep love and pride.

«How handsome you've become, my son…»

Damir pressed his lips together and didn’t say anything—he just looked into her kind, light eyes with gratitude.

After dinner, the praised neighbor girl came over with her mother.

He had known them since childhood.

They came to greet him and to congratulate him on finishing university soon.

After dinner, they all sat at the table, drinking tea. The conversation was about Moscow, the challenges and joys of student life, his successes and future hopes. In short—everything about him.

Damir understood what this little feast was about and what they were hoping for from him, but he didn’t rush into anything. He preferred to sneak away from the “party” as quickly as possible.

“I’m going out for a walk,” he said after coming back from the bathroom and quickly grabbing his jacket on the way to the door.

“Maybe Aaliya can go with you, son?” his mother suggested, her eyes full of pleading.

Damir stopped and looked around at the guests.

The women sat there with hopeful eyes, watching him in anticipation of his answer.

He nodded in agreement. There was no escaping it.

He and his mother still had a serious and difficult conversation ahead, so he decided not to upset her now. In fact, he never intended to hurt or disappoint her—she was and would always be the dearest and most important person in his life.

Well… Aaliya had helped his mother with everything while he was away. She had become like a daughter to her.

She would probably continue to stay by her side now.

Damir glanced at the modest girl walking beside him.

Almond-shaped gray eyes, just like his mother’s, a round face, long light-brown hair braided neatly, a modest outfit, no makeup at all.

A complete contrast to the glamorous Moscow girls he was used to seeing.

The girl smiled shyly, and a blush lit up her plump cheeks, revealing faint dimples.

Damir liked her reaction to his studying gaze.

He smiled back with his dazzling smile and winked at her.

He didn’t rush to ask her out, but the thought had crossed his mind. He liked her.

They walked for about an hour, maybe even an hour and a half, chatted and laughed.

Then he walked her home, thanked her, and promised to call.

The girl walked away full of hope and dreams.

Meanwhile, he headed home, caught up in entirely different thoughts.

The next morning during breakfast, his mother said she had taken a few days off to spend more time with him.

That made him happy, and he decided not to put off the serious conversation any longer.

Sitting down on the couch, he asked her to sit next to him.

«Mom, why am I dark-skinned and don’t look like you?» Damir asked directly, looking into her smiling eyes.

She looked a little confused, and her smile began to fade.

«Am I?» she shrugged, puzzled.

«Yes. I’m different.»

Damir’s voice was calm but confident. He didn’t look away.

«Well, maybe it’s your father’s genes…» she said, trying to reason, not understanding what her son was getting at.

«But I don’t look Tatar. He was Tatar too, wasn’t he?»

«We don’t know who his parents were… they died young…»

Damir watched her with a half-smile, answering her assumptions with silence.

“I don’t understand, son,” the woman said in frustration, turning her whole body toward him. “What are you trying to say?! I’ve never been with anyone except my husband, and I know exactly who your father is!”

“Mom, calm down, come on. I never meant to suggest anything like that,” Damir assured her, gently patting her on the shoulder. But feeling her tension, he sighed and, after a pause, continued.

“I love you endlessly, and I always will. You’re my mother – and nothing will ever change that.”

She blinked quickly, and her fear only grew with every word he spoke.

He sighed again and turned away. His tongue wouldn’t move.

She sat there, waiting for him to finish.

What terrified her most was the thought of losing him.

He knew that – and that made it even harder to speak.

After a short pause, Damir finally gathered his courage.

He took her small hand into his large palms and held it gently.

With warmth in his voice, he tried to continue.

“I recently found out that…”

“What??”

“That… we were accidentally switched.”

“Switched? Who was switched?”

“Me and him.”

“Him who?” The woman was turning pale, her mouth slightly open as she struggled for breath.

The thought that was forming in her head terrified her.

“Your real son. He lives in Canada. His name is Samad Saidi.”

Chapter 4

«Her blood pressure spiked, but she's stable now, don't worry,» the doctor said as she walked out of the ICU.

