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Chapter 5

Damir asked for a cigarette, and the driver handed him his own pack. Without looking, Damir struck the lighter and took a long drag.

Standing on the balcony of his bedroom, he gazed up at the cloudy sky and smoked. It was the first time in over five years that he’d held a cigarette in his hands. It was around 4 a.m. After an emotionally exhausting day that smoothly turned into night, everyone had finally gone to their rooms, though likely, no one had actually fallen asleep. Everyone except Samad—he hadn’t shown up at all. They said he had to go out of town for urgent business. Well, there would be time to meet. Plenty of time.

Damir thought about his Tatar mother. Of course he wouldn’t leave her. She would stay close to him—wherever he lived. Here? Then here. And then there was Aaliya… he had a fiancée. He stubbed out the cigarette and went back inside.

The next two days, he stayed close to his birth mother, Emine. She practically didn’t let him out of her sight. And he didn’t resist her wishes. He had always been soft when it came to women—especially mothers. His Iranian mother spoke poor English, and they still communicated through a translator—his younger sister, Saher, who was more than happy to fill that role. Damir studied them when they weren’t looking. His mother turned out to be an exceptionally beautiful woman—just like his sister. Large eyes framed by long lashes, arched brows, luxurious black hair. His mother had a soft, curvy figure that made him want to lay his head on her chest and fall asleep like a baby.

Saher, meanwhile, was tall and slender—clearly, they both inherited their height from their father. He was overwhelmed with emotion. He had no idea something like this could happen to him—love, pride, a hunger to make up for lost years. Even he couldn’t fully grasp what was going on in his soul. But one thing he knew for certain—he didn’t want to leave them anymore. His only real concern now was to bring over his mother Zulfiya. She was waiting for him, missing him, loving him. He couldn’t leave her alone for long, knowing she was at home counting the days. So he decided to stay one more week and then bring up the subject—either of going back or having her come here. Oh yes, his fiancée was waiting too.

Damir knew they wouldn’t deny him anything, and everything would work out. Especially since Samad—whom he still hadn’t met—also needed time with his birth mother. And the best option, Damir concluded, would be for all of them to live together.

The next day, his father decided to introduce Damir to the family business. First stop: the main facility. They owned several thousand acres of land used for plantations. They grew strawberries, vegetables, and a variety of fruits. The produce was sold to different factories and local markets. They also ran a chain of supermarkets across Canadian provinces and three nearby U.S. cities.

“Samad’s barely managing everything. Your brain and hands will be a huge help, son,” Omer said with a light chuckle, patting Damir’s shoulder.

Damir was stunned by the scale of the operation. On the way to the office, his father gave him a brief overview of the business and its structure. It was clear he’d need months to learn everything thoroughly.

“I don’t even know what to say, I…”

“Everything will come in time, my son. The main thing is—you’re here with us. You’ll succeed, I’m sure of it. Especially since, according to our information, you graduated university with top marks and studied very diligently. You’re smart—and you’re no coward.”

Omer emphasized those last words, looking straight into his son's eyes. Damir met his gaze and saw a warm smile. Omer closed his eyes briefly and nodded, silently answering the questions he saw in his son’s face. Of course they had done their homework on him. Damir had no doubt—they knew everything about his past. Who he hung out with, the trouble he’d been in. And yet, they hadn’t hesitated to accept him into the family. Even with his rough, borderline criminal past. Sure, he had left all that behind and put on a tie—but the past didn’t change. Yes, his skills might come in handy, but still—objectively, he had been a dangerous man. The thought made him feel ashamed of himself. His throat tightened. He covered his mouth with a fist and started to cough. Omer laughed.

“I was the same,” he said, putting a firm hand on Damir’s shoulder again. “You’re my son—through and through.”

In the days that followed, Damir spent every morning to evening working with his father. He was being groomed to lead the contracts department, a role Omer had handled himself until recently. And from evening until late at night—he was in his mother’s embrace, turning back into a boy. Only once did he manage to slip away and take a walk around the city with Saher. One question kept nagging at him—where was Samad? But everyone seemed so calm about his absence that Damir decided to wait and not press the issue.

