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My hands shake as I set down the note and open the large manilla envelope. The papers slide into my hand, and my gaze locks onto the bottom line, finding my own signature there, forged just like on our marriage documents.
“What is that?” Sophia asks.
“He’s divorcing me.”
I utter those words and my heart shatters in a billion tiny shards. What changed in the span of a couple of hours? Or is this how he’s always felt and the idea of going into the new year with me is more than he can bear. I don’t understand.
My knees tremble. I reach for the table to steady myself.
Yes, I told him numerous times this is what I want, but not recently. I thought we’d moved past this, that he knows I’ve changed my mind. I only want him.
I’ve given him my heart. Now he doesn’t want it?
CHAPTER 38
Dimitri
My entire body screams in agony. Not in the way it does after a punishing fight in the cage, that I can handle, this feels worse. My vision swims in and out of focus. They must have given me some kind of sedative. Even so, I’m gradually becoming aware of my surroundings. Men’s booming voices fill the space. Russian. They’re speaking Russian.
I try to move my arms, but I’m met with resistance and the jangle of chains. That’s when I notice I’m sitting slumped over, secured to a chair. I’m still wearing my tux, though it’s torn and dirty. Somewhere I lost my bowtie.
I feel like I’ve been unceremoniously carried, dropped, and dragged multiple times.
Where the fuck am I?
I suck in a breath, my ribs shriek in protest. Bruised. I ignore them. The air smells different here—arctic.
“Are you awake, mal’chik?”
I glance up in time to see Boris’s massive fist fly at my face. My reflexes are total shit. The punch lands right across my cheekbone, my teeth rattle and eyes water. Just another bruise to add to all the rest.
“Enough!” Barks my father—Konstantin. He leans over me. “We have a lot to catch up on, son.”
“Where am I?” My voice cracks, my throat scratchy and dry.
“Moscow.” He straightens, slides a chair over and sits in front of me. “We flew in last night.”
Moscow. I’ve come full circle, right back to the beginning.
“What do you want?” I croak.
“You. I’ve finally come for my son after all these years.”
His son? Like hell I mean anything to him. He abandoned me on these very streets over twenty years ago. As far as I’m concerned my father died when I was nine years old, when Uncle Vadim took me to America and I left my past behind. This man seated before me is no parent of mine.
“I’m not your fucking son.” I spit the words at him.
He backhands me across the cheek. The blow stings. Jagged memories that I’d forgotten about come flooding back. He likes to hit. What a piece of shit.
“I am your father and you’ll keep a respectful tone with me, son.” Like I remember from my childhood, he never raises his voice. His tone is calm, almost soothing so you never guess at what’s coming. “What do you say to that, Dimitri?”
I grit my teeth. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now I have some things to set straight. You should know that I did what I had to do when you were a child.”
I glare at him. “You fucking sold me.”
Smack. He hits me again. “What did I say about that tone?”