Damir stood there holding his breath, waiting for the verdict. He scolded himself for telling his mother everything so directly, without preparation. He had no idea how to act now or what to do next. But thank God—it wasn’t a heart attack. The fainting had been caused by a sudden spike in blood pressure. By the evening, he brought his mother home.

«Are you going to Canada?» she asked weakly from her bed when Damir approached.

«My place is by your side,» he replied.

But three months later, a plane carried Damir to Montreal—toward his biological parents, and the young man who had unknowingly gifted him such a wonderful mother. He had decided to grant her wish and marry the neighbor girl—not only to ease her worries, but also because he genuinely liked Aaliya. Besides, none of the local guys had a bad word to say about her when he discreetly asked about her reputation. That settled it for him. A month after the hospital incident, they got engaged. Aaliya put on the headscarf and the ring—she became his official fiancée.

Soon after, Damir returned to Moscow, completed his studies, and applied for a visa. He refused to communicate with his real parents over the internet, preferring to save everything for a face-to-face meeting. All legal matters were handled through their lawyer—he was the one who informed Damir of everything.

It turned out Damir was the son of Mr. Omer Saidi, a 65-year-old Iranian businessman. Omer was a prominent entrepreneur, the owner and CEO of an agricultural corporation, along with a chain of supermarkets across Canadian provinces and several U.S. states. Damir also learned he had a biological mother—Emine Saidi, age 62—and a 23-year-old sister, Saher, a student at the University of Montreal majoring in Management and Marketing. The family also included Samad Saidi, who, as it turned out, was their adopted son. Like Damir, Samad had studied law and worked in their father’s corporation. Damir had started university much later than his peers, while Samad had already gained at least eight years of professional experience and legal expertise. The twelve-hour flight gave Damir’s imagination plenty of space to wander. He couldn’t wait to meet his real parents—especially his father, whom he had dreamed of all his life. He kept telling himself that they weren’t at fault for his growing up far from them. They hadn't even known their son wasn’t biologically theirs—until Samad was in an accident and a blood test revealed the truth. That’s when the long, difficult search began, leading them all the way to Bolgar.

Yes, back in distant 1982, his parents had traveled to Russia. Business had taken them to Kazan. Later, a drive to Bolgar and an unexpected labor. It had been a reckless decision by young Omer Saidi—he took his beloved wife everywhere, and she never wanted to leave his side, even while pregnant. Their passionate love had led to that moment. Damir sighed and pulled a small envelope from his chest pocket.

Inside were a few worn-out photos of his Tatar mother, Zulfiya Palatova. Her in youth, in middle age, and now at 63. He gently stroked the surface of the latest photo, warmth flooding his veins. Surely Samad would tear up seeing the face of his real mother and rush to meet her, Damir thought. Well, she would have two sons now—just like Mrs. Emine Saidi. By dawn, the noisy Montreal airport welcomed an Aeroflot flight from Russia. Damir’s luggage was modest—just a small suitcase with the essentials. He wasn’t planning to stay long. Meet them, maybe make a decision at a family meeting, and go back home. He wasn’t about to abandon his mother Zulfiya. Maybe his life would now be split between two countries, he thought. His blood was pulling him—it already had—and there was no fighting it. He would want to see his real parents and younger sister again, and they wouldn’t let him go easily either—he was sure of it. It wasn’t about status or money anymore. None of it mattered.

Damir shook his head. Amazing—just when the long-awaited dream finally appeared on the horizon, it immediately lost its meaning. He wanted to know and feel his real family—even if they lived in a slum in some forgotten corner of Calcutta.

At the airport, he was met by Mr. Saidi’s driver. Damir took the back seat of the black, tinted Land Rover and closed his eyes. The air inside carried the scent of high society—a world that had felt as distant as the stars just a few months ago. His memory jumped to the recent past—well-furnished offices, luxurious homes, guards, expensive cars. All of it had once felt untouchable, like a museum display. His own attempts to rise to that level had failed, and for a time, he had buried the dream deep inside and focused on studying. Sometimes he worked as a courier, delivering documents on a company scooter or carrying a backpack on foot—then disappearing just as quietly. He never imagined he’d be sitting in the back seat of such a car, being driven like a guest of honor.

