“Tell me it’s not prison time.”

“I don’t think so. I could come back, but… that’s probably not an option for me right now. Let me explain the situation briefly, and maybe you can recommend someone in Moscow I could talk to.”

“Alright, brother. Go ahead.”

For the time being, Damir rented an apartment in a more populated area and moved in with his mother, Zulfiya, and his wife. Emine wanted to come too. She didn’t believe a single word her husband had said and was deeply hurt by the accusations he had thrown at their biological son. She kicked him out of their bedroom and stopped speaking to him. Saher didn’t believe the story either. Samad had left on a business trip. Despite everything, Omer didn’t freeze Damir’s bank account. In fact, he added more money to it. He no longer blamed or scolded him either, and when he heard that Damir was moving into a rental place until he could prove his innocence, he accepted it. Meanwhile, Damir was waiting impatiently for a call from his Moscow friend while preparing to move.

Diana had found a small, furnished apartment on the outskirts of the city in just a few hours. When they met, she handed him all the document copies he had asked for. Damir, his mother, and his wife packed their belongings and left.

Soon after, Emine and Saher arrived. Damir tried to comfort both of his mothers—who fully believed in him. They were devastated, unable to understand who could have betrayed their boy like this. They also hoped the other son, as a brave and loving brother, would uncover the truth and save him.

Three days later, Vadim finally called back and gave him an address in Montreal.

“Call this guy and explain everything in person. He’ll help you find the right people over there.

Trying to handle it from Moscow is useless—they told me that.”

“Who is this?” Damir asked, reading the name he had just written: Alexander.

“He’s… a good friend of a very influential person living in Canada.

He’s Russian. When he heard about you, he agreed to help—once he found out you were also from Russia and who your father is. I think he’ll be useful. Damir, I don’t know what else I can do for you, brother.”

“Thank you, man. I owe you big time. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner.”

“No worries. We’ll settle up later. Just let me know how the meeting goes. Call or text me.”

“Absolutely.”

By half past twelve, Damir arrived at the restaurant where the meeting was scheduled. He walked inside and asked the host where Mr. Alexander was seated. The host politely led him to the table. Alexander turned out to be a man in his mid-fifties, tall and lean, with sharp facial features and a cold, steely gaze of icy blue eyes.

“Good afternoon,” Damir greeted him and sat down.

“I’m listening, young man,” Alexander replied, his voice tight and oddly restrained. Damir cleared his throat, unsure of where to begin.

“Just the essentials, briefly,” the man offered, helping him gather his thoughts.

“I suspect my stepbrother of setting me up,” Damir began, “but I have no idea how to prove it to my father. I need someone who can dig into this.”

Just then, a waiter arrived and began placing dishes on the table.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you before you arrived. I hope you’ll enjoy it,” Alexander said, gesturing to the food.

Damir glanced at the plate in front of him, then at him. He hadn’t eaten properly since that day in his father’s office—his appetite had vanished completely. But right now, food was the last thing on his mind.

“As for your case,” Alexander started in a monotonous tone, sipping soup between words, “I believe it can be resolved.” Then, turning the subject back to the food, he insisted, “Your brain works better on a full stomach, young man. Don’t be stubborn.”