Chapter 10
For several seconds, I couldn't understand the words.
Your mother.
Damon's mother.
The woman who had screamed during the fire.
The woman he remembered from childhood.
The woman whose name he had never told me.
I looked at him.
“Your mother ordered the fire?”
“I don't know.”
“You said she was there.”
“Yes.”
“You said she screamed.”
“Yes.”
“Then how—”
“I don't know.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
It was the first time I had ever heard Damon sound lost.
Not controlled.
Not angry.
Lost.
Kirill took the letter.
“There's an address.”
Damon nodded.
“Tomorrow.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Tonight.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
The address belonged to a nursing home outside the city.
The woman listed in the records was named Sofia Volkov.
Damon's mother.
Alive.
I stared at the building.
“You thought she was dead.”
“I was told she died when I was twelve.”
“Who told you?”
“My father.”
Damon's expression hardened.
“Apparently, my father lied about many things.”
We entered.
A nurse led us to a private room.
An elderly woman sat beside the window.
Her hair was white.
Her hands thin.
But when she turned toward the door, I saw something familiar in her eyes.
Damon stopped.
“Mother.”
The woman stared at him.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then tears filled her eyes.
“Damon.”
He walked toward her slowly.
She reached for him.
He took her hand.
I stayed near the door.
This was not my moment.
Not yet.
The woman looked at me.
Her expression changed.
“You are Mila's daughter.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
“Then Elena succeeded.”
My heart tightened.
“Succeeded at what?”
“Keeping you alive.”
Damon looked at her.
“Mother.”
She turned toward him.
“I need to know the truth.”
Her hands trembled.
“I know.”
“Did you order the fire?”
She closed her eyes.
I could see the pain on her face.
“No.”
Damon exhaled.
“But you know who did.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
She looked at me.
“Sergei.”
Damon shook his head.
“He admitted he didn't.”
“He admitted he didn't order it.”
She paused.
“But he knew who did.”
“Who?”
Sofia looked toward the window.
“Viktor.”
Damon froze.
“Viktor?”
“Yes.”
“But Anton said—”
“Anton was protecting his family.”
She looked at me.
“Viktor ordered the fire because he believed Mila was the key to destroying Sergei.”
I swallowed.
“But why would he target a baby?”
“Because he believed Elena had hidden evidence inside her.”
I didn't understand.
“She was a child.”
“Yes.”
“She couldn't know anything.”
“Not consciously.”
Sofia looked at Damon.
“Your father had created a system of coded records.”
Damon frowned.
“The Volkov ledger.”
“Yes.”
“Where was it?”
Sofia pointed toward me.
“In your mother.”
My breath stopped.
“What?”
“The records were encoded into something Elena gave Mila when she was born.”
The blue scarf.
I understood.
“The scarf.”
Sofia nodded.
“She stitched the first code into the hem.”
I remembered the hidden paper.
The address.
The words.
Elena says he knows the truth.
But the scarf had contained more.
I pulled it from my bag.
Sofia stared.
“That is it.”
Damon looked at me.
I unfolded it.
The old stitches.
The hidden compartment.
But there was another section I had never noticed.
Sofia pointed.
“Inside.”
I carefully opened the seam.
A tiny metal strip fell onto my palm.
Numbers.
Letters.
Coordinates.
Damon took it.
“It's a cipher.”
Sofia nodded.
“Your father spent years trying to decode it.”
“Did he succeed?”
“Yes.”
“Then where is the final document?”
Sofia looked at me.
“Your father gave it to Damon.”
Damon stared at her.
“He never gave me anything.”
“He did.”
“When?”
“When he died.”
Damon shook his head.
“No.”
“He left it with the doctor.”
I remembered.
The doctor downstairs.
The one Damon had thrown out.
Kirill immediately called him.
Ten minutes later, the doctor arrived.
He looked confused.
Damon placed the metal strip on the table.
“You treated my father?”
The doctor nodded.
“Seven years ago.”
“Did he give you anything?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A sealed envelope.”
“Where is it?”
“I thought it was part of his personal belongings.”
“Where?”
The doctor looked at me.
“At the hospital archive.”
We went there before sunrise.
The envelope was still there.
My father's handwriting covered the front.
For Damon.
Damon opened it.
Inside was one sheet of paper.
And a photograph.
The photograph showed Sergei.
Viktor.
Anton's father.
And another man.
My father.
All standing together.
On the back:
The man who ordered the fire is not the man who benefited from it.
Damon turned the photograph over.
I looked at the fourth man.
I recognized him.
I had seen him once.
At the estate.
In an old portrait.
“Who is that?”
Damon's face went pale.
“Leonid.”
“Who?”
“My father's older brother.”
“Viktor?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Leonid Volkov.”
I stared.
