Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Isabelle
New York, 3 years ago…
It’s snowing again. The beautiful kind of fluttering snow that people adore at this time of year.
I’m working in the souvenir shop at an art gallery for the rest of the day, so I’ll be fully immersed in the view of the winter wonderland. Despite being situated in the heart of Lower Manhattan, the view outside the window is starting to look like a scene from the Chronicles of Narnia .
Usually I love watching the snow. At one point in my life I was obsessed with it and would do anything ice or snow related. My parents thought it was because I was born during a snowstorm in Siberia. That earned me the nickname of the Ice Princess.
As gorgeous as it is outside–Hallmark Christmas card worthy–all I can think about is the man.
The man who promised to help me identify my mother’s killer.
The man who said he’d help me find the answers I desperately need.
The man who hasn’t shown up again.
He never let me down before and has always been true to his word.
Except he didn’t turn up on Thursday at lunchtime like he promised.
I thought maybe he got caught up with the Christmas holidays and the New Year's celebrations, but there’s been no trace of him.
Today is Sunday. My last day here. I’m back at school next week. Once I leave here the opportunity to find out the truth about the person who wanted my mother dead will be gone.
My worries have reduced me to a shadow of my usual cheerful self and I look a mess. I look as dreadful as my older cousin Persephone did when she came back from a crazy three-day bender after her college graduation.
My usually glossy black hair is dull and rolled into a messy bun. My pale skin is so blotchy I look like I’ve been making out with a poison ivy bush, and my bright blue eyes are red and rimmed with dark circles from the lack of sleep.
When the man didn't show up I went into a deep panic and spiraled into worry that I’d never see him again. The sudden reminder sends a pang of dread coiling through me that makes my stomach squeeze like a weight is pressing down on it.
Please, God. Let him come in today.
Just one more time.
If I don’t see him again I’ll be back at square one.
I don’t even know his name. And I barely have a description— six feet six with dark hair and in his mid- to late forties . Without a photo that could fit a million other men who live in New York City.
Regardless, I could never tell anyone about him. Or what we planned and plotted together, and that I knowingly helped him— someone who I now think is a hacker —gain access to the gallery’s security system.
I have no idea what the hell he did once he got into the system, but I was the one who opened the door and let him in. At the tender age of fifteen I feel like I’m a prisoner on death row.
But I helped him for a reason.
For her— Mom.
I want justice.
Resting my shaking hands on the countertop, I gaze at the shop’s glass doors, my heart praying that the next person who walks through will be the man.
Several frustrating minutes later I glance at the clock and my heart sinks further. It’s nearly three. I hate to admit it, but he should be here by now. He always comes in with the lunchtime crowd.
The bell above the door jingles as it swings open. Like a dog waiting for its owner to return, I snap my gaze back to it, hoping to find the man walking through.
But it’s not him. It’s the young couple from England who I got talking to over the last few weeks. They’re both art professors at Cambridge University. They’re also both sculptors. During our many conversations they’ve shown me pictures of their work, and I showed them mine.
They smile at me when they notice me. I smile back, feeling like my face will crack from moving out of the permanent frown I’ve been sporting.
They head to the section with notebooks and pens depicting famous paintings and pick up a bunch. Then they make their way to the counter with their arms full.
I muster up another smile. “Great to see you again.” Even my voice sounds strained, like a very old person struggling to talk.
“We just had to come back and get these.” The lady chuckles.
“We? You mean you, love.” The guy sounds more royal family-posh than she does, but I love her accent, too.
“Okay, me then.” She rolls her eyes at him then focuses on me. “I love notebooks and stationery. I love Jacopo Bassano even more. He was such a poignant artist.” She holds up the notebook with the image of the 16 th century painting of Penitent St. Jerome.
“I agree. I love him, too.” That’s true and not autopilot-me talking. “He’s one of my favorites. I love The Last Supper. He really brought the scene to life with the emotions he depicted on the people in the painting.”
