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Only a minute passes, but it feels like an eternity until the guard comes again. “The Don will see you now.”
My heart thumps as I share a look with Yan. The guard leads us inside, but before we can go into the mansion, he shakes his head at Yan. “Only the signorina.”
My friend’s shoulders go rigid. “I’m going with her.”
The guard steps forward, glaring at him, probably ready to throw him out by force.
I touch Yan’s hand and muster a courageous smile. “I’ll be fine, Yan. Wait for me here.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he also doesn’t act stupid and cause a ruckus when we’re obviously greatly outnumbered by the countless guards we spied in every corner of the property.
“Last door to the left, Signorina,” the guard tells me, motioning inside.
I follow the path he showed me, walking down a long hall with several Renaissance paintings hanging on the walls. By the time I reach the door, my heartbeat is erratic and irregular.
You can do this, Lia.
After inhaling deeply, I knock on the door.
A gruff, “Come in,” propels me to open it and step inside.
Soft piano music fills the place.Chopin.
I expected to find an office, but it’s a dining room. The large table is fit for over fifty people, like one from a castle, and the chairs surrounding it are tall and gold-rimmed.
At the head of the table sits a man who appears to be in his late fifties, but his hair is completely white, even though it’s thick. His physique looks fit for someone his age, with his muscles filling his suit. A scar runs diagonally down his face, across his cheeks. His eyes, though? They’re the same exact color as mine—blue, mysterious. Haunted.
This is my father.
I’ve seen him a few times before at the Bratva’s banquets, but I’ve never stopped to look at him, to even see the resemblance between us. I’ve always kept a barrier between me and that part of Adrian’s life, which Lazlo belonged to.
He’s all alone in the dining room. No guard or family member present. Isn’t he worried that I might do something to him? Though he could easily overpower me if that were the case. And he probably has some guards hidden in invisible places.
He’s cutting a piece of steak in front of him as he watches me with his piercing eyes.
I stand a few seats away, meeting his stare.
“Mrs. Volkov,” he says slowly, with a distinctive Italian accent. “My guard tells me you claim to be my daughter.”
“It’s not a claim.” I swallow down my nerves. “I am your daughter with Rachel Gueller.”
“How do you know of that name?”
“She was my mother.”
“Your mother’s name was Morelli.”
I frown.
“You thought I wouldn’t do a background check on Adrian’s wife when he’s my closest ally in the Bratva?”
“Then you know my father was Paolo Morelli and that I was born in Italy.”
“Correct. Which is why I would like to know why you claim to be my daughter.”
“My mother was forced to leave the States after she got pregnant with me and married my father—stepfather.”
“What are you getting at?” He continues cutting his steak but doesn’t bring anything to his mouth. “Is Adrian aware of what you’re doing? If he does know—”
