by Nicole Fox
“Have you talked to her?” she asks. “Have you made certain it was the same night? Because this is a serious accusation.”
I shake my head. “I just found out.”
Immediately, my mom gets up and grabs her phone. It is an old flip phone, barely from this century, but it stores her phone numbers and allows her to make phone calls, which is all she really needs. She scrolls for a minute and then hands it to me. “This is her number. Boris gave it to me years ago. I don’t even know why I saved it.”
“You want me to just call her?” I ask. “What if it is true? She doesn’t want to know this kind of information about her son. Especially so soon after he died. Plus, it could cause trouble for you. With Boris.”
“You aren’t calling to make her feel better,” my mother says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Or for me. You are calling for you. For your peace of mind. And after everything you’ve been through, you deserve it.”
Her lip begins to tremble again, tears welling in her eyes, and this time, they spill over. She covers her face with her hands and sobs.
I wrap my arms around her shoulders. “It’s okay.”
“It isn’t,” she sobs. “You needed me. You needed your mother, and I abandoned you. I turned my back on you because I was angry. Because I thought you were keeping something from me.”
“You didn’t know,” I say.
“I should have.” She pulls out of my hug and sets her shoulders and lifts her chin. “I should have known. Or, better yet, I shouldn’t have cared. I shouldn’t have cared that you were keeping things from me or that I didn’t know every detail of your life. I should have been there for you, and I will never forgive myself.”
“That isn’t what I want,” I insist, grabbing her hand and squeezing. “I understood why you were upset. Part of this is my fault for not coming forward and telling you what happened. I was just…so ashamed.”
“Ashamed?” her brows pull together and her nostrils flare. “What would you have to be ashamed of?”
I look down at my feet. “Maybe I wanted it. Maybe I drank too much and hooked up with someone and just…forgot. Maybe—”
“Maybe nothing,” she says. “If you drank too much, you’d remember more of the night. No, this wasn’t alcohol, Zoya. And now you need to talk with Mikhail’s mother and find out what she knows. You need to get answers and put aside your shame. Because the shame is not yours to carry.”
I call Natalia as soon as I leave my mother’s cottage.
I’m still in the wide expanse of lawn between the cottage and the main house when she answers.
“This is Zoya,” I say simply. Before, I would have offered more of an explanation, but I know she knows who I am.
There is a pause and then Natalia clears her throat. “Hi, Zoya.”
“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you or if this is a bad time, but—”
“It’s a fine time.” She sounds like Aleksandr. Professional and composed. Even if I wasn’t calling her about such a serious issue, I’d still be intimidated.
“Okay, great.” I take a deep breath. My hand is shaking so much I’m afraid I’ll drop the phone. “I’m calling because I talked with Aleksandr, and—”
“I saw you at the funeral with him,” she says. “I didn’t realize the two of you were together.”
I’m not so certain we are together anymore – or if we ever were, really – so I just keep talking as though she hasn’t spoken.
“Aleksandr told me something he heard from you. About me…and Mikhail.”
Her tone is cold when she responds. “Yes?”
“Yes.” I swallow. “He told me you saw us together a few weeks ago. Ten weeks ago, to be exact.”
“If you are calling to ask whether I told Aleksandr that Mikhail is the father of your child, then yes, I did,” she says. “I told him that, before I realized the two of you were together. It now makes sense why he was so upset about it. I had no clue you were dating both of my sons.”
Aleksandr was upset about the news? When his mother told him, we hadn’t slept together yet. I don’t have time to really puzzle this thought out, though, because I’m too busy defending myself against her charges.
“I’m not dating both of your sons,” I say. “I never dated Mikhail.”
Silence. “I saw you.”
“Did you?” I ask. “That is why I’m calling. I want to confirm that you saw us together because, if you did…I don’t remember it.”
“What do you mean?” There is a hint of panic in her voice, and I wonder how much she knows about her other son’s personal life.
“I mean, I don’t remember being with him. Ever,” I say. “And certainly not in a way that would result in pregnancy. I saw him around Boris’ house occasionally, but that is it.”
The pause is so long I think Natalia might have hung up, but then she lets out a ragged breath. “I stopped by the estate to see Mikhail. Boris told me he was in town, and I needed to talk to him. But when I arrived, he was with you in the driveway. You were sitting in the passenger seat, and he had the door open for you.”
A pit yawns open in my stomach. It is like Natalia is describing a dream she had. What she is saying can’t have been real. Not if I don’t remember it.
“He was short with me, and I could tell I was interrupting something.” She stops, her voice hiccupping like she is fighting back tears. “It was late, and he was clearly on a date, so I left. I didn’t even know it was you until I turned around and saw him leading you inside. I recognized you, but I was too far away to notice anything unusual.”
“You couldn’t tell that something was wrong with me?” I ask. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep the tremors out of my voice.
“No,” she says firmly. “Zoya, no. If I had known…if I’d had any inclination that you were…not capable of making a decision like that, I would have stopped it. My son or not, I would have stopped it. You have to believe me.”
