Chapter 6
I did not call Damon.
Not immediately.
I sat on the edge of my bed with Sergei Volkov’s business card between my fingers and read my mother’s handwriting until the words stopped looking like words.
Elena says he knows the truth.
Ask what happened before Damon was born.
The two sentences seemed simple.
They were not.
I looked at the clock.
11:47 p.m.
The estate was quiet.
Too quiet.
For the past week, I had become accustomed to hearing doors open somewhere downstairs, Kirill arguing with someone on the phone, Mrs. Petrova giving instructions to the kitchen staff, Sloan laughing at something she had no business laughing about.
Tonight there was nothing.
I slipped the card into my pocket.
Then I stood.
I told myself I was going downstairs to speak to Damon.
That was all.
I was not frightened.
At least, that was what I told myself.
The hallway was dark except for the small lamps along the walls.
I walked toward the library.
Halfway there, I heard voices.
Damon.
And another man.
I stopped.
The second voice was unfamiliar.
Low.
Older.
I moved closer.
The library door was not completely closed.
“Seven years,” the man was saying.
Damon answered quietly.
“I know.”
“You should have stopped.”
“I couldn't.”
“You could.”
Silence.
Then the man spoke again.
“She is here now.”
My heart stopped.
I knew they were talking about me.
Damon's voice became colder.
“She has a right to know.”
“Does she?”
“Yes.”
“You sound like your father.”
That sentence changed everything.
I pushed the door open.
Both men turned.
The stranger stood beside the fireplace.
He was perhaps in his late fifties, with silver hair and a dark overcoat. His face was unfamiliar, but something about him made the back of my neck tighten.
Damon looked at me.
“Alina.”
I stepped inside.
“Who is he?”
The man smiled faintly.
“Your father's old friend.”
I stared at him.
“My father had very few friends.”
“So did Sergei.”
Damon's expression hardened.
“Leave.”
The stranger ignored him.
His eyes remained on me.
“You have Elena's eyes.”
I had heard that sentence twice now.
But from him, it felt different.
“You knew her.”
He looked at Damon.
Then back at me.
“I knew many things.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
Damon stepped between us.
“Anton.”
The man sighed.
“Still protecting everyone.”
“Go.”
Anton smiled sadly.
“You haven't changed.”
“I said go.”
Anton reached into his coat.
Damon's hand immediately moved toward the inside of his jacket.
I froze.
Anton slowly removed an envelope.
He placed it on the table.
“Your father gave this to me.”
I stared at it.
My father's handwriting.
Again.
My legs felt weak.
“When?”
Anton looked at me.
“Three days before he died.”
I couldn't speak.
Damon didn't move.
Anton continued.
“He told me that if you ever discovered the truth about Elena, I should give this to you.”
“Why didn't you?”
His face changed.
“Because I was afraid.”
That answer was so unexpectedly honest that I didn't know what to say.
“Afraid of what?”
“Sergei.”
The name seemed to darken the room.
Damon looked toward the window.
“My father is dead,” he said.
Anton shook his head.
“Death doesn't erase what people did.”
I looked at Damon.
He was pale again.
Not from his injury.
From memory.
“What happened before Damon was born?”
The question left my mouth.
Damon closed his eyes.
Anton looked at him.
Then he nodded.
“So you found the card.”
I touched my pocket.
“How did you know?”
“Because your mother was clever.”
“You knew my mother too?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Anton sat slowly.
“Your mother came to me in 2013.”
I pulled out the chair opposite him.
“What did she want?”
“Elena.”
“Did she find her?”
“She found a way to contact her.”
My breath caught.
“But Elena refused to meet her.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
Anton looked at Damon.
Then at me.
“Elena was willing to meet your mother.”
“Then why didn't they?”
“Because Sergei found out.”
The room went still.
“How?”
Anton rubbed his hands together.
“Your mother had discovered that Elena had worked for Sergei many years earlier. She also discovered that Elena had seen something she was never supposed to see.”
“What?”
“Your father knew part of it.”
“Tell me.”
Anton looked toward the door.
Then lowered his voice.
“Sergei Volkov had a daughter.”
I stared.
Damon did not react.
That frightened me more than anything else.
“A daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Before Damon?”
Anton nodded.
“Before Damon.”
I looked at Damon.
His face had become completely unreadable.
“Who was she?”
Anton hesitated.
“Her name was Irina.”
The name meant nothing.
Yet Damon looked as if someone had struck him.
