Page 63 of Nemesis

I chuckle, plopping back into the chair beside the desk. Vasiliy settles at my back once more, as if nothing had happened. The only traces of the ordeal are the sharp scent of smoke lingering in the air and the pronounced pinch of my father’s brows. I nod my head for him to continue.

“What exactly would you like to know, daughter?” he asks thickly.

“Let’s start with your connection to our captors. You know who took us, don’t you?”

His forefinger and thumb pinch the center of his brow. “Last night, I told you some of our history with Popov. Your mother was supposed to seal our alliance back in the day, but that didn’t work out as planned.”

“Understatement of the year,” I mutter, urging him on.

“Right, well, the events of your mother’s death sparked a cold war through the years. Despite all evidence pointing to him, Popov publicly claimed that we were the ones who killed her, and I blamed him for losing you.” His voice lowers at the end, the only glimpse of emotion he’s allowing himself to display.

“So, this is all Popov? He’s the one who kidnapped us?” I ask, unconvinced. I remember the men holding us mentioning a ransom—why would Popov want to ransom me back to the Siderovs?

Vasiliy’s finger taps against my spine, as if he, too, isn’t swayed.

Noted.

“No, you were not taken by Popov’s men. I doubt they’d keep you alive if they found you. To them, you are the ultimate reminder of the alliance that fell through. A weakness.”

“So if not Popov, who?” Vasiliy asks behind me, voice betraying his impatience.

“In the last few years, the cold war between us has been growing less…cold. They’ve been launching more small-scale attacks, trying to weaken our hold. When two syndicates as big as ours go to war, smaller parties always try to come in and take their bite of power. The men who took you happen to be one of those groups—a smaller gang making its bid amid the instability.”

I frown. “Why are we hiding out in New Jersey, then?”

“Because I wasn’t the only one who received an offer for your ransom,” my father says. “Those fools tried to play too many sides at once. It’s best to keep our heads down and wait to see who else shows up to collect you.”

“You’re saying we were kidnapped by an unorganized group of nobodies?” I ask.

“In so many words? Yes. In fact, I’m surprised Morozov let them get the jump on you guys. I’d heard he was a better fighter than that,” he quips.

“Are you telling me that you wouldn’t stop fighting if someone pressed a barrel into Octavia’s cheek?” Vasiliy explodes behind me.

“We were collateral?” I whisper to myself in disbelief.

My mind swims.

All of the hell I’ve faced in the past week—it was just a meaningless game between temperamental men with guns?

There’s no way.

“Allowing them to get close enough to touch her skin with a weapon is a failure in itself, boy. My men would never⁠—”

My heart pounds against my ribs. I need a break from pretending like all of this is fucking normal. Kidnapping and gunfights and whatever else these people do. I’m a dancer. I don’t belong here.

“You’re damn right they would never! You and your men forgot to show up for the first few decades of her life!”

I rise, cutting the argument short. “I need a moment,” I inform the room, edging around the desk and towards the exit.

“I’ll come with you,” Vas offers, but I wave him off.

“It’s okay, I’ll be on the other side of the door. I just need a moment to myself.”

I don’t bother to look back, twisting the doorknob and slipping out of the room.

Collateral.

Days of torture, and darkness, and fear. The terror that woke me from my sleep this morning, convincing me I was back in the cage. The acrid copper scent of blood that hangs in the air of every room I enter. The fucking squelch that refuses to leave even after I press my hands to my ears with all my might.