“Damir, wait here for a bit, okay? I need to talk to someone quickly and I’ll be right back,” Saher said.

“With who?”

Big Brother mode kicked in instantly, and she laughed out loud. Touching his hand on the table, she assured him everything was fine. She was just stepping out of the café for fifteen minutes. He smiled and nodded in agreement. It was only 11 a.m., after all. Sipping his coffee slowly, Damir watched the people around him. People of different nationalities, skin colors, and religions passed by or sat at tables, each busy with their own life. Most spoke French—which he didn’t yet understand. Some talked loudly, laughed, and gestured animatedly. Life unfolded in all its color and joy.

«Hi, how are you?»

Damir looked up and saw a young man—pleasant-looking, about his age, maybe a bit shorter than his own six-foot-three frame. Light brown hair, warm hazel eyes. Without asking, the guy sat across from him, called the waiter, and placed an order in French. Damir frowned slightly, watching this bold behavior. Maybe it was normal here to join strangers at cafés—he wasn’t sure yet. But the fact that the guy had addressed him in English meant one thing—he either had been watching Damir and Saher… or he knew exactly who he was approaching.

Montreal was, after all, a mostly French-speaking city. Maybe he was Saher’s boyfriend, and that’s why she ran off so quickly?

Adjusting his watch, the young man across from him introduced himself.

“I’m Samad Saidi.”

Damir was stunned. He studied the man’s face, searching for any resemblance to his Tatar mother.

“So that’s what you look like…” Damir said in a hoarse voice, lips pressed together as he leaned forward slightly. “Mother would be proud to have a son like you.”

“She already is. As is our father,” Samad replied quickly.

He thanked the waiter and picked up his coffee.

“Shall we talk?”

Damir laced his fingers on the table.

After a short pause, he said:

“This is a strange way to meet, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But I figured we should talk alone first, before staging a happy brotherly scene for the family.”

Samad took a sip of coffee, leaned back, and paused before continuing. “Let me get straight to the point. I’ll give you as much money as you want—just disappear quietly, the way you came.”

Damir’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Are you out of your mind?”

Samad chuckled and looked away. “Seems fair to me.”

“You shouldn’t measure everything in money,” Damir replied, his expression darkening. His brows drew closer, and a spark of anger lit in his eyes. He was hurt. Hurt for his mother back in Bolgar. She had cared about Samad too—she would have held him to her heart. He was, after all, the boy she had given birth to thirty-two years ago. But this guy had no intention of becoming part of that family.

“Empty words,” Samad said.

“You should’ve been home last week, the night I arrived. Then you wouldn’t be feeding me these empty lines now.”

Samad pressed his lips into a thin line. They sat in silence, staring each other down—ready to go head-to-head.

“Think carefully,” Samad said quietly. “You won’t get another chance. This is my family. All of it is mine. And though you may be their son by blood—you’re still a stranger. You know nothing. You’ve lived nothing.”

Damir almost laughed at his bravado. “I know nothing? I’ve lived nothing?”

Samad made a dismissive hand gesture as if Damir didn’t understand the point.

Damir continued. “You think it’s harder to live on daddy’s money than to fight for a piece of bread? To get beaten by thugs who steal your last penny—and then become like them just to survive? To risk your freedom—your life?”

He leaned back slightly, then added after a pause:

“I won’t go on. You might not be able to handle it.”

“Looks like you Russians love action movies,” Samad scoffed sarcastically.

Damir sighed deeply. “If only…”

“Damir, just know—you don’t have much time,” Samad warned, ignoring his words.

“Then what?”

Samad stayed silent.

At that moment, Saher returned, beaming. “Brothers! So, did you talk?”

Damir instantly switched from hostile to warm, answering first. “Yes, sweetheart. Samad kindly offered to share all the family joys and troubles with me.”

Samad’s jaw clenched, and he slapped the table lightly, then looked at his sister and gestured for her to sit.

