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"Shut up!" My voice was a snarl, the urge to tear her apart almost overwhelming. But a shred of reason held me back—she wouldn't play this card without a backup.

"The truth's the truth, Gennady," she sneered. "Imagine if she found out. That your father murdered hers. You think she'd still look at you with those lovesick eyes? Let you near her? She'd hate you to her core."

Every word was a branding iron, searing my soul. The thought of Cassie knowing, of her looking at me with hate—it was unbearable.

"What do you want?" I rasped, each word tasting of blood.

The urge to rip her to pieces froze as my fingers grazed the cold chair. I sank back, the chair groaning under my weight. She thought she had me by the throat? Fine. Let her gloat. She'd learn soon enough what it cost to corner a beast like me.

Ginnie stepped closer, her manicured nails grazing the chair's edge, her expensive perfume and dangerous aura enveloping me. Her breath was hot against my ear. "It'ssimple…" She paused, relishing the tension. "Next week. A big wedding. Every major player invited. I want all of Chicago to know I'm the queen of the Sokolov empire." She straightened, stepping back, her eyes burning with greedy triumph.

She paused, her gaze cruel. "Refuse, or try to play me, and Anya's address goes straight to Marco. And these—" she tapped the photos and file—"the proof of Victor's murder, your family's bloody hands, will land in Cassie's lap. She'll know exactly what kind of monster she's been loving."

Rage roared through me, molten and unstoppable, but I forced myself to stay calm. Years in this life taught me one thing: never show weakness to an enemy. I leaned back, fingers tapping the table like I was mulling over a business deal, though my grip was tight enough to dent the wood.

"Interesting offer," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Forty-eight hours, you said?"

Ginnie blinked, thrown off by my composure. She'd expected me to lose it. "Yes," she said, trying to regain control. "Forty-eight hours. I want an answer."

"Fine." I stood, smooth and composed, like I was discussing dinner plans. "Let me see you out. I need time to think."

Every cell in my body screamed to end her, but I played the polite host, guiding her toward the door. Her eyes flickered with uncertainty—she hadn't expected this.

Then, a sound—soft, almost nothing, like a snowflake landing. A sharp gasp from the stairs.

In the dead silence of the room, it hit like a bomb.

Ginnie and I snapped our heads up. Cassie stood halfway down the stairs, her hand gripping the banister, knuckles bone-white. Her face was paler than the moonlight, her eyes—once so full of love, pain, struggle—now empty, drowning in despair.

She'd heard everything.

"Cassie…" My throat burned, like it was sealed with hot iron. I wanted to run to her, but my legs felt like lead.

Her eyes locked on mine, and God, the pain in them—I'd never seen anything like it. Her lips trembled, trying to form words, but nothing came out. She stood there, fragile as glass, crushed by the ugliest truth.

Then she turned and bolted upstairs.

"Cassie! Wait!" I found my legs, charging after her. "Let me explain!"

Explain? What the hell could I say? That the truth wasn't real? That I wasn't the son of her father's killer? Lies were useless now.

A door slammed upstairs, followed by her muffled sobs, tearing through the night—and my heart.

Behind me, Ginnie's laugh rang out, cruel and triumphant. "Well, looks like she knows now. So, Gennady, what's it gonna be?"

Chapter 23

Cassie

I sat on the edge of the bed, hugging my knees, hands shaking so bad I thought they'd break. My world was crumbling, piece by piece, and I was powerless to stop it.

My father.

The man who stayed up all night when I was sick, who taught me to play the violin with endless patience, who'd stroke my hair and whisper, "Everything's gonna be okay" when I cried.

He was killed by Gennady's father.

The man I loved, the father of the child growing inside me, was the son of the bastard who took my dad away.