“I do.” My throat is tight and tears sting the back of my eyes.
“I found out you were pregnant from Boris, and I hoped Mikhail would do the right thing. But then, I heard you were fired and Mikhail…died.” She lets out a choked sob. “I didn’t realize this situation could get even worse.”
That makes two of us, I think. I thought telling Aleksandr what happened to me would be the worst part. But now, telling him that his brother was responsible? How can I do that? How can this fragile thing we have survive news like that?
It would take a good man to raise another man’s son. But to raise his own nephew as his own? That is too much.
“Thank you,” I say quickly, realizing I won’t be able to hold it together much longer. “For telling me what you know. For confirming things for me.”
“I’m sorry if I misjudged you,” she says. “I knew Mikhail had issues, but…this is beyond what I thought him capable of.”
I end the conversation quickly, promising to talk with Natalia again, though I’m not sure I’ll be following through on that. I can’t imagine facing her. The woman who had a front row seat to my nightmare.
Understanding what happened to me is not easy. I had already assumed that something horrible had happened, but not knowing who had done it made it easier to push the thought away. It was like chasing after a ghost. But now, I know it was Mikhail. I can picture his face and the way he used to smile at me.
The thought makes me shiver.
Did he smile at me that night? Did he charm me? Or was it a surprise attack? I have no memory of the night, so I can’t point back to horrible memories and relive the trauma. In some ways, it is better. In other ways, worse.
I don’t know what Mikhail did or how I reacted. I don’t know how aware I was or whether I was unconscious. I don’t know anything, and now I never will. Mikhail is gone, and I’m pregnant with his child.
My hand falls to my stomach. Not his child. My child.
He does not get any claim on this child just because it has his DNA. The baby
is mine. It belongs to me. I will raise it and care for it and love it.
With Aleksandr and Boris both gone dealing with the warehouse explosion, the household staff has disappeared. Everyone is treating it like an impromptu vacation, so the hallways are empty as I wander the house.
I can’t go back to the cottage with my mother. She would be supportive, I know, but I need to be alone right alone. I need to think.
And I can’t go back to the room I was sharing with Aleksandr. Laying in the bed where we first made love and not knowing whether I’ll ever share it with him again is too big of a pill to swallow.
So, I walk aimlessly.
I try to map out what my future will hold. Whether Aleksandr will be in it or not.
And when that question becomes too much to bear, I think about my own dreams. My plans.
I told Aleksandr about my graphic design hobby, and he didn’t seem to think it was a ridiculous idea. He’d never seen my designs, but the fact that one person aside from my parents thought pursuing graphic design might not be a crazy idea gave me the tiniest shred of hope that I could do it. That I could build a life for myself.
And I cling to that hope.
At the end of this, I might not have Aleksandr, but I’ll still have myself and my baby. And working the night shift at a diner and living in a pest-infested apartment are not the future I want. I want to be independent, to be able to care for myself and provide for my little family.
I don’t know if I’ll go to school or look for a place that would hire me based on my portfolio, but I consider the options as I walk. I pass by rooms I’ve cleaned a thousand times—Boris’ room, his library, the sitting room. And then I walk past his office, which no one has ever been allowed in.
Boris told us it was because there is top secret Levushka family information inside that he doesn’t want exposed, but Samara has always joked that he probably keeps sex toys in there. I’ve never gone inside to know for sure.
I’m still deep in thought when I hear a creak in the hallway behind me.
But before I can turn around, there is a heavy blow to the back of my head.
And everything goes black.
Chapter 16
Aleksandr
I see the smoke when we are still blocks away. The gray cloud mingles amongst the smog, darkening the sky.
“Shit,” Boris says. “It’s worse than I thought.”
When we pull into the lot, we realize it is even worse than that.
Men, both dead and injured, are spread around the lot. Some of them are having wounds tended to. Blood soaks the ground and puddles amongst the gravel. It looks like a battlefield.
And in the middle of it is my father.
This is the first time I’ve seen him out in public in a year. He only comes out for serious family matters, so his presence reaffirms that this attack is a huge fucking deal.
“Where have you been?” he asks when he sees us approaching. I don’t know if he is talking to me or his brother, or both of us, but I let Boris answer.
“I don’t live in the city, Vlad. It takes me a minute to get here.”
“This happened an hour ago,” he says angrily. “You should have been here no more than thirty minutes after that.”
Boris sighs in frustration and looks around. “What happened?”
“What do you think fucking happened?” my father asks, flinging an arm at the bloodshed around us. “We had our asses handed to us by a threat you said you were going to handle.”
“And you,” he says, turning to me, a finger pointed at my chest. “What have you been doing? I take a short break to mourn my son and suddenly the sky is falling down.”
“A short break?” I snort. “You’ve been checked out for years. The only reason this family is still standing is because of me.”
Boris takes one look at the two of us staring daggers at each other and walks away without saying a word.