“But Viktor—”
“Viktor took the blame.”
“Why?”
Damon looked at the photograph.
“Because Leonid controlled the organization.”
My stomach dropped.
“And where is he now?”
Damon didn't answer.
Kirill did.
“Dead.”
I laughed weakly.
“Of course.”
Kirill looked at me.
“Except…”
My smile disappeared.
“Except what?”
“There are records suggesting he changed his identity.”
Silence.
Damon looked at Kirill.
“Find him.”
“I already started.”
I looked down at my father's letter.
There was one final paragraph.
Alina,
If you ever reach this point, understand something.
The Volkov family did not destroy our family.
One man did.
But that man built his power by making everyone else believe they were responsible.
Do not hate Damon for the sins of his father.
Do not forgive him simply because he loves you.
Make him earn your trust.
And if you ever find Elena, tell her I kept my promise.
I stared at the page.
My father had known.
He had known Damon might become important to me.
Maybe not romantically.
Maybe simply as someone who carried the truth.
But the final sentence broke something inside me.
I kept my promise.
I began crying.
Damon stood beside me.
He didn't touch me.
Not until I reached for him.
Then his arms came around me.
I pressed my face against his chest.
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
“I hate that he kept this from me.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I understand why.”
“I know.”
I looked up.
“You say that too much.”
A faint smile appeared.
“I know.”
I laughed through the tears.
He wiped one from my cheek.
“I am sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything you lost because of my family.”
I shook my head.
“You didn't do it.”
“My family did.”
“You aren't your family.”
He looked at me.
“No.”
I touched his face.
“And you're not your father.”
His eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them, something had changed.
Decision.
Not fear.
Decision.
“I love you.”
The words were quiet.
Simple.
No grand declaration.
No dramatic promise.
Just truth.
My heart hurt.
“I know.”
He raised an eyebrow.
I smiled.
“I was waiting for you to say it.”
He laughed softly.
Then kissed me.
For the first time, there was no fear behind it.
No mystery.
No obligation.
Just choice.
Three weeks later, we found Leonid.
Not in Chicago.
Not in Wisconsin.
Not even in the United States.
He was living under another name in Vancouver.
Elena had known.
That was why she had disappeared.
That was why my father had died.
And that was why the missing file had mattered.
But the truth was not the end.
It was only the beginning.
Because when Leonid finally spoke to us, he revealed something none of us expected.
The Volkov organization had not ended with Sergei.
It had continued.
Quietly.
Through companies.
Through trusts.
Through people who had never carried the Volkov name.
And one of those people had been inside Damon's house for years.
Someone I knew.
Someone I trusted.
Someone who had watched the entire investigation unfold.
When Damon received the message, he read it twice.
Then looked at me.
“What?”
He handed me the phone.
There was one sentence.
The person who stole the original file is still working for you.
I looked at Damon.
“Who?”
His eyes moved toward the photograph.
Then toward the estate.
“I don't know.”
For the first time since all of this began, Damon looked genuinely afraid.
Not for himself.
For me.
We returned to the estate that evening.
Everything appeared normal.
The lights were on.
The staff moved through the halls.
Sloan was arguing with someone in the kitchen.
Mrs. Petrova was organizing dinner.
Kirill was on the phone.
Normal.
Almost.
I entered the library.
The photograph from my twenty-fourth birthday was still on Damon's desk.
The yellow coat.
My younger face.
A life before secrets.
I picked it up.
There was something written on the back.
I had never noticed it before.
Four words.
Your father was wrong.
I turned.
Damon stood in the doorway.
“What does it say?”
I handed him the photograph.
He read the message.
His expression changed.
“Alina.”
“What?”
He looked toward the hallway.
Then back at me.
“Lock the door.”
I did.
He came closer.
“What is it?”
Damon turned the photograph over again.
“There is someone else in this picture.”
I frowned.
“What?”
He pointed to the far edge.
Behind me.
Almost hidden by the bakery window.
A man stood watching.
My father.
But that wasn't possible.
The photograph had been taken three years before he died.
He should have been there.
Except the date printed beneath the photograph was wrong.
It had been taken six months after his death.
I stared.
Impossible.
Damon looked at me.
“This photograph was never taken on your birthday.”
My hands began to shake.
“Then when?”
He looked at the man in the background.
“After your father died.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Someone had altered the photograph.
Someone had been watching me.
Someone had wanted me to believe it was harmless.
Damon took my hand.
“We're not finished.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
Outside, snow began falling again.
Softly.
Silently.
Covering the grounds.
Covering footprints.
Covering evidence.
But this time, I knew better.
Some things could be buried.
They could not stay buried forever.
And somewhere in the darkness beyond the windows, someone was still watching.
May you like
Waiting.
For the next move.
