“Does my father know about this…baby?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. Remus started killing hisCapi, leaving trails of the same message everywhere—Sempre Famiglia.Had your father known he had a bastard son, he would’ve clocked it already. But he has no idea who’s on his track.”
I shake my head. “So…what does this mean? That Ms. Donatello killed my mother because, what? She wanted to be with my father?”
“We don’t have proof she killed her. It could’ve been her, or she could’ve been covering for someone. Either way, we canmake her talk now that we have this information. The important thing is, we know for certain you weren’t the one who did it.”
I take in a sharp breath.
“I don’t know if you remember this,” he continues, “but when you were little, you had an accident in the ocean. Hit your head on a rock.”
I do. I remember it vividly. “I stepped on a sea urchin and fell…” I admit.
“There’s another medical record there. It’s yours.”
I continue with the document, and my name appears next to the logo of San Maleno Hospital. It says I had a mild to moderate concussion, along with my age, place of birth, and other medical details that signal I was ready to be discharged that same day.
It’s the psychological examination on the next page, however, that makes me look up at Mikhail again.
“Recall variability might appear, depending on contextual cues,” I murmur, reading it out loud, my brows furrowed. “As in…me not remembering things correctly. And…”
He nods slowly. “Being susceptible to different versions of the events in your life.”
I swallow, looking up at the ceiling and stepping away from the desk. I run both hands through my hair, my legs leaden, so much that I reach for the couch again. But I don’t sit. I can’t.
“This is crazy,” I say, focusing on my breathing. “My entire childhood is a lie. I don’t…” I wipe away whatever tears are trying to flood my eyes. “Give me your phone. I want to call her.”
“She might’ve found out those documents have been accessed, if he was keeping track of that,” he says, handing it to me. “She might not answer.”
I tap the screen, recalling her number from memory. Then, pulse pounding in my ears, I set it to speaker, waiting for the first ring.
It never comes.
“We're sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected and is no longer in service.”
46
Cecilia
Breathing in the sweet, delicious scent of the cinnamon bun on the small table in front of me, I glance sidelong at Mikhail. He looks lost in thought as he watches out of the window of the jet taking us to Michigan, where Ms. Donatello was last seen by the Bratva hackers.
When he left for LA days ago, he went to settle his debt with Wolfgang. I wonder if it’s over now—if he got the closure he needed. Though, if I learned anything after going through arguably one of the worst moments of my entire life, it’s that the demons of the past don’t go away when you want them to.
I worry for him. Most likely, he’s still swimming there, in the depths of that ocean of pain and sadness. I wish I could’ve been there for him like he has been for me.
“Hey,” I say over the buzz of the aircraft. When he looks at me, he smiles, and my legs turn to water. He looks so handsome. “I never got to ask you. Have you solved whatever you needed to solve back in Los Angeles?”
He shakes his head, the bright emerald of his eyes flashing with a hint of resignation. His hand brushes my thigh. “Not yet, but soon. Then, it should be over.”
I don’t fail to notice the way he phrases it, like he himself is not sure of how things will end. Like he’s losing hope.
“I’m sorry,” I say, placing my hand on top of his. His gaze follows the motion. “I know what it’s like, now more than ever, to hate the person you once were.”
“Why? You never hurt anyone.”
I hurtmyself. I let others dictate my life and walk all over me. I’m humiliated and ashamed, but I don’t say any of it. This isn’t about me now. It’s about him.
“You can hurt people and still love them. We’re human. Neither one of us is supposed to be perfect,” I say.