“Everything okay, brother?” Saher asked hesitantly, looking at Samad.

“Of course. Don’t worry—everything’s great,” he replied and kissed her on the temple.

Chapter 6

That evening, Damir carefully put the photos of his mother Zulfiya back into his suitcase. Samad clearly had no interest in them. Damir sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands. So that meant she would suffer if she came here. By morning, his head ached from a sleepless night. He got up early and, trying not to wake anyone, quietly went down to the kitchen. He sat at the table and made himself some coffee. Looking at his wristwatch, he saw the first light of dawn creeping through the window. It was ten to six. His mind was tormented with thoughts of his mother. He called her every evening before bed, each time making up a story—telling her that her real son was away on a business trip and that he very much wanted to meet her. He promised that as soon as he returned, they would call her together. She waited, and feared, and hoped for a joyful reunion all at once. He knew that. He knew his mother’s heart—what her boundless love was capable of. And he had no idea what to do next. At the same time, Emine—his other mother—also loved Samad. She had raised him as her own. If she found out about what he had done, she would be deeply hurt. And Damir couldn’t allow that to happen. He didn’t know what to do, caught in a whirlpool of thoughts. Sighing, running his fingers through his hair, he kept thinking and thinking. His father had turned out exactly as he had imagined—strong, intelligent, reliable. Damir smiled at the thought. A good gift from God. Now he had two mothers and the father he had dreamed of as a child. But he was no longer young either, and it wouldn’t be wise to risk his emotional health. Damir had once witnessed something that stuck with him forever—he was about eleven when a middle-aged neighbor, Uncle Rafik, suddenly collapsed and died on the spot from stress. That man had lost his son, who had died in the army, and the shock had taken his life. Damir and his mother had been in their house at the time and witnessed the sudden death. Since then, Damir had etched it into his memory: No risks with older people’s nerves—especially not mothers.

He heard a rustle and soft mumbling in Farsi. Turning around, he saw the housemaid—it must’ve been time to prepare breakfast. Damir stood up, wished her good morning, and quietly slipped away.

That day, Omer gave him a brand-new luxury Mercedes crossover and handed him a credit card for personal use. He also opened a bank account in Damir’s name.

Damir didn’t know how to react—he wasn’t used to such luxury. It felt awkward to accept, but he did, thanked his father, and said he wanted to earn everything himself. «This is all rightfully yours, son,» Omer said, nodding. «You shouldn’t be shy. And you’ll have more than enough time to earn—for yourself, and for all of us. Once I’m sure the business is in good hands, I’ll step away. And you’ll take over the corporation.»

«Me? Why me?»

«Because you’re my son.»

«Don’t push Samad aside, Father.»

«Of course not—he’s my son too. It’s not just about blood. But Samad won’t handle that kind of responsibility. I’ve seen what kind of intellect you have just in these few days—and I’ve got your full dossier, as you’ve probably guessed. I know Samad’s capabilities too. He’ll help you in everything. And the inheritance will be split evenly. But one percent more will go to you—to make you the official head of the company.»

Then, patting him on the shoulder, he added:

«But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m only saying this so you can prepare—and work hard to meet my expectations.»

Omer stood for a moment, watching his son’s reaction, then smiled with his eyes and walked back inside the house. Damir remained standing by the open door of his new car, spinning the plastic card between his fingers. He thought about Samad—who most likely saw this coming. What now? Surely he wouldn’t go as far as murder?

Getting behind the wheel, Damir started the engine and drove off slowly. He needed a bit of fresh air—those thoughts were getting too dark. Driving around the outskirts of Montreal helped distract him. He enjoyed the view of the unique old city. The scenery struck him with its mix of dominant French style and touches of American modernism. Historical landmarks and architecture stood peacefully alongside glass-and-concrete buildings. It was stunning. As he looked at the narrow streets of this Canadian Paris, with its little cafés and sparkling shop windows, he found himself dreaming that maybe, one day, he would walk here with his family—his beloved wife and children.