As soon as he is gone, I turn back to my father. “I didn’t even know about the rival family until I arrived in St. Petersburg. Care to explain that? Care to explain to me why I was kept in the dark about one of our biggest threats?”
“Boris told me they weren’t a threat,” my father growls. He runs a hand down his face, stretching his eyelid down, and I recognize the move as one I make often. “Plus, Mikhail was helping him deal with it.”
I roll my eyes. “You wanted to believe Mikhail was helping Boris deal with it, but we all know he wasn’t doing shit.”
My father narrows his eyes. “Watch your mouth when you’re talking about my son.”
“I’m your son, too!” I scream, drawing the attention of a few of the injured men around us.
I clear my throat and fold my hands in front of me, trying to regain my composure. “I’m the son who has cleaned up mess after mess for Mikhail. I’m the son who has always corrected Mikhail’s mistakes and never once complained about the fact that you clearly preferred him. As much as you hate to admit it, I’m the son who has a head for this business, and as of now, I’m the only son you have left.”
I expect my father to scream at me. To rage against my attacks on Mikhail. It would be no less than I deserve. I’ve never said any of this to him. Hell, I haven’t been this honest with my father since the day I was born.
But to my surprise, his shoulders slump forward. “You’re right.”
I’m too stunned to comprehend what he is saying. “I am?”
He sighs. “Partially, yes.”
“What part exactly?” I ask, still not letting my guard down. I’ve been blindsided by my father enough times to know I need to remain vigilant.
“I’ve always had a soft spot for Mikhail,” he says. “He was the one who would take over after me, so I wanted to take him under my wing. From a young age, I could see the differences between you two. You were so much like your mother, logical and pragmatic, but Mikhail was like me. Like me when I was young, at least. I thought that, with time, he would mature. I thought he would become the kind of leader I grew into.”
“You babied him. You made him soft.”
“I know,” he says, jaw clenching. “I thought a firm hand would crush his enthusiasm. I thought that if he lived wild and free for a while, he’d grow tired of it and clean himself up. Clearly, I thought wrong.”
“We all did,” I say, trying to comfort him. “I assumed he would grow up eventually.”
He nods. “And I guess, in coddling him, I kicked you out of the nest too soon. But you always knew how to handle yourself and other people. You never seemed to need my help, so I stopped offering it. I thought it would be better to leave you on your own and allow you to do your work.”
“A little appreciation would have been nice,” I say. “It would still be nice.”
My father looks down at the ground and then up at me, his face pained. “You do good work, Aleksandr.”
I don’t know what to say. Moments ago, we were screaming at one another. And now?
We haven’t healed a lifetime of wounds, but we have made a start. And that is far more than I expected.
I give him a quick, tight smile and then turn towards the wrecked warehouse. The ceiling is still smoking and most of the windows are blown out. Heat rolls off of the building like a campfire.
“What are we going to do about our rivals?” I ask.
My father presses a hand to his forehead, observing the damage, and shrugs. “We have to strike back. Hard. We can’t let this go unpunished.”
“Do we know what they want?” I ask. “They sent me a message to ‘back off’ through a maid at Boris’ estate last week, but what does that mean?”
“To back off of our territory?” he suggests.
“Maybe. Or maybe to back off of finding out who they are?” I offer. “Because we don’t know who they are, right?”
“Right. Boris said he was close to figuring it out, but nothing has been confirmed yet.”
I shake my head. “Something about all of this seems strange
. We’ve made no moves to attack them, so why would they use such a show of force? Why would they start a war if we don’t even know who they are?”
“Precisely because we don’t know who they are,” my father says. “We can’t attack because we don’t who they are or where they operate from. It would be like fighting a ghost.”
He is right. Which means we are completely screwed. “So, what do we do?”
Before he can answer, my phone rings. The number is unknown, but given what just happened with the warehouse, I don’t want to risk missing anything important. So, I answer.
“Hello, Aleksandr.” The voice is low and clearly manipulated in some way, making it unrecognizable.
Immediately, I pull it away from my ear and put my phone on speaker phone. “Who is this?”
“That is not the right question.”
My father and I make eye contact over the phone. We both know this is them.
The men who did this.
“What is the right question?” I ask.
The voice hums, the voice manipulation software turning the sound into a garble of staticky buzz. “How about ‘where is she?’ That’s a good question to ask.”
My heart stutters in my chest.
Zoya.
The rival family went after her before. For some reason, they thought she meant something to me then, so they tried to send me a message through her. Now, she means much more to me and they just blew up an entire warehouse. How much worse would they do to Zoya?”
“Where is she?” I growl, squeezing the phone so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “What did you do with her?”
“Who?” my father mouths. I know he is thinking about my mother. If it weren’t for Zoya, that is where my mind would have gone, too.
“Where is Zoya?” I ask.
“She’s alive,” the voice says, clearly amused by my reaction. “She is with us, and unless you want her to die, you’ll turn yourself over.”