Mariya's face pales, but she doesn't interrupt.
"No one knew his motives or what he planned to do," I continue. "We all just watched and waited, trying to figure out his endgame. My father had meetings about it. Discussions with the other Pakhans about what to do if Pushkin made a move. But we were too slow. Too cautious. And then the massacre happened. Entire families were wiped out in a single night. My mother and sister among them."
My hand tightens around my glass, the memory of that night still fresh even after all these years. Coming home to find them dead. The blood. The silence. My mother's eyes staring at nothing, my sister's small hand still clutching her favorite doll. I was supposed to protect them. I failed.
"Your father never confirmed or denied being behind it," I say, my voice rougher now. "But then he testified against the families. Against the very organization he'd been part of his whole life. He named names, revealed secrets, and destroyed alliances that had stood for decades. That pretty much screamed his guilt."
"Or his conscience," Mariya says quietly.
I look at her, surprised. "What?"
"Maybe he testified because he knew who was really behind it. Maybe he was trying to stop them." She sets down her glass and moves closer to the desk, her eyes searching mine. "Did you ever consider that?"
"No." The word comes out harsher than I intend. "Because the evidence pointed to him. The timing, the stolen items, and the way he disappeared right after testifying. It all adds up."
"To what? A man trying to protect his daughter from the same people who killed your family?" Her voice rises, and there's passion in it now. Conviction. "You said yourself the massacre was organized. Coordinated. That takes planning, resources, and connections. My father was powerful, yes, but he wasn't that powerful. Not powerful enough to orchestrate something like that on his own."
She's right, and I hate that she's right. I've spent years believing Yegor Pushkin was responsible for my mother's and sister's deaths. Years hunting for him and the heirlooms he stole, for answers. And now his daughter is standing in my office, poking holes in the narrative I've built, making me question everything I thought I knew.
"Then who?" I demand, standing up. I need to move, need to do something with the energy coursing through me. "If not your father, then who was behind it?"
"I don't know." She looks down at the list of safehouses on my desk, and I see her hand tremble slightly as she reaches for it. "But maybe that's what he was trying to tell us. Maybe that's why he hid all of this."
I move around the desk, closing the distance between us. She doesn't back away, doesn't flinch, just tilts her chin up to meet my eyes, and damn if that doesn't make me want her even more.
"You're asking me to believe that everything I've thought for years is wrong," I say, my voice low. "That I've been chasing the wrong man. That your father was innocent."
"I'm asking you to consider the possibility." Her voice is softer now, almost pleading. "I'm asking you to look at the evidence with fresh eyes. Because if you're wrong, Andrey, if my father wasn't behind the massacre, then the real killer is still out there. And they're coming for both of us now."
Before I can respond, the office door opens. One of my captains steps inside, his face pale and his breathing labored like he's been running.
"Boss," he says, his voice urgent. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but?—"
"What is it?" I'm already standing, my body tensing for whatever bad news he's about to deliver.
"Some of the men on the docks." He swallows hard. "They've been attacked. I don't know how many, but there are deaths."
25
MARIYA
I'm about to tell Andrey about the note my father slipped into my jacket pocket while we were watching the library burn when the captain bursts through the door, his face pale and his words tumbling out in a rush about an attack on the docks. Deaths. My mouth snaps shut so fast, my teeth click together.
Andrey's already moving, his body shifting into that lethal mode I've seen before. All business and violence are barely contained beneath expensive clothes and controlled movements. He doesn't even look at me as he strides toward the door, Matvey falling into step beside him like a shadow.
"Stay here," Andrey throws over his shoulder. "Don't leave the estate."
Then he's gone, and I'm left standing in his office with my heart pounding and my father's note burning a hole in my pocket.
I wait until I hear the SUV pull away before I move. My legs feel shaky as I climb the stairs to our bedroom, and I lock the door behind me even though I know it won't keep anyone out if they really want in. It just makes me feel better. More in control.
The note is exactly where I left it, tucked into the pocket of the jacket I'd worn yesterday. I pull it out with trembling fingers and unfold it carefully, like it might disintegrate if I'm not gentle enough.
The handwriting is unmistakably my father's. Those slightly cramped letters, the way he forms his Rs with that distinctive loop. I've seen his handwriting on birthday cards, on notes left on the kitchen counter, and on the documents he used to bring home from work. This is him. This is real.
Mariya,
I'm alive. I'm watching over you as best I can. Trust no one completely, not even the man you've married. The truth is more dangerous than you know. Be careful. Be smart. I'll find you when it's safe.