Chapter 7

A general meeting was held at the corporation, where Omer Saidi introduced his son Damir and announced that from now on, he would serve as his deputy—on equal footing with Samad. He also warned that for any major decisions, both deputies would need to be in agreement. If their opinions differed—which, he said, was normal—the final decision would remain with him. Damir instantly made a good impression with his simplicity and politeness. He was given a large, spacious office on the same floor as the senior management, and an assistant—a woman named Diana, ambitious, smart, and beautiful, around 35 years old. She had previously assisted Omer himself, but now she was assigned to his son with full authority to be his right hand and watchful eye.

«I’ll do everything I can,» she promised.

After introductions and settling into her new role, she sat comfortably in the chair across from Damir and offered, «To start with, ask whatever you’d like to know. I’ll provide more detailed information as we go.»

Damir sat at his desk, studying her for a moment. He liked her confident demeanor. It was clear she was a professional, experienced woman.

«Tell me about Samad,» he suddenly asked.

Diana raised her eyebrows slightly and looked at Damir with clear eyes. «He’s not very well liked.»

«Why not?»

«Well… how do I put it… he’s a bit arrogant. Not strong in business, but constantly puts people in their place.»

«What does he mainly do?»

«He collects debts.»

«What do you mean, collects?»

«In different ways,» she replied simply, shrugging.

«Legally, and sometimes not. Depends on who he’s dealing with.»

Damir picked up a pen and spun it between his fingers, recalling the veiled threats Samad had made during their first meeting. It wasn’t that he feared him—he just didn’t want the unnecessary headache Samad might cause.

«Does Father know about all this?»

«Of course not.»

«Then why don’t you tell him? You’re his right hand, as I understand.»

«I’m just an assistant,» she corrected him.

«And what proof could I possibly provide?» she answered his question with one of her own.

«He’s not just an employee—he’s the owner’s son, which makes him a boss too. Why would I dig into him? The father would take his side anyway.»

Damir stood and slowly walked toward the large window. Stopping beside her, he said quietly, «It’s your responsibility to report all information to your boss—regardless of who or what it concerns.» He held her gaze for another moment, then turned and walked away. «I hope that won’t be the case with me.»

«Yes, Mr. Damir,» the new assistant replied, biting her lip.

Omer Saidi had bought Diana a small house in the center of Montreal for her loyal service, and she didn’t want to lose it. At the same time, making enemies with the other son of the owner wasn’t in her plans either. She preferred to stay neutral.

The next day, Samad himself stopped by. Damir gestured toward the chair, then sat across from him. A small table separated them. The secretary asked if they wanted anything, and after she left, Samad spoke.

«Congratulations! From nobody to deputy of a major company!» he said, clapping his hands as he looked around the luxurious office of his so-called brother.

«Thanks. And this is just the beginning,» Damir replied coolly.

«Sometimes the beginning turns out to be the beginning of the end,» Samad said, leaning forward slightly.

Enough.

Damir stood up, walked around the table, grabbed Samad by the collar, and yanked him to his feet. Looking him dead in the eye, he growled,

«If you have something to say—say it openly. Don’t drop threats like some rat in the shadows.»

Samad shoved him back, his face red with anger. Raising a finger, he said under his breath, «Don’t ever do that again.»

«Then don’t ever threaten me again.»

When Samad left, Damir cursed and slammed his fist on the table. The situation was getting more and more complicated.

And tonight—at the family dinner, where that damn bastard would also be present—he had planned to announce his departure. That is, his trip back home. To bring his mother and his fiancée. And now what?

Chapter 8

“I have a suggestion,” Damir began as dinner was winding down. Everyone was full and content.

“What is it, son?” his mother asked with a smile, sitting beside him.

All eyes turned toward Damir, including Samad, who sat directly across the table.

“Father, if things at work aren’t too overwhelming right now, maybe you and my brother could take a week or two off?” Damir said, squeezing his mother’s hand beneath the table.

“All right,” Omer replied immediately, raising his brows as if to ask, Why?

