Chapter 7
For one second, nobody moved.
Then Damon grabbed my wrist.
“Down.”
I hit the floor.
Another shot shattered a window somewhere downstairs.
Glass exploded across the hallway.
Sloan screamed.
Mrs. Petrova pulled her behind the wall.
Kirill was already moving.
He drew his weapon and disappeared through the library door.
Damon crouched beside me.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
I did.
His face was close.
Too close.
His eyes searched mine.
“Alina.”
“I’m fine.”
He exhaled.
“Good.”
Then he stood.
I caught his sleeve.
“You're injured.”
“Not anymore.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Stay here.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Alina.”
“You said I had a right to know.”
“This isn't about knowing.”
“It is if someone is shooting at the house because of my family.”
He stared at me.
Then something in his expression changed.
“All right.”
He pulled me behind the heavy desk.
“Stay low.”
Kirill returned moments later.
“Two men.”
“Inside?”
“Outside.”
Damon nodded.
“Any identification?”
“Not yet.”
Anton looked terrified.
“Viktor.”
Damon turned.
“What?”
Anton swallowed.
“I thought he was dead.”
Damon's expression changed.
“He is.”
“No.”
Anton shook his head.
“I mean the person who ordered the fire.”
“What about him?”
“He wasn't Viktor.”
Silence.
Damon stepped closer.
“You told me it was Viktor.”
“I was wrong.”
“Anton.”
“I was protecting Elena.”
Damon's voice became dangerously quiet.
“From whom?”
Anton looked at me.
“From Sergei.”
My pulse accelerated.
“What does that mean?”
Anton's hands trembled.
“I believed Sergei had ordered the fire.”
“And now?”
“I know he didn't.”
Damon stared at him.
“Then who did?”
Anton closed his eyes.
“Your mother.”
I stopped breathing.
“My mother?”
“No.”
Anton looked at me.
“Not your mother.”
He corrected himself.
“Elena.”
The word made no sense.
“You just said Elena didn't start it.”
“She didn't.”
“Then why say—”
“She knew who did.”
Damon's face hardened.
“Who?”
Anton looked at him.
“You.”
Damon went completely still.
“What?”
“You were not supposed to survive.”
The room seemed to disappear.
I looked at Damon.
Anton continued.
“The fire was intended to kill Irina and Elena.”
“But Elena wasn't there.”
“No.”
“Then who was?”
Anton whispered,
“Damon.”
I stared.
Damon stared back.
“I was a baby,” he said.
“Yes.”
Anton's voice broke.
“Your father had just brought you home.”
The implications arrived slowly.
Then all at once.
“Irina wasn't the target.”
“No.”
“Elena wasn't.”
“No.”
“Damon was.”
Anton nodded.
“Someone wanted the Volkov heir dead.”
I looked at Damon.
He seemed unable to speak.
“Why?”
Anton lowered himself into the chair.
“Because Sergei was preparing to leave the organization.”
Damon's eyes narrowed.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“He wasn't leaving.”
“He intended to.”
“Why?”
“Because of Elena.”
That name again.
Always Elena.
“She had discovered something about the Volkov businesses.”
“What?”
Anton looked at me.
“Money.”
I almost laughed.
After everything, money sounded absurdly ordinary.
But Anton continued.
“Not stolen money. Hidden money.”
“What does that mean?”
“Accounts opened under false names. Properties transferred between shell companies. Payments made to politicians, judges, police officials.”
Damon's expression darkened.
“My father was laundering money.”
Anton shook his head.
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
“He was trying to hide money from someone else.”
“Who?”
“The people who had financed his rise.”
Damon's jaw tightened.
“Which people?”
Anton looked at him.
“The organization your father later tried to escape.”
Damon said nothing.
I suddenly understood why he hated talking about his father.
This wasn't simply family history.
It was an inheritance of enemies.
“And Elena knew.”
“Yes.”
“She had documents.”
“Yes.”
“The missing file.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Damon.
“So my father was looking for evidence that Elena had hidden?”
“Part of it.”
“What happened to the rest?”
Anton hesitated.
“I don't know.”
Damon did.
I could see it.
“You know.”
He looked at me.
“I know where some of it was.”
