Page 56 of Nemesis

My stomach turns.

“I expended every resource I had to locate the two of you, but when Della’s body turned up a few months after you disappeared, our best leads dried up.”

Each detail is separated in my mind like a numerical statistic—impersonal pieces of evidence that have nothing to do with me. I can’t think like that. Not right now. Not while stupid little words like grandfather and mother have the capability to knock me to my knees.

“You believe Popov threatened me, and Della chose to run,” I whisper, reading his tense expression.

“Yes.”

“So, what you’re saying is that my own…” I swallow, steeling my face. “That my own grandfather tried to murder me?” And I always thought I actually wanted a family.

“Well, your mother didn’t allow it. I think fleeing was her own way of trying to save you. My guess is that she dropped you off at an orphanage to give you a chance. One that she would never be able to provide you with.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t she just go to you for help if her dad was threatening me?”

“I’ve often wondered the same, love. My best guess was that she was conditioned to hate my family from birth, and she didn’t know who to trust.”

Della. My mother’s name was Della Popov.

A sigh blows through my lips. I had always considered the act of giving a child up for adoption as a show of great weakness and terrible life planning. One of the caretakers from the foster home used to say we were all destined to continue the cycle. Condemned children create condemned children. The cruel words repeat monthly in that one, sweaty nightmare that never seems to leave me be. The one where I didn’t manage to get away that night in the studio. Where my stomach swells with a child I’m horrified to share blood with, and I’m forced to bring it to term and leave it on those same steps.

Was that my mother’s experience? The Condemned creating the condemned? How could I have never considered that she might have been helpless, too?

The bed shifts. Now that I’ve seen the younger version, I can identify the way years color my dad’s face. Dark circles ring his lids, but those familiar, green eyes flare with a curious emotion I can’t quite name.

“You really looked for me?” I want to be big and angry, but my voice comes out small. I don’t know what to believe.

“Every goddamn day.” He leans forward, grasping my hands in his. Rough calluses line his fingers, scratching against my skin. “I’m sorry you’ve had to live such a hard life. But I want you to know that you’ll never be alone again, okay?”

The sensation stirring in my gut is unsettling. I clear the wetness from my throat, trying to feel strong again. If Della Popov decided she couldn’t trust the man sitting beside me, how can I? His story was clean and orderly, a vendetta completed and tied into a neat bow. But something whispers that I’m not seeing the whole picture.

And it’s the same voice that’s currently pulling me toward the man on the other side of the bathroom door like a string knotted around my rib.

I disentangle our hands. “I appreciate the information, but I haven’t gotten this far on my own by believing nice words.”

A look of irritation sweeps through his face, there and gone in half a second. “I understand,” he says with a tense nod. “You should rest. We can talk more later, if you’d like.”

Then he rises to his staggering height and shuffles a step backward.

“You may hate him,” I say quietly, stopping his path to the door. I gesture towards the bathroom. “But that man in there has already earned my trust. The jury’s still out on you.”

Fine, I was eavesdropping from the bathroom.

What?

I don’t do privacy. Besides, I’m not just going to leave Octavia completely alone with a Bratva kingpin, father or not.

I stand silently against the cracked door as Siderov says goodnight, replaying her words over and fucking over in my head.

That man in there has already earned my trust.

My pulse thunders in my ears.

The sentiment caught me completely off guard. She has everything now—money, family, protection. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about leaving out the wide, unlocked bathroom window once or twice while they talked. The only reason I stayed was the memory of what happened the last time I left her alone for more than a few minutes. Captivity was hard on her, and I don’t want to send her into another panic attack while she’s adjusting to the sunlight again.

Surely that’s all it is. An adjustment period. Anyone would grow attached to the person they were imprisoned with. Still, hearing her say those words affected me more than I would like.

If anyone else had rescued us from that shithole, I would’ve considered doing something far more drastic. Something like kidnapping the current object of my obsession and locking her somewhere remote until the infatuation inevitably passes. The problem? There are too many pieces on the board. Solokov and my uncle have a vested interest in keeping me contained, and Siderov’s not going to let me walk away with his daughter without a fight.