Her whole body stiffens, but I press on, my voice low, deliberate.
“And the reason it stuck, the reason people whispered…was because your mother was tangled in our world. Years ago. There was an arms deal. It went south. Badly. And the story that spread—whether true or twisted—was that she betrayed the Bratva.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She looks at me like I’ve just carved the ground out from under her.
“She vanished right after,” I add, softer now. “Disappeared completely. To outsiders, to men like Anton, that was enough proof to brand her a traitor.”
Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. I can see the storm behind her eyes, disbelief warring with the faintest recognition. Like she’s piecing together fragments of a past she’d locked away.
Then her lips part, trembling. “No. No, that’s not true.” She shakes her head hard, like the motion alone could shatter the words I’ve spoken. “This is just Anton. Another one of his games. Another one of his lies. He said those things about meafter I left him, to make himself look good. To make me look—” her voice cracks, “—like I was broken. Crazy.”
Her eyes brim, wide and pleading. “You believe that, don’t you? You believe he was lying?”
Her denial cuts sharper than a blade, because I know what she’s really begging me for—certainty, absolution, a clean past that no one can twist against her.
I want to give it to her. God, I do.
But my silence speaks louder than any lie I could tell.
She sees it. Her jaw tightens. She pulls her hand from mine and wraps her arms around herself, as if the only shield she has left is her own body.
“This is just another story Anton poisoned,” she whispers, more to herself than to me. “He wants me to be haunted. But I’m not. I’m not.”
Her eyes finally meet mine, raw and glistening, daring me to contradict her.
I hold that gaze, steady and unflinching, even though every part of me wants to look away and let her keep her illusions. “I thought the same,” I admit quietly. “For a long time, I thought Anton was just running his mouth. Trying to ruin you the way men like him always do.”
Her breath hitches, the tiniest flicker of relief sparking in her expression—until I go on.
“But after we married….” I exhale slowly, my jaw tight. “I had Demyan run a full background check on you. Not because I didn’t trust you,” my voice drops, hard, “but because I needed to know every angle Anton could use against you. Against us.”
Her face pales, her throat working as if she’s trying to swallow the weight of the words.
“I found things, Noelle. Your father….” My voice catches for the briefest second, but I press on. “He died of a drug overdose. Just a few months after you ran away.”
Her eyes widen, brimming with disbelief. She shakes her head once, then again. “No—”
“And your mother,” I cut in gently, because if I stop now, I won’t be able to keep going. “She was already in deep with the bratvas, dealing with people she shouldn’t have. She moved in circles. Dangerous ones. At one point, she was tied to the Rusnak Bratva in an arms deal that went south. After that….” I let the silence fall heavy for a beat. “…she vanished. No one knows if she ran. If she was taken. Even her body was never found.”
The color drains from her face, leaving her skin chalk-white. She stumbles back a step like I’ve physically struck her, her hand gripping the edge of the sofa for balance.
“You’re lying.” Her voice is faint, fractured. “You’re lying, Niko. You have to be.”
I don’t move toward her. If I touch her now, she’ll shatter.
But inside, rage sears through me like a live wire. Rage for the life she was dealt. Rage at Anton for ripping open old wounds. Rage at myself—for being the one to put this truth in her hands.
Her breaths come shallow, ragged, like she’s drowning on dry land. Her hands claw at her hair as if she can rip the thoughts out before they consume her.
“Noelle—” I step toward her, but she staggers back, eyes wild.
“I should’ve known,” she chokes out. “Of course. Of course I’d end up here. I’m my mother’s daughter, aren’t I? Chaos follows me. It’s in my blood.” She laughs, broken and bitter, the sound ripping through me. “I’ll die just like her. Just another body no one bothers to bury.”
“Stop.” My voice cracks sharper than I intend, but she keeps unraveling, words tumbling out faster, sharper, cutting herself with every one.
“I’m nothing, Niko. Nothing but white trash. The daughter of a criminal and a junkie. Did you really think I could ever be a doctor? That someone like me could save lives?” Her throat works, strangling on the sob that tears free. “No. This—this fucking mess—it’s my fate. The bratva. Blood. Guns. Graves. That’s what I was born for, and that’s what will kill me.”
I cross the space between us in two strides, catching her wrists before she can claw herself raw. She thrashes once, twice, but I hold on, firm but gentle.
