“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, shaking his head. “Even for a Bratva prince.”
I had a feeling he would suspect this was some kind of plot. I don’t blame him.
“I don’t lie about things like this. I don’t lie about blood.” My voice is steady, hard. I let him feel the steel beneath it.
His laughter cuts off as though it were sliced with a blade.
Johan exhales. It’s the first sound he’s made in a full minute. “Sasha wouldn’t make this up. He doesn’t play these kinds of games. Not where family is concerned.”
Peter says nothing, his mouth a flat line, his brow furrowed. He regards me as if hoping for some tell that this is all a sick prank. When he finds nothing, his face falls.
Finally, he speaks. “She can’t be mine. Louisa… she wouldn’t have…”
“She loved you,” I interrupt. “But she loved her child more. She loved her enough to know that she had to flee for their safety.”
Peter’s now shaking. He flicks his gaze to one of the men with whom he arrived, as if making sure he’s ready for anything that might happen.
“You expect me to believe…”
“I expect you to do the math. Think about when Louisa left, about how old Gabriella is. Hell, you can take a blood test if you’re still skeptical.”
Everyone in the room is frozen. Peter sinks back into his chair. He’s realized this is no bluff. He turns a sickly pale. No doubt he’s realizing the reality of what he’d almost done in those attempts on our lives.
“And she’s pregnant,” Johan says. “Twins, though I’m sure you already knew.”
Peter shakes his head. “The girl carrying your bastard spawn is my blood?”
Normally, such an insult wouldn’t go unpunished. This time I let it slide. There are more important matters at hand.
“Father,” Johan says.
Peter’s unraveling. His fingers twitch, his throat works. His eyes are glassy. “She’s bound to him.” He seems to be talking to everyone and no one. “Bound by conception. Bound to the Orlovs. You put your line, your heir, inside my daughter!”
Johan slams his fist onto the table. “Stop, Father. Pull yourself together.”
Peter doesn’t hear him. His face changes, from anger to horror. “Where is she now?”
“With Bogdan,” I say. “She’s safe.”
He shakes his head. “No, she isn’t. I sent men.”
My heart stops. “You what?”
Peter runs his hand down his face. “I sent men as a precaution. Before this meeting. I told them to pick her up.”
“You didwhat, Father?” Johan asks. “Are you insane?”
Peter’s not listening to him. He’s spiraling. “I need to call them.”
I shoot out of my chair. “Yes. You need to call them. Now.”
His phone is on the table. But with a shaky hand, he reaches into his pocket for a second. I have such a phone, too—the one used for things that are never written down.
He dials, then hits speaker and sets the phone on the table. The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
“No, no, no,” he says, shaking his head. “Pick up. You’re supposed topick up.”
Johan rises and begins pacing, muttering curses under his breath. I sit back, perfectly still, my blood turned to ice water.
