"A car has arrived, Madam. It is waiting in the driveway for you."
I frown, setting the tea tin down. "A car? Mikhail didn't mention a car. Is it Artyom?"
"No, Madam. The driver… he says he is from your father. Mr. Petrov says he wishes to see you immediately. He says it is a family matter that cannot wait."
The temperature in the kitchen seems to drop ten degrees. My grip on the counter tightens.Boris."Tell the driver I’m not here," I say, my voice turning to ice. "Tell him I’m unwell. Tell him whatever you need to, but I am not getting in that car."
"He was very insistent, Madam. He said you would know why he is here."
"I don't care how insistent he is. I’m married now. If he wants a meeting, he can call my husband’s office."
Elena looks like she wants to argue, but she knows better. She nods and scurries out. I walk to the window of the breakfast nook and watch. A black Lincoln Town Car is idling near the fountain. After a few minutes, the driver gets back in and the car pulls away, the gravel crunching under the tires.
He’s testing me. He knows I’m sniffing around, and he’s trying to see if he can still pull the strings.
I try to go back to my tea, but my appetite is gone. Ten minutes later, my phone starts to vibrate. I pull it out, my heart leaping into my throat. There’s a message from my father.
Answer the phone, Irina. Don’t be a difficult daughter. We have things to discuss.
Seconds later, it starts ringing. I stare at the screen, my pulse thumping in my ears. I want to smash the phone against the floor. I want to throw it into the fireplace and watch it burn. But I know Boris. If I don't answer, he’ll just escalate. He’ll show up here, or he’ll send men to find Aris, and I can't risk the trail going cold.
I press it to my ear. "What do you want, Papa?"
"That’s no way to speak to your father," Boris’s voice makes me shiver in disgust. "I sent a car for you. You sent it back. I’m disappointed, Irina. I thought marriage might have taught you the value of a cordial invitation."
"Marriage taught me that I don't have to listen to a word you say," I snap. "If you want a meeting, schedule it through Mikhail."
Boris lets out a dry, clicking laugh—the sound of a man who knows a secret you haven't figured out yet. "You think a few nights in a madman’s bed changes your DNA? You’re my daughter, Irina. And you’ve been a very busy little girl lately, haven't you?"
I freeze, the cold tea forgotten on the counter. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I think you do. Get here, Irina. I can continue to keep your secret buried. Or I can stop. I wonder… I wonder how Mikhail would react if he knew the real reason for your secret meetings."
I feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. My knees go weak, and I have to grab the edge of the kitchen island to keep from collapsing. The room tilts, the bright morning sun suddenly feeling like a spotlight on my crimes.
"You wouldn't," I whisper, my throat tight.
"Try me, daughter. You know exactly who your father is.”
I gulp. Because I do know who my father is, he’s a disgusting terrible man. If my death added a few more dollars to his account, he would have a knife at my throat in one second.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper but he hears me anyways.
“Get in the car. We’ll talk like family. Or I’ll have a very interesting conversation with your husband when he gets home tonight."
"Papa—"
"Don't be late Irina.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there in the kitchen, the burner phone still pressed to my ear, the dial tone a shrill, mocking scream. The walls feel like they’re closing in. My heart is beating so wild and fast I think it might actually break something in my chest.
Mikhail is the best of the bad guys, but he’s still a bad guy. And Boris just handed him the match to my funeral pyre.
I look at the door, waiting for the sound of Mikhail’s car, but for the first time, I’m not hoping he comes home. I’m afraid. I’m too hopeful to think clearly about Jersey, but too terrified to move.
I need to leave.
