60

Maria
I pace the length of the living room, my fingers nervously tapping against my thigh. I can’t keep still. I glance over at the setting sun for what feels like the hundredth time, waiting for Mikhail to return home. He called from the road to tell Dominika he was coming home early. The staff is in a frantic panic as they hurry to finish their work. Mikhail doesn’t want to be disturbed, but I can’t wait.
Why was my father in that photo?
We didn’t talk about the photo last night. I was too scared to ask, and he was too angry to explain. My breath picks up as I think about what we did instead. I won’t let it happen again until he talks to me. I’m bracing myself for the icy stare Mikhail will give me when I demand to know the truth from him.
I fold my arms around my body and stop pacing. My thoughts are knotted into a tangle of chaos. My head spins with so many questions and doubts. I’m terrified to find out what’s true and what isn’t. My life is like a car wreck I can’t stop staring at, and it’s driving me crazy.
The elevator doors open, and Mikhail walks in. His black expression casts a shadow over the bright room. His jaw is set in a hard line, and his body language displays how tense he is. Hurried footsteps echo through the penthouse as the doors slam shut in the background.
Mikhail refuses to look at me. Should I have hidden too?
I take a step toward him, and his eyes sweep over me. I feel stupid wearing this blue silk dress as if it’s a shield against his rage. He’ll easily share his anger with me but remain tight-lipped. I watch Mikhail walk away, and he says nothing to me as he heads toward his office.
“Mikhail,” I call after him. “We need to talk.”
He pauses and stares at me. His scowl reminds me of a thunderstorm in motion, and the air seems to crackle around him. Goose bumps rise on my arms like I’ve touched something colder than ice.
I stare at his hands, checking for blood. There’s nothing there. There is no proof he did something horrible today.
“About what?”
“I found a photo when I was in your office. A picture of you as a boy.” I take a slow breath to calm myself. “And my father.”
Without responding, Mikhail walks into his office. A second later, he returns with that damning photograph clutched in his hand-the one with my father. He tosses it onto the coffee table and stares at me. I hold my breath and wait for him to say something.
“So,” his tone is calm, “do you believe it now?”
I nod as if it’s my choice, but I don’t want to … but I have to. I stare at the photograph of a young Mikhail standing beside my father.
“Yes,” I finally reply. “But I don’t understand …”
Mikhail hesitates, struggling for the right words. He’s not usually like this. His uncertainty heightens my anxiety.
“Sit,” he finally says, gesturing toward the couch.
I hesitate. My legs feel weak as the dread continues to climb. I sink onto the cushions, and my gaze never leaves his stony expression. Mikhail sits beside me, and I’m relieved when I see his gaze. His expression isn’t so severe any longer, and I take comfort in that.
Maybe he does want to communicate. To understand my viewpoint. To hear a logical explanation, if there is one.
“I kept the photo because it’s the only one where my father is smiling.” He trails off, then starts over. “And I don’t remember much from the day it was taken.”
“But why is my father there?” My voice cracks, but I stay strong. I have to make him tell me everything to prove it. I’m going to prove to myself that this is all bullshit. “Why was he in the Poconos?”
“There’s a private campsite in the Poconos.” His voice turns somber as he speaks. “It’s where the East Coast Bratvas go talk out their differences before things get too heated. A final place for diplomacy before all-out war.”
I shake my head. “But why is my father there?”
My question must have goaded Mikhail because his voice becomes harsher. “Because your father, Zakhar Budanov, was my father’s Avtoritet before he turned against us. Against my family.”
Avtori-what? What is he saying? Zakhar Budanov? No! My father’s is Michael Rostova. He’s an honest man. A good man!
“You’re lying!” I shout, jumping to my feet. “He’s not who you say he is!”
Mikhail stands up and grabs my arms. His grip is firm but not painful. “Look at the photo, Maria! Is that not your father?”
I look again, and it’s unmistakable that it’s Dad. But how?
“This is proof that I’ve been telling you the truth this entire time,” Mikhail whispers.
“No!” I shout. “Let go of me.” I struggle against him, desperate to break free.
He remains quiet and still. But his grip tightens on my arms, and his eyes lock on mine. It’s like Mikhail is searching for something deep inside me. The way he stares at me makes me tremble, but nothing will make me believe that my father is a dangerous criminal. There is no way I’ll believe that twisted lie.
I stop fighting him, but my anger doesn’t subside.
“It doesn’t make sense …”
“Doesn’t it?” Frowning, Mikhail stares at the photograph. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s why he’s kept you hidden all these years. You told me yourself about the one night when someone came to the house. He’s been hiding from the Bratva for years.” Mikhail’s eyes show pity, and I hate the look he gives me. “And now he’s come out of hiding because of you.”
“Stop it!” I shout. “My father is not the man you think he is.”
Mikhail releases me and walks toward a golden metal bar cart. He looks down at the crystal bottles, examining the labels while he speaks. “Your father’s past is catching up to him, putting you in danger. I wish I were lying, Maria. But I’m not. This engagement-it was a ploy to draw Zakhar out of hiding. He’s thrown in with the Lanzzare Mafia and is working against us now. Against me.”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “I don’t believe you. You’re wrong about that.”
Mikhail’s gaze holds mine, unwavering. “I’m not,” he replies.
“You are,” I whisper.
He thinks I’m talking about my dad. But I’m not. Is our engagement only a strategy to Mikhail? I knew from the start love had nothing to do with any of it, but then things changed. He changed. I thought we were teaming up to figure it all out. I thought he wanted the truth, and I could prove it. I never thought of myself as only bait. Not now.