Damir sighed and looked out the window. He didn’t feel joy. He couldn’t feel happiness or the thrill of something fateful and grand. On the contrary—he was full of pain and regret. And that feeling hadn’t left him since the moment he sat across from a man in a gray suit holding a folder.

“Mr. Damir Palatov,” the lawyer said in fluent English—Damir had learned it well—

“I must inform you that you are the biological son of Mr. Omer and Mrs. Emine Saidi. You were switched at birth due to a tragic mistake. A private investigation has been ongoing for two years, and it is now complete. We also conducted a secret DNA test. You weren’t informed earlier—” the man coughed lightly, “—because we needed to confirm the results and didn’t want to disturb or traumatize you unnecessarily. We can perform another test officially, if you’d like, but rest assured—your real parents have found their son.”

Damir would never forget a single word the lawyer said. Even the sound of his voice had been burned into memory. They hadn’t wanted to “traumatize” him? Really?

He had nearly lost his mind from the shock. Though by now, Damir had slowly begun to recover.

Trying to distract himself, he focused on the streets outside. Beautiful scenery with European charm blended with Western modernity—it inspired him to dream again, to explore this new and unfamiliar world.

“This isn’t mine. Not my life. I’m just a guest. I’ll appear and disappear,” he told himself. A man who had never known luxury, who had fought for every small slice of life, simply couldn’t allow himself to believe in miracles. Anything but that. Miracles didn’t happen to him—not even obvious ones. He was convinced something would go wrong, and he’d be sent back where he came from. Meanwhile, the car rolled toward one of the elite neighborhoods—it was obvious by the roads and the view. One mansion replaced another, each with its own garden and pool. They stopped near one such house. The gates parted.

Another 50 meters through a landscaped park, and the car pulled up to the grand residence. Damir got out and looked up at the four-story building towering before him. The driver removed his suitcase from the trunk and gestured toward the door. As it opened, Damir tensed, expecting to see his biological parents. Instead, a middle-aged woman in uniform appeared—clearly the housekeeper—and he let out a small breath of relief. She greeted him politely and led him further inside. The luxury of the home struck him immediately. Even though he had prepared himself—dressing in brand-name clothes, grooming himself carefully—he now felt the invisible weight of the delivery backpack from his past. He felt completely out of place. All he wanted was to leave and vanish.

“Salam alaikum, son. How was your flight?” a man’s voice said in English with a slight accent.

Damir turned to see a tall, imposing man descending the staircase. He instantly recognized him—his father. The resemblance was undeniable. Like looking at himself, only older. Damir’s heart pounded in his chest.

“Wa alaikum assalam,” he answered with a shaky voice, and froze.

Mr. Saidi approached and extended his hand. Damir shook it, eyes locked on his father’s face. Then the man pulled him into a strong embrace. Damir didn’t speak Persian, but he understood his father was whispering a prayer of thanks. His voice trembled. Damir squeezed his eyes shut. A wave of overwhelming emotion swept over him, and he struggled to hold back the tears. But they broke through anyway.

A few minutes later, two women ran toward them. One was crying loudly; the other tried to calm her. The men turned. In a flash, Damir caught his mother in his arms. She didn’t even get the chance to hug him—she fainted. He had grown up a man who didn’t easily give in to sentiment. He could fight to the death, stare an enemy in the eye without flinching. He had endured cold, hunger, hardship—and never broken. But now, sitting on the floor, holding the woman he had just met for the first time in his 32 years, he cried like he was six again. His younger sister hugged him too. He stroked her shoulder, kissed her cheeks and hair. Meeting his real family shattered every doubt and fear inside him. He felt the overwhelming pull of blood—as if this had always been his true home. This was the air his lungs needed, the moments and faces his eyes longed to see, the scents his soul craved. Everything was here—among these people.

And no words could describe how a soul feels when it’s surrounded by love—wrapped in warmth like a soft blanket. That was exactly how Damir’s soul felt in those minutes. When he felt his father’s strong embrace, his mother’s tearful kisses, his sister’s hands around him… All the doubts that had plagued him before seemed like utter nonsense.

What could matter more than family?

It felt like he finally had answers to all the unspoken questions—and his heart found peace.