Alan didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to give this man anything.
But his eyes betrayed him.
And his world stopped.
A woman sat at an outdoor café—somewhere sunny, European. Cobblestones visible at the edge of the frame. A cup of coffee steaming beside her. She was older than he remembered, lines at the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there before, her dark hair longer now, but?—
Timea.
His chest seized. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t?—
And beside her, at the table, a child. A young girl. Maybe eleven years old, dark hair escaping from braids, laughing at something outside the frame.
But her eyes?—
Her eyes were green. His green.
“This is fake.” The words came out broken. “You photoshopped this. She’s dead. I saw the reports, I?—”
“Did you?” Drago’s voice seemed almost gentle now. Almost kind. “Did you actually see a body? Or did someone simply tell you that your wife had died?”
“The boat blew up—I nearly died! I heard her scream, saw her go under?—”
Alan’s hands shook. When had he stood up? When had he crossed the cell? The photograph was in his fingers now, the paper trembling.
“They lied to you.” Drago lifted a shoulder.
“They—” He looked up. “Who lied? The Bratva? Crowley?” Alan’s voice cracked. “Why would anyone?—”
“You were a CIA asset who wanted out. What better way to ensure your compliance than to take everything you loved?”
Alan looked at him. “I know the CIA bombed the yacht. Damien told me—Isaac White ordered it.”
Drago shook his head.
Alan couldn’t breathe. Someone years before had suggested that White might not be involved, but . . .
But he didn’t know who to believe, really. “My wife died that day, along with our . . . child.” He looked at the picture. “Why?—”
“Because you were useful. Because grief makes men do things they would never otherwise do.” Drago reached for the photo, but Alan jerked it away.
“Crowley,” Alan breathed. “Crowley said he knew?—”
“Crowley was a useful tool, nothing more. A bitter man with his own vendetta, easy to manipulate.” Drago shrugged. “But he’s gone now. And my organization has been . . . managing certain assets he left behind.”
Alan stared at the photograph. At Timea’s face. At the little girl with his eyes.
“Her name is Fia,” Drago said quietly. “She was born seven months after the bombing—premature, but healthy. She’s never seen a photograph of her father. Timea told her you died before she was born.”
A sound escaped Alan’s throat. Not a word. Something more lethal than that.
“We pulled Timea from the water after the explosion,” Drago continued. “Barely alive. Three months in a private hospital. Reconstructive surgery. A new identity. We relocated her to Salzburg—neutral ground, quiet, safe.” He paused. “She mourned you, Alan. For years. Kept a photograph by her bed. Eventually she put it away—not because she stopped loving you, but because she had a daughter to raise. She couldn’t grieve forever.”
Alan’s legs gave out. He sat down hard on the metal bunk, the photograph still clutched in his hands.
Ten years.
Ten Christmases standing in the snow outside her family’s apartment in Budapest, watching through the window, grieving a woman who was alive. Ten years of rage and guilt and hollow vengeance, all built on a lie.
