He glances toward Mikhail, who nods slowly.
“Thierry helped build the foundation of Ivanov Holdings,” Yuri says. “He kept the money clean. He made sure our legitimate empire remained within the confines of legality.”
My heart thuds harder. This isn’t new. It’s just confirmation.
“However, at some point,” Yuri goes on, “he discovered something. My father’s ally—Evgeny Smirnov—was siphoning off Bratva funds through side operations. Dangerous ones. Drug corridors, arms shipments. Thierry tried to bring the evidence to my father, intending to expose it.”
A pause. His jaw tightens. “But Smirnov found out first.”
I look down, fists clenched in my lap. “So he had them killed.”
Yuri nods once. “Staged a car accident. No fingerprints. No direct trail. But we knew who it was.”
“And your father did nothing.”
“My father,” Yuri says, his voice dipping with quiet rage, “was furious. Devastated. But if he’d moved against Smirnov openly, it would’ve started a war the Bratva wasn’t ready for. So he waited. He made one decision, one quiet, final act in honor of Thierry’s loyalty, and your mother’s memory.”
He glances toward Mikhail again, who clears his throat. “We located you a week after the funeral,” Mikhail says. “You were barely one. The initial plan was to bring you into the family household under a new name, but your mother’s relatives wanted no part of us. And frankly, it was too dangerous.”
“So they just left me?” I whisper.
“No,” Yuri says. “He placed you with a vetted foster family. Monitored your well-being from a distance. And when you turned eighteen, the trust was activated. Your Harvard scholarship. Your apartment. The job offer after your graduation.”
He lowers himself onto the chair across from me. “Everything was planned but never imposed,” he says softly. “You were always meant to have a choice.”
I stare at him, heart hammering. “And when did you find out?”
“After Paris. After the plane. When the lawyer came to me and told me who you were.”
I swallow hard. “So you knew. And you didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t want you to wonder if I touched you because of guilt.”
Silence. The kind that scrapes.
“I’ve lived my whole life thinking you were the enemy,” I murmur. “And now that I know the truth, I don’t know what to do with it.”
Yuri leans forward, elbows on his knees. “How can I help?”
I look at him—this man who has kept my secrets and his own. Who held me like I was something fragile and rare. Who knew the truth and still kissed me as if he didn’t.
“I need time,” I say.
He nods. “Take all the time you need. But know this—my father loved your parents. And I will never, ever let anything happen to you.”
I stand on trembling legs and walk past him to the balcony. The city glows below, an endless sea of lights. I rest my hand on my stomach, where life grows in the shadow of ghosts.
I don’t know what comes next, but at least now I know what came before.
The door closes with a soft click. Mikhail is gone. And with him, the last buffer between me and the full weight of the truth. I suddenly feel out of place—like a girl playing dress-up in someone else’s house.
Yuri stands a few feet away, watching me in silence. I can feel the tension in the air, stretched thin. He’s giving me space, but he doesn’t like it.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For not lying.”
He doesn’t speak. Just waits. I try to breathe. Try to keep it together. My fingers clench around the hem of my shirt, like if I just hold still long enough, the emotions will pass.
“They were good people,” I murmur, my voice catching. “Weren’t they?”
