Chapter 31 Ivy
IVY
The familiar scent of vanilla candles and disappointment hits me the moment I step through the front door of my childhood home.
Nothing has changed—the same beige walls, the same generic artwork from HomeGoods, the same suffocating atmosphere that made me count down the days until I could escape to college.
My mother stands in the doorway to the living room, her arms crossed over her chest, her perfectly styled auburn hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
She's wearing a cream-colored sweater that probably cost more than I used to make in a week at Otrava, and her makeup is flawless despite it being barely past noon.
Trisha Andreev—well, Trisha Morrison now, since she went back to her maiden name after Dad died—has always been beautiful in that polished, untouchable way that makes you feel like you're somehow lacking just by existing in her presence.
"Ivy." Her voice is flat, devoid of any warmth or surprise. "This is unexpected."
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling like I'm sixteen again and coming home past curfew. "Hi, Mom."
She doesn't move to hug me, doesn't invite me to sit down. We just stand there in the entryway, two strangers who happen to share DNA and a complicated history of mutual disappointment.
"You look…" She pauses, her green eyes scanning me from head to toe with the clinical precision of someone appraising livestock. "Different."
I know what she sees—the expensive clothes Konstantin insisted on buying me, the way I carry myself now with more confidence, the subtle changes that come from being cherished by someone who actually gives a damn about your wellbeing.
But I also know she's looking for flaws, for signs that I've somehow failed to live up to whatever impossible standard she's set for me this time.
"Can we talk?" I ask, my voice smaller than I intended.
She sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. "I suppose you'd better come in."
The living room is exactly as I remember it—pristine, cold, and completely devoid of personality. She gestures to the white leather sofa that I was never allowed to sit on as a child, and I perch on the edge of it like I'm afraid I might leave a stain.
"Coffee?" she offers, though her tone suggests she's hoping I'll decline.
"No, thank you."
She settles into the matching armchair across from me, crossing her legs at the ankle in that practiced way that used to irritate me. Still does, for whatever reason. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence stretching between us like a chasm that's been growing wider for years.
"So," she says finally, "to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? It's been what, six months since you last called?"
The guilt hits me like a physical blow, even though I know she's being manipulative. "I've been busy."
"Busy." She repeats the word like it tastes bitter. "Yes, I imagine serving drinks to drunk Russians keeps you quite occupied."
I bite back the sharp retort that springs to my lips. Getting into an argument with her won't help me get the answers I need. "Actually, I'm not working at Otrava anymore."
Her eyebrows rise slightly. "Oh? Did you finally come to your senses and quit that awful job?"
"Something like that." I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I'm about to ask. There's no easy way to do this, no gentle lead-in that will make this conversation any less explosive. "Mom, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."
She leans back in her chair, her expression guarded. "That sounds ominous."
"Was Dad involved with the Mafia?"
The words hang in the air between us like a bomb waiting to explode. My mother's face goes through a series of expressions—surprise, fear, and finally, disgust.
"Where did you hear that?" she asks, her voice sharp.
"That's not an answer."
She stands abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooks her perfectly manicured back yard. For a long moment, she doesn't speak, and I can see the tension in the rigid line of her shoulders.
"Yes," she says finally, the word barely above a whisper. "Yes, he was."
Even though I was expecting it, hearing her confirm it still feels like a punch to the gut.
"How long did you know?" I ask.
She turns back to face me, and for the first time since I arrived, I see something vulnerable in her expression. "I didn't know when I married him. He was just this charming, handsome man who swept me off my feet. It wasn't until after you were born that I started to piece things together."
"What do you mean?"
She returns to her chair, but she doesn't sit.
Instead, she grips the back of it like she needs the support.
"The late-night phone calls. The way certain people treated him with a kind of fearful respect.
The money that never seemed to have a clear source.
" She shakes her head. "I was young and naive, and I wanted to believe his explanations. "
"But you figured it out eventually."
"When you were about five, some men came to the house looking for your father.
They were… intimidating. That's when I confronted him, and he finally told me the truth.
" Her voice grows bitter. "He said he was trying to get out, that he wanted a clean life for us.
But you can't just walk away from that world, Ivy. It follows you."
I think about Konstantin, about the way he carries the weight of his responsibilities, the constant vigilance that comes with his position. "Is that why you two grew apart?"