“You knew,” I whispered.
He didn't answer.
“You knew about her.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know how.”
“That's becoming your favorite excuse.”
His jaw tightened.
“Irina was my half-sister.”
The words settled over me.
Half-sister.
I tried to understand.
“You mean Sergei had another child.”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
Damon looked at Anton.
Anton answered.
“She died.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“When?”
“Before Damon was born.”
“How?”
Anton looked down.
“That is the question your father was trying to answer.”
I stood.
“So this is why my father was investigating Elena?”
“Yes.”
“And Elena knew something about Irina?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Anton was silent.
Damon finally spoke.
“Alina, you need to go upstairs.”
“No.”
His eyes met mine.
“You don't understand what you're asking.”
“Then explain it.”
“I will.”
“Now.”
He looked exhausted.
But this time, he did not refuse.
“Before I was born,” Damon said slowly, “my father had a daughter with a woman named Elena Markovic.”
My heart stopped.
“Wait.”
I looked at Anton.
“Elena was Sergei's—”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Elena was not only your grandmother.”
She was silent for a moment.
“She was my father's first wife.”
I could not move.
Damon's voice continued.
“They were married for less than three years.”
I shook my head.
“My grandmother was Serbian.”
“So was my father.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She didn't.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“She disappeared.”
Anton spoke softly.
“Sergei told everyone Elena abandoned the family.”
“But?”
“She was trying to escape.”
“From him?”
“Yes.”
I thought about the letters.
The adoption.
My mother's childhood.
The blue scarf.
Everything suddenly seemed connected.
“Then Irina…”
Damon looked away.
“Irina was four years old when Elena disappeared.”
“And Sergei kept her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she was his daughter.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
Damon's voice became bitter.
“It wasn't.”
I sat down.
“What happened to Irina?”
Damon remained silent.
Anton answered.
“She died in a fire.”
The words were almost impossible to process.
“When?”
“Six months before Damon was born.”
“Accident?”
Anton did not answer.
I looked at Damon.
“Was it?”
His eyes met mine.
“No.”
The single word was barely audible.
“Then what happened?”
Damon looked toward the fireplace.
“My father said Irina died because Elena came back.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means my father blamed Elena.”
“For what?”
“For trying to take Irina away.”
I felt sick.
“Did Elena cause the fire?”
“No.”
Damon's answer came immediately.
“She was nowhere near the house.”
“Then why blame her?”
“Because Sergei needed someone to blame.”
Anton stood.
“And because there was evidence that someone else had started it.”
I looked at him.
“Who?”
He hesitated.
“Your father.”
My entire body went cold.
“My father?”
“Not intentionally.”
Anton shook his head.
“Your father discovered the fire had been deliberately set. He found evidence of it while repairing the building's heating system.”
I thought of my father.
His hands.
His tools.
The way he noticed everything mechanical.
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He copied the records.”
“Why?”
“Because Sergei ordered the evidence destroyed.”
I looked at Damon.
“And my father refused.”
“Yes.”
“That's why he contacted you?”
“Yes.”
The room seemed impossibly small.
My father had spent years carrying a secret I had never known existed.
And Damon had spent seven years carrying it after him.
“Who started the fire?”
Anton shook his head.
“We never proved it.”
“But you suspected someone.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Anton looked at Damon.
Damon's expression became grim.
“Someone inside my father's organization.”
“Who?”
“My uncle.”
I stared.
“You have an uncle?”
“Had.”
“What was his name?”
“Viktor Volkov.”
The surname suddenly felt less like a family name and more like a warning.
“Where is he now?”
Damon's face went blank.
“Dead.”
“Everyone in your family seems to die before answering questions.”
Anton looked at me sharply.
Damon almost smiled.
Almost.
Then a sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Three people appeared in the doorway.
Kirill.
Sloan.
And Mrs. Petrova.
Kirill's expression was serious.
“Damon.”
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
He held up his phone.
“A car has been sitting outside the eastern gate for forty minutes.”
Damon stood immediately.
“Who?”
“Unknown.”
Anton went pale.
Then he looked at me.
“Did you tell anyone about the card?”
“No.”
“Did you show anyone the scarf?”
I shook my head.
Anton whispered one word.
“Then they already know.”
Damon looked toward the windows.
“Everyone stays inside.”
Kirill nodded.
Then the lights went out.
May you like
The estate disappeared into darkness.
And somewhere outside, a gunshot cracked through the night.
