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“What does that mean?”
“It means… ah, it’s probably better if I don’t tell you.” A worried sigh escapes her lips. “Are you going to be okay alone? I can throw a hissy fit and demand to come with you?”
“I don’t think Ice King out there responds to hissy fits. Anyhow,” I say, pulling my shoulders back, “this is my fight, and I’m going to go down swinging.”
She nods in agreement, but there’s doubt in her eyes because whoever I’m up against is nothing like anyone I’ve faced before.
* * *
My heels echoon the marble floors as I follow Sir Scowls-A-Lot, whose real name I've learned is Pavel, toward the other wing of this mansion. It’s deathly quiet here, as if speaking in anything but hushed tones is a federal offense. The silence does little to steady my nerves, which have been on edge since I stepped out of the room.
I distract myself by smoothing the fabric of my dress, focusing on the task to help steady my racing mind. The guard stops in front of an ornate set of double doors and knocks once. He waits until a deep resonant voice invites us in.
The door swings open and my attention is immediately drawn to the powerful outline of a man standing with his back to me, looking out the window. As he turns, I’m struck by his appearance. I’d put him in his early forties with dark hair streaked with silver at the sides, framing a stern jaw. High cheekbones and his deep-set blue eyes give him a distinguished look. But the thing I most notice about him is the air of authority he projects. Beyond his lean, muscular frame and ten thousand-dollar Savile Row suit, power seems to radiate off him in waves.
Who is he?
As if he can hear my thoughts, he tilts his head and asks, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah,” I huff. “The asshole who abducted me.”
This seems to amuse him for some reason. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” He studies me intently, his eyes roaming over my face as if he’s trying to figure out a secret. I hold my ground, refusing to let him see the fear churning inside. “But there is more to the story. If you’d care to sit down, we have much to discuss.”
“I don’t care who you are. You’ve made my life a living nightmare, and I have nothing to—”
“Sit.” His voice is like a sharp whip, and I do as he says.
Once I am seated, he clears his throat, breaking the tense silence that has settled between us. “My name is Maxim Belov. Have you heard of me?”
The ground beneath me shifts, threatening to swallow me whole. Belov’s name is known all across Europe—no, more than that, the world. He’s what would be called an oligarch. He has his fingers in all the major industries—oil, power, telecommunications. And in hushed whispers, it’s said he’s a major player in international organized crime.
I believe it. Because for all his perfectly tailored suits and sophisticated veneer, the man sitting across from me has the eyes of a cold-blooded killer. I should know, I’ve known more than my fair share.
While I’ve heard of Maxim Belov, I’ve never actually seen the man. He’s notoriously private and has somehow managed to keep his face largely out of the papers and off social media. Probably because he’ll kill anyone who dares disobey him.
“Of course I’ve heard of you, but that’s not the point.” I squirm in my seat. “Why am I here?”
“I think it is.” His eyes bore into mine, demanding my full attention. “I knew your mother many years ago. We had… an affair,” he confesses. “And you, Alyona, are the result of that union.”
I blink. Once. Then again. A bitter taste rises in my throat. This can’t be real. He must be lying.
“No… you’re not. I had a father and he died. He’s gone.”
A muscle in Belov’s jaw ticks as he holds up an envelope between two fingers. “I have proof.”
“Save the story, I’m not interested in an explanation.” He might be intimidating, but I won’t allow him to sit here and feed me lies.
“Alyona,” he commands. “Look at me. Can’t you see the physical resemblance?” I slowly lift my eyes to meet his, taking in his features. Really studying them.
Our eyes are the same deep shade of blue, but that doesn’t mean anything. And yes, we both possess dark, straight hair—but it’s a common Russian coloring.
A little voice reminds me that Papa had light-blond hair and dark-brown eyes, coloring that sharply contrasts with mine. Neither my father nor my mother was particularly tall, but I am… and so is Belov. But it’s his jawline and chin which are strikingly like my own. Sharp and well-defined.
A wave of nausea rolls through me, bile clawing at my throat.
I don’t want what he’s telling me to be true. He is not someone I want to know, let alone call Dad. Anyhow, I had a father who I loved. This man can go to hell.
“No matter the proof you have, I have no interest in getting to know you. So can we please wrap this up so I can get back to my life?”