“Where?”
“My father's house.”
“The old one?”
“Yes.”
“The one you inherited?”
“No.”
He looked toward the dark windows.
“The one that burned.”
My skin prickled.
“When?”
“Two years after Irina died.”
“And Elena?”
“Gone.”
“Your father?”
“Alive.”
“And you?”
“I was six.”
I swallowed.
“Do you remember the fire?”
Damon looked at me.
“Yes.”
His voice had become distant.
“I remember my mother screaming.”
I froze.
“Your mother?”
“My biological mother was alive then.”
“Who was she?”
Damon shook his head.
“Not Elena.”
Another woman.
Another secret.
I didn't push.
Not yet.
He continued.
“I remember being carried outside.”
“By whom?”
“My father.”
“And Elena?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you see her?”
“No.”
“What did your father tell you?”
Damon looked at the floor.
“He told me she had abandoned us.”
The same lie.
The same story.
Passed from one generation to another.
I thought of my mother's letter.
She was ashamed.
She waited too long.
She feared being hated.
Elena hadn't abandoned anyone.
She had been erased.
A loud crash came from the east wing.
Kirill swore.
Damon immediately moved.
“Stay with Petrova.”
I grabbed his hand.
He stopped.
“Don't go alone.”
His eyes met mine.
“I won't.”
He squeezed my fingers once.
Then released them.
I watched him leave.
Something inside me felt painfully empty.
Sloan sat beside me.
“You love him.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
She shrugged.
“You heard me.”
“This is really not the time.”
“It never is.”
I stared toward the doorway.
“I don't know what I feel.”
Sloan smiled faintly.
“That usually means you know exactly what you feel.”
I didn't answer.
Because I was afraid she was right.
Twenty minutes later, the estate was secure.
No one had been injured.
The two men had escaped through the woods.
Kirill found one abandoned vehicle near the eastern road.
No plates.
No identification.
Only a small metal box inside.
Damon brought it into the library.
He placed it on the desk.
“This is for you.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because it was left deliberately.”
He opened the box.
Inside was a photograph.
Old.
Damaged by smoke.
Three people stood outside a house.
Sergei.
Elena.
And a little girl.
Irina.
Behind them was a younger Damon.
Barely six years old.
I touched the photograph.
“What is this?”
Damon's expression was unreadable.
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
“That my father lied.”
I turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
Four words.
He knows what you did.
I looked at Damon.
“Who is ‘he’?”
Before Damon could answer, Anton entered.
His face was pale.
“Damon.”
“What?”
Anton held another photograph.
“This was in the box too.”
Damon took it.
His expression changed.
“What?”
I stood.
“What is it?”
He turned the photograph toward me.
It showed my father.
Standing beside Sergei Volkov.
Both men were much younger.
Between them was Elena.
And in Elena's arms was a baby.
My mother.
But that wasn't what made me stop breathing.
Written beneath the photograph were three names.
Elena.
Sergei.
Michael.
My father's name.
I looked at Damon.
“My father knew them before I was born.”
“Yes.”
“And my mother was there.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Damon didn't answer.
Anton did.
“Because your father helped Elena escape.”
I stared.
“From Sergei?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did my father keep working for him?”
“He didn't.”
I looked at him.
“After the escape,” Anton said, “your father disappeared.”
“When?”
“Six months before Elena disappeared.”
I felt cold.
“That doesn't match.”
“No.”
“Then where was my father?”
Anton looked at Damon.
Damon answered.
“Chicago.”
“Doing what?”
“Watching over your mother.”
My breath caught.
“Why?”
“Because Elena had asked him to.”
I stared at the photograph.
My entire childhood seemed to rearrange itself.
My father wasn't simply a maintenance worker who repaired heating systems.
He had been protecting my mother.
From what?
From whom?
And why had no one told me?
Damon stepped closer.
“Alina.”
I looked at him.
“There is one more thing.”
“What?”
He reached into the box.
And removed a small key.
My name was engraved on it.
Not Alina.
Mila.
My mother's name.
Damon held it out.
“Your mother left this with my father.”
I took it.
“What does it open?”
May you like
He looked at me.
“The place where Elena hid the original file.”
