Luciano Romano struts over like a lovesick idiot toward the passenger side of the car, holding his hand out to help a blonde girl climb out.
The way he cups her face… the way she melts into him… the way he pushes her gently against the door and kisses her as if she were his entire fucking world. The very sight of it has my jaw locking and my blood boiling. All because the girl Luciano is kissing is the spitting image of my sister.
Kira. Kira…it’s you.
My chest tightens violently at the sight of my long-lost niece. The missing part of our family.
I’m out of the car before I realize it, moving at rapid speed toward them, needing to make sure I’m not hallucinating. But when her laugh drifts through the cold air, light and musical, something inside me cracks open even further. That sound… That melodic sound used to fill our home once upon a time.
I’m so stunned I don’t even notice stopping in my tracks, let alone the nun marching out the front doors with her face twisted in righteous irritation.
“Frances O’Malley!” she scolds sharply. “I thought I told you I needed you here at eleven on the dot. It’s already half past!”
“Don’t be cross with Frankie, Sister Margaretta,” Luciano cuts in smoothly in my niece’s defense. “Our brunch went later than expected.”
“Surprising,” she sniffs, “since your siblings had no trouble arriving on time, Luciano. I’ll be sure to inform your mother that any invitation extended to Frankie or Darius henceforth must be adhered to a precise schedule. You know the rules. Work before fun.”
“I’m sorry, Mother Superior. It won’t happen again,” Kira says sweetly, tempering the nun’s hard edges instantly.
“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” the nun retorts, no longer any bite to her bark. “Now go inside, you two, before you both catch a death out here.”
Luciano and Kira walk into the building hand in hand, the nun shaking her head behind them, while I lean against a nearby tree to keep myself upright.
Frances O’Malley. That’s the name Kira’s been living under. All this time, we were searching for a little Russian girl named Kira, while she was right here in Chicago, hiding under an Irish alias, right under our noses.
Was this Katya’s doing? Did my sister hand her daughter off to some unknown Irish couple for them to raise? Was that the smokescreen she conducted to ensure that bastard Vasily never got his claws in her? Or us, for that matter? A thousand questions slam into me at once, paralyzing me for a second.
Kira… I found her. I found Katya’s daughter.
Fuck! Misha! I need to tell him.
I pull out my phone, ready to dial, when again I freeze in place. No. I can’t tell him yet. Not until I know for certain this girl is ourplemyannitsaand not just an uncanny look-alike. Every instinct in me screams that she’s the one, but Misha will want proof. Paper. Records. Something tangible. And I can’t just walk up to Frances and demand answers from her without blowing everything wide open.
If she attends this school, there must be some sort of records—admissions files, parental information, contact details. Right now, any information is precious.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I stride toward the front doors of Sacred Heart, slip inside, letting out a relieved breath for not finding any familiar Romano faces in the main hallway. What I do find, though, is complete Christmas chaos. Nuns and children of all ages decorate a massive Christmas tree that dominates the lobby. Gold and red ribbons spiral aroundit. Glass ornaments shaped like angels and trumpets catch the light. Paper snowflakes made by small, clumsy hands hang from strings taped to the ceiling, and garlands with tiny battery-powered lights wrap around every railing and every tall surface, glowing like stars. It’s loud madness, but innocent, too. Like a world untouched by the kind of darkness my brothers and I have been accustomed to. It’s the perfect setting for a child.
Perfect for her.
I school my expression into the warmest, most charming smile I own and approach the youngest nun I can find, hoping her devotion to God won’t blind her to a handsome man asking for help.
“Excuse me?” I say gently, tapping her shoulder.
She turns, her smile blooming when her eyes land on me. “Oh! Hello. May I help you?”
“I truly hope so.” I give her a slow, charming smile—the type that works on most women I’ve come in contact with, holy or otherwise. “My youngest brother just moved from San Francisco to live with me, and I’m scouting schools for him to attend. Is there someone I could speak to for more information about Sacred Heart?”
Of course it’s a lie, but lies are more convincing when wrapped in a kernel of truth.
The nun glances around the bustling hallway, frowning in mild distress.
“I’m afraid everyone is quite busy today, but I could check if Mother Superior has a few minutes… if I can find her, that is.” She chews her lip nervously.
“That would be wonderful. Is there a quiet place somewhere I could wait?”
“I can take you to the administration office,” she says. “The secretary isn’t in, but it’s warm and quiet.”
Perfect.