“We’ll all go to Russia—to my home. Visit for a bit.” With those words, he looked directly at Samad, who nearly choked. “There lives another mother of ours—the one who raised me and gave birth to Samad. We should pay her our respects and honor her with our visit.”

Samad turned pale. He hadn’t seen that coming. Damir looked at his father, then at his mother, who immediately agreed.

“I would be happy to meet her. I want to thank her for raising you, for giving you all her strength, all she could,” she said, gently squeezing her son’s hand beneath the table. She spoke in Farsi, but judging by Samad’s expression, no translation was needed. Still, Saher translated it into English, then into Russian.

“It’s settled—we’re going,” the head of the family declared, reaching across the table to gently touch his adoptive son’s shoulder.

“It’s your turn now, son, to show strength and gratitude. We’ll all be by your side to support you.”

Samad looked at his father, pressed his lips together, gave a tight smile, and nodded obediently. Then he turned to Damir with all the bitterness he could muster. Damir leaned back in his chair, returning a satisfied, triumphant look.

Almost a month was spent processing documents, and then two more days of airport layovers, before the Saidi family finally reached the outskirts of Bolgar. Omer and Emine were swept up in nostalgia—riding together in a taxi, arms wrapped around each other, whispering lovingly despite their exhaustion. Damir, Samad, and Saher rode in another cab, half-dozing. For their arrival, a small rental home with all the necessities was arranged near Damir’s childhood home so the guests could stay comfortably. He had warned them: the living conditions here were a far cry from what they were used to—no luxury, no modern comfort.

“Don’t worry—we have no spoiled princes or princesses among us,” the father assured them, glancing at his children.

Samad had accepted his fate. He knew there would be no avoiding the discomfort—and the shame—and he simply surrendered to the flow. He hadn’t even met his poor, biological mother yet, and already, he hated her. He was sure Damir had brought him here just to show him exactly where he intended to throw him away someday. But of course, Samad wasn’t as naive as Damir might think. Things wouldn’t be that easy. What felt like an eternity passed before they finally arrived, just before dawn.

Poor Zulfiya, thinner from worry, stood at the gate of the rental home, anxiously twisting her headscarf in her hands, awaiting her important guests. When Damir saw her, he nearly jumped out of the car. She looked like a lost child abandoned in the street.

“My son, you’re back,” she said, reaching out to him as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t return.”

“Come on, Mom. How could I ever leave you? Don’t think that way. How’s your health?”

“All right, all right…”

One by one, the rest of the family got out of the cars and approached to greet her. They were tired but kind—even Samad. He looked genuinely humbled as he hugged his birth mother, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek to hers. Everyone watching the scene felt it in their hearts. Then Emine stepped forward, embraced Zulfiya, and sincerely thanked her for raising Damir—in her own language. The words were translated first to English, then Russian. Damir was overwhelmed with emotion—barely holding it in. Zulfiya, in turn, thanked them for raising Samad and for all they had done—and continued to do—for both boys.

By the next evening, after some rest, everyone gathered around a festive table that was nearly bursting with food—like a true celebration. Zulfiya and Aaliya, fluttering with love and excitement, bustled around serving the guests. That night, Damir returned to sleep at his family home. He invited Samad to come with him, and Samad, unable to refuse, followed him to their biological mother’s house. He returned to the guest house just before bedtime. The three of them spent the evening wrapped in a warm embrace, sipping green tea. Zulfiya stroked one son, then the other, unable to stop gazing at them. She kept crying and smiling through her tears, mumbling apologies. Damir observed Samad—clearly overwhelmed. He blushed and paled, stumbled over his words, repeatedly asking about her health and needs. His arrogance had completely melted away. It was as if Samad had finally woken up—felt the truth of who he was. He looked around: the poor but spotless little house, painfully humble. It frightened his imagination. This was supposed to have been his life. This home, this bed, this table and spoon—all meant for him. He was afraid to look Damir in the eyes. Now he truly understood how foolish he had been.

