Page 10

"Be careful out there," I caution as she walks to the door, but she doesn't look back.

I pay for the drinks and step out into the alley behind the restaurant, walking alone toward the street where I parked my car a few blocks away. Maksim and Andrei warned me not to come to this meeting and think it'd be fruitful, but I'm glad I came. With someone working on the inside of the Volskaya family to unearth the secrets there, I'll have a much better success ratio.

My father will be exposed for his part in what happened. Our code of honor has always drawn a line at harming women and children, especially innocent ones within neighboring families. We leave them out of the business for a reason, and Ivan knew that. He got greedy for some reason, which I might never understand, but my father knew it and he covered it up. The council should know about this because my father should be held accountable.

And I'm going to make sure that happens. Even if I have to work with the beautiful daughter of my enemy to do it.

7

ALANA

"This place smells funny," I tell Natalia as she slips on the paper gown and turns toward me, handing me the strings.

"Shut up and tie me already," she grumbles as I fold the back of the gown over her bare ass and tie the strings. She can't ever do anything alone. This stupid med check is supposed to prove she has no diseases or whatever, but it's sort of archaic. It's not like my father is going to back out of this arrangement even if Alexei showed up with papers saying he has the clap.

"Why are you going through all this shit? You still have plenty of time to back out. It's not even the Day of Remembrance yet. You can tell them⁠—"

Natalia whips around, tugging the strings from my fingers as she does, and glowers at me. "I am not backing out, Alana. I can't. You know that." She frowns at me as if trying to draw sympathy. "How could you let Batya down like that? I know if it were you, you'd have gone running for the hills already."

I stand and pace to the window, looking out over the parking lot. Shame is a powerful tool in this family, one I used to fall for all the time. "Alana, be a good girl. Alana, don't say that. Keep our secret." My mother and father have always used it to manipulate me into keeping my mouth shut, all the more so after what happened with Ivan. I just don't think they understand how badly he fucked me up.

"You're right. I would be," I say quietly, turning toward her. I might as well give up convincing her how wrong this is. Her only thought is to not bring shame onto this family because it's what's been ground into her since birth. "But I have a reason to fight them." Natalia doesn't. She has only ever seen protection and safety. She doesn't know a thing about what happens when a father covers up his daughter's rape to protect himself.

Natalia opens her mouth to speak when the door opens and a nurse walks in, followed by Doctor Babich. I swallow the anger swirling in the pit of my stomach and cross my arms over my chest as they greet her and she slides up onto the exam table.

"I, uh… I'll wait outside," I mutter, touching her shoulder as they drape the cloth over her knees. She pouts, but I have no desire to sit and watch what's about to take place. I let myself out of the exam room into the hallway and catch a fresh whiff of the chemical they use to sterilize instruments and surfaces here. It's not unfamiliar. I've been to Dr. Babich's office more times than I can count. I've been his patient as long as Natalia has. He's the one who cared for me after the assault, too, and that makes me wonder if he has records on what happened.

It pinches my heart when adrenaline kicks into my veins. I could get into his records room and find my file. It's possible Batya never told me everything. I've never seen my file. It could have some sort of notes about the injuries or some way to prove I was raped. It's a start, though I'm not sure what Sokolov will do with that information.

But I can't get caught. I'm sure this place has rules against that shit—even for my family. They basically do whatever we want because of who my father is, but other patients wouldn't appreciate someone like me sniffing around files.

I pace the hallway for thirty seconds as my mind races with possibilities. It makes me terrified to think about what I'm about to do, but it might be the only way to get information.

The reception desk sits empty, the nurse having followed Babich into Natalia's exam room. I glance at the closed door, then at the unmarked door beside it that leads to the back offices. My heart pounds a frantic drumbeat I can't silence as I try the handle and it turns. The door opens onto a narrow room lined with filing cabinets, and I slip inside before my courage fails me.

I freeze for a second, listening for footsteps outside in the hall before I move deeper into the space, scanning the labels on the drawers. I find the V section and pull open the drawer, but my fingers tremble as they flip through the folders. When I spot my name, Alana Volskaya, written in Babich's handwriting, I pull the file free.

The folder feels heavier than it should. Most of these files are slim, even Natalia's. But mine is thicker than most, and it makes me curious as to why. I open it on top of the cabinet and scan the pages. There's the standard paperwork from years of check-ups, but near the back, I find pages dated five years ago, December twenty-fourth, the night of the Christmas gala. It's a massive section of notes and images, printouts from computer readings. None of it makes sense.

Babich documented everything—the bruising, the tearing, the samples he collected. I stare at a lab report I don't remember Batya mentioning and feel a knot forming in my throat. It's a DNA analysis with a positive match to Ivan Sokolov. They did a rape kit on me for some reason, and I have actual proof Ivan raped me. Yes, he was already dead, but Batya's fear of being put in prison for murder was unfounded. There is actual evidence it happened and he covered it up anyway.

I'm snapping pictures of every page when footsteps echo in the hallway outside, and I snap the folder shut. My pulse jackhammers in my throat as I shove the file back into the drawer and frantically push it closed. I look around for another exit, but there's only the door I came through, and the footsteps are getting closer.

I duck behind a tall cabinet just as the door opens. The nurse's voice drifts in, complaining about the scheduling, and I press my back against the metal drawers, my lungs screaming for air I don't dare take. She stands three feet away, close enough that I smell her perfume, as she shuffles papers on the cabinet by the door.

My phone vibrates. I feel it buzzing in my pocket, and I almost gasp out loud as I shove my hand down to silence it. The humming stops but I hold my breath, counting the seconds until she finds me because I’m sure she heard me. But the vibration is gone, and the woman doesn't even look my way.

"Stupid thing," she mutters, and the door opens and closes again.

I wait another ten seconds, then another five, until I'm certain she's gone, and I slip out from behind the cabinet and ease the door open, peeking into the hallway to find it empty. I walk back to the exam room on legs that feel like water, my mind reeling with what I found. I have proof now. Real proof. And I know exactly who I need to show it to.

Adrenaline pulses through me, making my palms sweaty and my hands shake as I slink into the waiting room and find a chair before my knees give out. Flashes of that night come back in haunting images in my mind—Ivan's rancid breath and the way he touched me. I feel the ghost sensations on my skin and shudder, covering my stomach with both arms as I hunch forward.

Seeing the test results stirred up all sorts of vile memories, ones I'd rather never think about again. And it makes my entire body feel alive with sensations I don’t want to feel. I clench my core and whimper, turning toward the wall as someone else walks into the waiting room and has a seat.

The information might not do much for me, but Dimitri can use it however he wants. I promised I'd let him know if I had anything, and this is definitely something, so I pull my phone out. The message I send is simple, but it takes me a solid three minutes to type it because I think I might throw up, and my vision is swimming.

Alana: 10:17 AM: I have something. We need to meet.