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He tenses instantly, his spine going ramrod straight. “What question?”
“Were you there the night that Mila and Ilarion’s father died?”
His eye twitches. I’ve seen it a million times, but it never stood out to me as significant before. Eye twitches meant Dad’s stressed, Dad’s tired, Dad’s blah. It wasn’t exactly a smoking gun.
But now? I’m seeing it differently. Maybe it’s a tell I never caught on to. A giveaway I ignored because I thought I could trust my father.
Apart from the twitch, however, his face remains stoically nonchalant. A littletoostoic, actually. A little too nonchalant.
“Who’s been whispering in your ear, Little Bird?”
My stomach twists and I drop my gaze, if only to collect my thoughts. “Dad…” I clear my throat and meet his eyes. “Things are never going to get better between us until you start being honest with me. You were there, weren’t you?”
I expect him to ignore me, like he has so often whenever I’ve asked him an uncomfortable question. I remember the days after Mom’s diagnosis. Celine and I were so confused, but neither one of us wanted to talk to her about the cancer. So we went to Dad.
What kind of cancer?
What stage?
Will she survive?
Will she need chemo?
Is there hope?
He would listen to the questions with dead eyes and then walk away as though the conversation was over. We didn’t hold it against him; he was reeling from the news, too.
But that was personal.
This is different.
“Yes, I was there.”
My eyes grow wide. More because he answered me, rather than the answer itself. “And…what did you see? What did you hear?”
He hesitates, his eyes flitting all over the room. “I saw the man die,” he admits. “I saw the bullet pierce his flesh. I saw the knife cut through his skin.”
“Knife?”
“She used a bullet to take him down. And then she slit his throat.”
“She…” I breathe slowly. And then I remember whatshesaid. “You told Benedict Bellasio, didn’t you?”
This time, he doesn’t hesitate. His lips are turned down, and his eyes are cast in darkness when he replies. “Yes, I told Benedict. I was an informant, Taylor. So I informed. At the time, I thought it was the least damaging intel to give him.”
“Dad…”
“Ilarion protected Mila well.”
“He’s thepakhan,” I say. “And his men respect him. They took his word rather than the word of a petty rival. But if they didn’t, do you know how badly it could have gone? The danger you could have put Mila in?” I suck in a breath before I lose my temper on her behalf. “Were you really so willing to gamble with her life?”
“I had my own girls to think of,” he argues. “I had no time to think of anyone else’s daughter. Ludwig Zakharov was a fucking bastard, but he was still her father. And he kept her safe. What could he have possibly done to warrant being murdered by his own flesh and blood? Yes, Mila killed him. But Ilarion stood there and watched. In the end, is it really such a difference?”
I try to imagine the scene unfolding. Mila’s shaking hands, Ilarion’s clenched jaw. But maybe it was the other way around? Maybe Mila was the one who was determined? Maybe Ilarion was the one coursing with fear?
“So, the informant doesn’t know everything.”
His eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?”
