A woman has removed the bag. She’s thin and beautiful, with tan skin and hair like white silk, parted down the middle and cut severely to her jaw. She wears heels and a flattering black business suit, and has small diamonds in her ears. Her face is soft with what might be pity. She takes a letter opener from the desk in front of me, and in one neat motion, slices the zip-ties at my wrists.
I haven’t looked at him yet, but I know that now I have to. Spine stiff, I force myself to raise my eyes.
Behind a massive desk, Viktor Desyatov regards me mildly, while smoking a cigar. My heart clenches at the sight of him:unchanged. How is that possible? Three years have recreated me, forged me in fire. But my father is immortalized at fifty, eyes like blue ice set in a handsome, cruel face. His thick black waves are shot through at the temples with silver, and his black beard has begun to gray. As always, he wears a beautiful suit and a thick gold chain around his column-like throat, and his expression is absolutely inscrutable.
He would advise me not to speak first. After all, that’s how one establishes power in a negotiation. But I want him to think I’ve forgotten everything he taught me. I want him to think I have left this world entirely behind; that now I am a vulnerable mother in need of a wing.
“Father,” I say, not needing to fake the break in my voice. “Kak dela?”
The slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I know that expression well—amusement.
He’s not buying the act, I realize, dread spilling coolly down my spine.Just keep pushing.
“You didn’t reply,” I choke out. “Maxim Volkov—”
“Maxim Volkov, yes.” My father stubs out his cigar in a silver tray and reclines in his fine leather chair, hands crossed in front of him. “He did mention that he had you in his possession.”
“Why didn’t you come for me?” I say, surprisingly real frustration breaking into my voice. I narrow my eyes at him. “I’ve been in Russia for over a week.”
“Yes. I am aware.”
I grip the arms of the chair. His callousness, his amusement—I don’t miss it at all. “And you chose to simply leave me in the care of your enemy?”
“Maxim Volkov is not my enemy. He is a cockroach.” My father gestures flippantly with one heavily ringed hand. “Small enough to disappear beneath my boot.”
The disquiet in my gut intensifies. I’m unable to quell a flare of rage. “Not small enough to be crushed by it, it seems.”
My father grins. “Ah. Annika. There you are.”
Shit.I slipped up. My father is still playing the games he’s always played with me. Throwing bait out until, inevitably, I bite. He used to say the only person in the world with a more stubborn ego than him was me.
“He could have killed me,” I say, forcing my voice to soften. “Me.Your only daughter.”
“Annika. Please. You are not my daughter. You have not been my daughter for three long years.” My father leans forward, pinning me with a hard glare. “You are Annika Destry now.”
Fuck.I swallow. My heart is thundering, pulse a low roar in my ears. Suddenly Maxim vanishes from my mind. Suddenly, this ridiculous ploy seems more impossible than ever. More futile. Suddenly, this is a family matter, and nothing else.
I let my shoulders relax, my grip on the chair arms loosen. I hold my father’s eyes, and don’t blink. “So. We are cutting to the chase then.”
“Indeed.”
I speak cool and low, refusing to let him sense any real fear. “Where are my children?”
“Not here.” He drums thick fingers on the desk. “Do not fret, Annika. They are safe.”
“They’re not with their mother,” I say sharply. “They are not safe.”
“They are my blood. I would never harm them.”
“Iam your blood.”
“And I have never harmed you either. Have I, Annika?” The look of faint amusement in my father’s eyes dissolves. “You chose to fuck that gangster and get pregnant with his children. You chose to flee. To change your name and make a pitiful little life for yourself on the other side of the world.”
“My children would never have been safe if you knew of them,” I say coldly. “I had no choice. And here you are, proving I was right to leave you and your vile world behind.”
My father throws back his head and laughs. The woman watches him, still and expressionless as a statue. “Myvile world? Annika, dear girl, this is your world too. Or don’t you remember? Once you ruled it. And how proud I was of you. A terrible, monstrous, murderous little beast you were—I see motherhood has not changed you.”
I flinch. The words are a knife between my ribs. “I have changed,” I say. “I am not the dutiful servant I once was. I fight for my children and myself and no one else.”