In truth, he should be thanking Damir for switching places—not resenting him. Damir read all this in his eyes—and his heart softened. Before parting, he placed a hand on Samad’s shoulder, gave him a brotherly pat, and wished him goodnight—as if he really were his younger brother.

The next morning, Aaliya quietly slipped into Damir’s room, eager for just a glimpse of her beloved. He heard her voice as she chatted with his mother, and soon the scent of her perfume announced that she was standing at the door. Without opening his eyes, he reached out a hand toward her. Aaliya hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the bed. He was covered with only a sheet down to his bare chest—more tempting than anyone she had ever seen, even in pictures. But her upbringing didn’t allow her to stare, even though he had been her fiancé for almost six months.

She sat silently, hands folded, smiling shyly.

“I’m covered,” Damir said with a husky voice, pulling the sheet higher up to his neck. Though from the knees down, his muscular legs were exposed. He took her hand.

“How are you, my baby?”

“I’m fine, thank you. And you?” she murmured, still not turning her head.

“Look at me,” he asked gently.

She couldn’t disobey her future husband and turned her eyes toward him, her cheeks burning with blush.

Damir laughed—he adored her modesty, such a rare quality these days.

“Today I plan to ask your parents to let you come with me to Canada. Maybe we’ll even get married in a hurry.”

Her eyes widened, and she flushed even deeper. Damir couldn’t resist anymore. He sat up and pulled her close. His lips found hers, and with a firm motion, he parted them with his tongue, kissing her deeply. Waves of sweetness shot through her body.

She missed him terribly. Damir knew she had been madly in love with him since childhood. Now, at twenty-five, she longed for his kisses and touches just as much as he did for hers. They had kissed before, but always carefully. Now his passion overflowed.

His hands caressed her back and hips, slowly driving her into ecstasy. His lips moved from her mouth to her neck—and when she moaned, he returned to her lips, whispering, “Shhh.” He smiled at her closed eyes and kissed her again. What felt like an eternity later, he finally released her. Her lips were swollen, her head spinning. She stood and adjusted her scarf and hair, nearly stumbling. He watched her, barely holding himself back from pulling her into his arms again. The sheet had slipped completely off, baring his muscular torso. When she noticed, she turned away and covered her face. He laughed quietly, leaning his head back. Then he stood, wrapped himself in the sheet again, and approached her from behind. He kissed her softly on the neck and whispered in her ear, “Soon you’ll be my wife… and I’ll be your husband. Do you know what that means?”

Over a late breakfast, Damir officially introduced his fiancée to the new family.

They decided that tomorrow they would all go to her home to ask for her hand in marriage and discuss the wedding and details. Emine, while still in Canada, had already anticipated this and discussed it with the family. Zulfiya, on the other hand, was embarrassed—she didn’t have the financial means for such an event and bit her lip anxiously.

After the meal, Damir took his Tatar mother aside and said:

“Mom, now that I’ve returned to my blood family, Father has opened a bank account for me. I have money—don’t worry. It’s enough to take care of everything right now.” She looked at him nervously, then over his shoulder at the others. He sighed, searching for the right words to reassure her.

“Mommy, please—don’t worry about anything. I’m going to work. All the hard times are behind us. From now on, you’ll be a lady of the house.”

“What do you mean…?” she said, recalling bitter memories—how he had once promised her the same thing, and how it had ended.

“Exactly that. Samad and I are taking on all your burdens now. You’ll focus only on yourself—and maybe our kids someday.”

“God willing,” she whispered, glowing with joy as he embraced her. Damir understood what she feared.

“From now on, everything will be different, Mom. I’m not alone anymore,” he said quietly.

Everyone loved Aaliya—even Samad. Surely it was the blood connection—she was Tatar too. From his warm gaze and smile, it was clear he admired her—her modest appearance, her attentive manner. She constantly poured tea, asked if anyone needed anything. The Iranian mother kept murmuring in Farsi, stroking the girl’s hair and shoulders, and Aaliya responded with shy smiles, eyes lowered. Damir was beyond pleased. He was bursting with pride. Good choice, he thought, silently thanking God—and his mother, who had insisted on it.