"Who's this?" She hands me a faded Polaroid picture in a wrought iron frame.
I accept the photo from her grasp and roam my eyes over the lady I only remember in hazy memories. “That’s my mom.”
My mother’s death is the main reason I returned from Russia three weeks ago. For years, I was told my mom died of a drug overdose. The older I got, the more rumors circulated throughout the compound that her death wasn't an accident, that her life was taken by a man. A man well-known to the Popov entity. My father is an abhorrent man—a reincarnation of the devil himself, but he loved my mother. She was hisahren; his gift from heaven.
When the rumors about the uncertainty of my mother’s death reached the pillar of the Popov entity—my father, he awarded me free reign. I could use any means necessary to find out if the rumors were true. I used them, and I discovered the truth. My mother was murdered, right under my father’s nose. It was the ultimate betrayal.
People assumed that when I killed the man who strangled my mother to death the story would end there. It didn’t. Before his death, Col Petretti disclosed that members within the Popov compound knew of my mother’s murder and hid it from my father. Spineless snitches who needed to be punished before they meet with their creator. That's why I came home. To serve justice for the people who aided in my mother’s death. Well, I thought that was the case until Blaire fell into my lap. Just like ten years ago, our chance meeting ended with me saving her life for the second time. . . before I ultimately claimed it.
“She's very beautiful.” Blaire runs her index finger over the frame to clear away the dust that settled on the glass the six months I was in Russia.
I purchased this apartment months before I was sent to Russia by an associate of my sister's fiancé. Contractors related to the Popov entity have been remodeling the main living areas the past six months. I was planning on surprising Blaire with news that the renovations had been finished the night she was attacked. I had planned on us moving in this weekend. I knew Blaire living in the Popov compound was dangerous, but I assumed my reputation would have been sufficient enough to protect her. Obviously, I was wrong.Terribly wrong.
“She looks a lot like your sister,” Blaire murmurs, dragging me away from my thoughts. She nudges her head to a photo I placed on the mantel the day I drove her to the airport.
I’d never expected my investigations into my mother's death to lead me to my sister. With the number of mistresses my father has, I have many siblings, more than I could count, but Isabelle is my only true sibling. We share the same blood. Just like my memories of my mother, my memories of Isabelle as a child are best described as cryptic. But the instant I saw her, I knew she was my sister. She's identical to our mother in every way, except for her eyes.
I hated using Isabelle to seek the answers on our mother’s death, but she was the only leverage I had. Although frightened, she was never in any danger when I kidnapped her to lure Col Petretti out of hiding, despite what Isaac claims.
She places Isabelle's photo back onto the bookshelf before shifting on her feet to face me. "The picture of the little girl on your desk. Is she your sister. . . or your. . .“
A smirk etches on my face from the uncertainty in her voice. She's even more beautiful when she's ruffled by jealousy.
“She isn’t my daughter. That's my sister, Callie.”
Relief fills Blaire’s impressive eyes. “I wasn’t sure. Her eyes are identical to yours.”
A smirk etches onto the corners of my mouth. “All the Popov children have Vladimir’s eyes. Scorched from the ashes of hell we were born in.”
She screws up her nose. “Not all of you. Nikolai doesn’t have dark eyes.”
Jealousy slashes me open just from her mentioning Nikolai’s name. Nikolai and I were close when we were younger, but after the incident in the alleyway, things changed between us. He became a shadow of our father—a ruthless and coldhearted man. Where I strived to become my father’s opposite.
“Who does Nikolai get his blue eyes from?” The confusion on her face grows. “I’m assuming the lady who called me a whore at brunch is Nikolai’s mother?”
Knuckles popping is the only outward appearance at my anger of Blaire being taunted. It still kills me that I didn’t stand up for her that day, but I was truly trying to protect her. Lessons were taught that day. No man will ever speak of Blaire with such disrespect again. Not if they have a fondness for breathing.
“Yes, Oskana is Nikolai’s mother,” I confirm with a precise nod of my head.
“And Vladimir is his father?”
I nod again.
“Are you sure?” Her voice is full of uncertainty.
She shifts her eyes to the photos on the mantel piece. “You said it yourself. All Vladimir’s children have the same eyes.” Her gaze drifts back to me, her demeanor more askew. “Nikolai doesn’t. His eyes are icy blue.”
I peer into Blaire’s eyes and shrug, unsure what she is referring to.
“Oskana's eyes are green. Vladimir's are brown. The chances of them having a blue-eyed child are low, Enrique."
My heart rate kicks into overdrive as a million rumors I’ve heard over the years run through my head. “How low?”
Blaire holds my gaze, ensuring I can see the truth in her eyes. “Not impossible, but very unlikely. Both parents would need to hold a recessive blue-eyed gene.”
Our conversation ends when a doorbell ringing shrills into my office. My head rockets to the side as my urge to protect Blaire kicks into overdrive. Only those in my inner circle know this apartment exists, so I find it surprising that someone is knocking on my door a little after six in the morning.
Blaire remains quiet as I gather my pistol from the hidden drawer in my desk. Although there are numerous ways you can kill a man without a weapon, a bullet is a lot less messy.
