Page 55 of Nemesis

“I want to know everything about your life.” He steps closer and sits, perched on the edge of my bed. “I want to get to know you.”

I hum, trying desperately to process the words I never thought I’d hear.

As a kid, I often thought about what my parents would be like; I dreamed about them finding me in the foster care system and declaring they’ve decided to give the whole family thing another go. Then there was that year I spent fully convinced that the CIA had recruited my mom and dad for a top-secret assignment.

I blame Octavia Butler for that one. Susanne, the lady who ran the foster home, had a deep-seated obsession with the writer, and once I learned that she’d been my namesake, I developed one too. Bloodchild had always been my favorite, despite the short length. Susanne didn’t like that one—said a pregnant man was far too impractical—but I was more taken by the sacrifice of the child.

There’s nothing like an acute science fiction infatuation to convince a nameless nobody that her origin story was more than simple abandonment. Besides, it was much cooler to pretend my daddy was doing alien research in Area 51 instead of shooting up in an alley a few blocks away.

I let go of those foolish fantasies long ago. The wanting crystallized into bitterness.

My throat clears as I shift awkwardly. “I think I’m owed some answers, first.”

“Yes. Of course you are. Right…uh,” he stammers. The spectacle of such a large, scary guy stuttering through his words would be funny in any other situation.

“How about telling me if I have a mother?” I deadpan.

“Oh.”

I can see a cloud of dread envelop his face.

“There’s no pressure. It’s not like I had a mother to start with.”

The words sound weird coming from my mouth, because I think I did have a mother in my mind. One who was a fantastical figure when I was younger, slowly morphing into some unfortunate, lost soul as reality caught up to me.

“Right,” he says with a bracing sigh. “Well, when I took over as the Siderov Pakhan, replacing your grandfather after his death, there were certain expectations. It’s a common practice in our world to solidify alliances with marriage contracts.”

“You’re not going to try to marry me off, right?” I suddenly interrupt, stomach dropping. “I’d be a terrible wife. Not to mention, I’d kill you myself.”

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “I’d never do such a thing to a child of mine. Especially after how it ended up between your mother and me.”

Instead of settling my nerves, the statement only amplifies them. What happened to her?

“I was arranged to marry the daughter of our enemy at the time, Della Popov. The idea was to unite the two competing Bratvas in Chicago, making us an impenetrable force.”

A bad feeling settles over my bones. “I don’t suppose that truce ended up happening?”

His jaw ticks, gaze turning glazed and far. “No. Della was quite young and impressionable when we married, and her father had poisoned her against us for years. When she came to us, she was under strict orders to collect information from the inside and report back to her family. After she fell pregnant with you, the Siderovs were overjoyed to finally have the heir they’d hoped for. The Popovs, however…”

Despite the circumstances, I almost snort at the term heir. Yeah, some great heir they got out of me. Still, if I’ve learned anything from Vasiliy over the last week, it’s how seriously the Bratva takes loyalty.

“Did you off her after catching her spying?” I ask carefully. Maybe it was a mistake to send Vas away for this little chat. My father talked a big game about getting to know me, but what do I really know about him?

“No. I wasn’t happy when I realized what was happening, but I wasn’t the one who killed her.”

Oh. Oh.

My mother is dead.

Huh. I’m not sure why that feels so weird. It’s not like I had confirmation she was ever alive in the first place, but I never assumed she was murdered.

“A few months after she’d given birth, Della visited her parents. She brought you along under the guise of meeting your grandfather. I returned home the following morning from a business trip, and when she still hadn’t come back, I knew something was deeply wrong.”

My swallow goes down thick as I wait to hear the end of the story.

“I don’t know what went down at the Popov compound in those few hours. All I know is that Della turned against her father, took you, and fled the state. I have my suspicions about your grandfather’s intentions, but I don’t actually know what was said. Della cared for you deeply, and I wholeheartedly believe she would have done whatever was necessary to remove you from harm’s way.”

Whatever was necessary.