"I couldn't live with the fear," she admits. "Every time he left the house, I wondered if he'd come back. Every knock at the door made my heart race. And then when he died…" She trails off, her eyes distant.
"You said it was a car accident."
"That's what I was told to say." Her voice is flat again, emotionless. "But car accidents don't usually involve three bullets to the chest."
The room spins around me, and I grip the arm of the sofa to steady myself. "He was murdered?"
"I don't know the details. I didn't want to know. I just wanted it to be over, wanted to protect you from that world." She looks at me with something that might be regret. "I thought I had."
I take a shaky breath, trying to process everything she's telling me. "Mom, I need to tell you something."
She must hear something in my voice because she finally sits down, her attention focused entirely on me.
"I'm in witness protection," I begin, and then the whole story comes pouring out—the shooting at Otrava, the FBI safe house, Konstantin taking me from federal protection, our marriage. I tell her everything except the most intimate details, watching her face grow paler with each revelation.
When I finish, she's silent for a long time, staring at her hands folded in her lap.
"Konstantin Mikhailov," she says finally.
"I remember him. Well, I remember his parents.
Your father and I went to their restaurant a few times when you were very young.
" She looks up at me. "He was just a boy then, maybe in his early twenties.
Quiet, serious. His parents were killed not long after. "
"You knew about that?"
"It was all over the Russian community. A terrible tragedy." She pauses. "And now you're married to him."
"To protect me," I say quickly. "It's not… I mean, it started as just protection."
But even as I say it, I know it's not entirely true anymore. What Konstantin and I have has evolved into something deeper, something that scares me as much as it thrills me.
My mother must see something in my expression because her face hardens. "Oh, Ivy. Please tell me you haven't fallen for him."
"It's complicated."
"It's dangerous," she snaps. "These men, they're not like normal people. They live by different rules, and those rules don't include happily ever after for naive girls who think they can change them."
"Konstantin isn't like that," I protest, surprised by how quickly I jump to his defense. "He's protecting me. He saved my life."
"And what does he want in return?" Her voice is sharp, cutting. "Men like that don't do anything out of the goodness of their hearts, Ivy. There's always a price."
I think about the way Konstantin looks at me, the gentleness in his touch, the way he holds me like I'm something precious. "You don't know him."
"I know his world," she says firmly. "I lived in it for fifteen years, and it nearly destroyed me. The violence, the constant fear, the way they treat women like property…" She shudders. "I won't watch it destroy you too."
"It's not like that with us."
"Isn't it?" She leans forward, her eyes intense. "Tell me, Ivy, do you have any say in where you live? Where you go? Who you see? Or does he make those decisions for you?"
Her words hit uncomfortably close to home, and I feel my defenses rising. "He's keeping me safe."
"He's keeping you controlled." She stands again, beginning to pace. "That's how it starts. They convince you it's for your own good, that they know what's best for you. And before you know it, you're trapped."
"I'm not trapped," I insist, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
She sighs and shakes her head. "When I was seventeen, before I met your father, I was involved with someone from that world. Someone who promised me the moon and stars, who made me feel like I was the most important thing in his life."
I stare at her, shocked. She's never mentioned this before.
"I got pregnant," she continues, her voice barely above a whisper.
"And everything changed. Suddenly, I wasn't his girlfriend anymore.
I was the vessel carrying his child. I had no say in anything—where I lived, what I ate, who I could see.
And when I tried to leave…" She touches her throat unconsciously, and I see the faint scar there that I'd always assumed was from some childhood accident.
"What happened?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know.
"I lost the baby," she says simply. "And he lost interest in me. But not before making it very clear what would happen if I ever tried to cross him again."
The room is spinning, and I feel like I might be sick. "Mom…"
"That's why I was so relieved when your father died," she says, and the words are like a slap. "I know that sounds terrible, but I was finally free. Finally safe. And I thought you were too."
She stands, moving toward me with something that might be genuine concern. "Ivy, please. I know we haven't had the best relationship, and I know I haven't been the mother you deserved. But I'm begging you—get out now, while you still can. Don't make the same mistakes I did."
I back toward the door, my mind reeling. "I have to go."
"Ivy, wait—”
But I'm already moving, grabbing my purse and heading for the entryway. I need air, I need space, I need to think.
"Be very careful," she calls after me, and there's something in her voice I've never heard before—genuine fear, genuine love. "Don't get pregnant, Ivy. Because if you do, they'll own you. And once they own you, there's no escape."