Her face goes blank, her cool mask sliding into place. "That's none of your business."
"How long was I gone before you were fucking someone else? A month? A week?" My fists clench. “Who’d you spread your legs for, Katerina?”
Her face flushes crimson, eyes narrowing to icy slits. "You don't get to ask me that. You lost that right when you disappeared without a word."
"Like hell I don't." I close the distance between us, watching her chin lift defiantly as I tower over her. "We were together for two years, Katerina. Two fucking years, and then what? I leave and you jump into bed with the first man who shows interest?"
"Not your business," she repeats.
"It is my business." My voice drops low. "So I'm asking you one more time. Who. Is. His. Father?"
Katerina crosses her arms, and I hate that I admire her ability to withstand my anger.
My men would be pissing in their pants if I went off on them like this.
"Why?" She tilts her head, studying me. "Are you planning to kill him?"
I bark out a laugh. "Maybe I should. Any man who abandons his child deserves a bullet."
"If I promise to tell you who Enzo's father is, do you promise to kill him?" Her voice is steady, but her eyes burn with a cold fire I've never seen before. "The man who abandoned me, who left me alone and pregnant, do you swear you'll make him pay?"
Something dark and primitive rises in me.
The thought of anyone hurting her, using her, leaving her to face pregnancy alone, it fuels the most violent parts of myself.
Is that why my father kept her here?
Protected her?
Was he making amends for some man's cruelty?
"Yes.” The word is a vow and a death sentence rolled into one. "Tell me his name, and I'll make sure he never hurts you or your son again."
A strange smile twists her lips.
"He's here," she says softly.
I scan my mental roster of every man who attended the funeral, every bastard who might have access to her, who might have?—
"Where?" My hands already itch for my gun.
"Turn around."
Confusion ripples through me, but I follow her instruction, pivoting slowly until I'm facing the wall behind me.
My father's antique mirror hangs there.
My face stares back at me, features hardened by years and violence, gray eyes blazing with fury.
For a moment, I don't understand what I'm seeing, what she's telling me. Then it hits like a sledgehammer to the chest.
"No." The word escapes as barely a whisper.
I see her reflection join mine in the mirror, standing just behind me, her face a careful mask.
"Yes." One simple word that tilts my world on its axis.
"That's impossible." But even as I say it, I know it's not. The timing fits perfectly. The boy's gray eyes, the set of his jaw. He's mine. My son. My blood.
