“The bodyguard’s name? How should I know?” I blinked. I smirked at the same look Vassili offered. Our answers were identical, just like twins.
“I’ll ask Yuri.” He mentioned his cousin and old UFC manager. “Alright, here’s the truth.” Vassili picked up a green drink Momma placed in front of him. “Natasha’s Shadow had little going for him until he brought the Italian to my attention.” He tapped a message on his cellphone. Probably a text. “Yuri will discover the Italian’s name by the end of day.”
Which meant they’d hack into the UCLA Medical Center. Great. Actually … Yuri? Meh. A dozen donuts would persuade him not to tell my dad Lorenzo’s name. Why did I need to protect the guy from my—Vassili? I was sure my Shadow would talk to Enzo. Force him not to breathe in my direction.
“You’re better than this, Natasha.” Vassili placed down his empty glass a tad too hard.
“I’m not doing anything with Lor—the Italian guy. We’ve been cool for a while. We’re just friends, alright?”
“You were friends with that Adrian Chelomey!” A vein pulsed in his forehead. Momma strolled behind his chair to massage his shoulders.
Turning away, I sent Yuri a message, beginning with Uncle. He was so not my uncle. But the big teddy bear was pretty easy to persuade.
ME: Uncle! Don’t respond to Pop.
He replied instantly.
YURI: What do I get?
ME: All the Krispy Kreme donuts you can eat.
YURI: I can afford to buy more donuts than you Cutie Pie.
Only he could call me Cutie Pie without an argument.
ME: PAHLEZZZ. I’ll explain later.
YURI: Ok. But you never explain. You always say that. You just never do. One day my ‘k?zn is gonna kill me because of you.
ME: He’ll have to go through me first.
I’d strolled halfway out of the room when Vassili took another dig at me. “You let thezhopatake you to the prom. Adrian. Tried. To. Rape. You. Natasha. Don’t you turn your back on me!”
“Vassili, lower your voice.” Momma’s next squeeze of his powerful shoulder did nothing. Not even a flinch at her warning.
Anger and sorrow flashed in his eyes. “We sheltered you too long. All those years with cancer … we did our best. Leave Lachlan! Allow Edik Mikhailov to pursue you. Thatmud”—he strangled a Russian cussword—“filthy pickpocket wouldn’t dare harm you in his presence.”
“Okay.” Trembling mad, I stuttered, “If-if Edik says something disrespectful, or God forbid he’s a nasty Russian like the Chelomeys?—”
The words dropped like stones in the kitchen. My own words. Words that shouldn’t have departed my mouth.
A tense beat of silence passed before my father uttered, “Nasty Russian?”
What was wrong with me? I’d insulted half my bloodline. Heat burned the back of my throat, shame piling onto an untamable rage.
I was half Russian. My blood carried both histories—Momma’spower;Pop’spride. But that night’s tragedy was executed by the hands of another … Russian. A night that should’ve been joy and champagne and cancer survival had warped me. Left me fragmented. Broken.
And tonight, it bubbled into a hatred targeting the blood in my veins. My lineage.
Eyes averted to the floor, I forced a swallow. Cement crowded my throat. Pop must hate me now.
I’d almost broached that night with my therapist. Almost. Yet the words wouldn’t come, as they tasted of acid. The night of my Whispers of Hope fundraiser went from dazzling to desecrated. I’d survived cancer with family around me.I’d survived attempted rape by Adrian Chelomey.
And I’d survived the horrors ofthatnight alone.
I whispered into the air that had grown fragile with silence, “I’m sorry, Pop.”
“It’s tough for Russians right now, Tasha.” Momma crooned, smoothing a hand over my forearm like she was trying to wipe the poison off me.