Like last week, she looks impressed by my knowledge. Most people look at me that way when they hear me talk about art and realize I know my stuff.
“I hope you’ll consider visiting me at Cambridge after you finish your studies. I can’t wait to see what your future holds.” She smirks. “I imagine you’ll impress the hell out of many people in the art world.”
I give her a real smile. “Thank you.”
“Take my card and stay in touch.” She hands me a business card.
“Thanks, I will.” I take it and put it in my pocket, feeling that old spark of myself peeking through my gloom.
I check out her stuff and pack everything while she and her boyfriend tell me about life at Cambridge. I listen intently, stepping away from my worries about the man for the few minutes they keep me occupied. But every dark feeling rushes back to me the moment my new friends leave.
The dreadful bell jingles when they walk through the door but I’m so desperate to see the man that I look, once again wishing he would magically appear.
Of course he doesn’t, so I fall right back into that depressing abyss.
What if something bad happened to him?
Like he’s injured.
Or… dead.
No. I don’t think so. Now I’m being silly.
He was a big guy. And he was a Knight. A member of one of the most prominent secret societies on this planet. So he was no ordinary man.
My mother’s family was one of the original founding members of what they call their Brotherhood. That meant I grew up with their principles around me.
More than anything, I know that they know how to take care of themselves. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be Knights. So I don’t think anything bad happened to the man.
That doesn’t mean I should think the other thing either–That the man got the information he wanted and now he’s left me high and dry.
Or maybe he has.
Would he really do that? He seemed to genuinely want to help me.
It was because of his help that I was able to confirm that Parker Federov was the last person to speak to my mother before she fled for her life and ran into the trap that took her away from me.
Parker Federov was my mother’s boss. The man was able to uncover the call records between Parker and my mother. He was also able to confirm that Mom was in trouble at work. Telling me all that information was how the man got me to trust him. And help him.
All I needed to do was verify that Parker was the person responsible for arranging my mother’s murder.
That’s it. If I could get that key piece of information I would get the justice Mom deserves. And myself.
I was only twelve when my mother was killed.
I was also there that night.
I saw the shooter, the man who was hired to pull the trigger. But there was someone else there with him. Someone who gave the order to kill my mother. Someone who sounded like Parker.
The problem is I never saw him. I only heard his voice speaking in Russian.
My testimony put the shooter behind bars for life but it’s not enough. I want Parker, too.
He’s the whole reason I got this job here. Like Mom was, I want to be an artist, so I was already looking for work experience to add to my resumé. When I found out that Parker would be hosting the Albrecht Dürer exhibition, I had to get this job. I had no plan. Only to get close to him.
This gallery belongs to a senior Knight my father has known for years, so I asked him to put in a good word for me. My father is the principal at Raventhorn Academy, the school I attend, but he also runs all the databases for the Knights, including the gallery’s.
Because of his help it wasn’t hard to get the job but everything else felt like walking around in hell trying not to get burned. Things like not telling my father that Parker was going to be working here. I’ve been on edge the whole time, praying he doesn’t find out. If I had told him, he would never have allowed me to step through the doors.
Seeing Parker and being cordial with him was hard, too. Of course, he recognized me as Tatiana Kolyav’s daughter. Listening to his fake-as-fuck condolences for Mom’s passing grated on my soul. I especially hated how many times he repeated how much I looked like her. Each time those words fell from his lips it felt like acid in my wounds.
I met the mysterious man who wouldn’t give me his name two weeks after I started working here. He’d been observing me and knew I was watching Parker. He hooked me in his plan when he told me that the Albrecht Dürer paintings in the exhibition were his and he believed Parker was going to steal them when the exhibition was over.
The man promised that if I helped him keep an eye on Parker and the paintings he’d help me with whatever I needed from Parker.
I told him about my mother and that’s how we became partners in crime.
Now I’m beginning to think he really did play me.
That Albrecht Dürer collection left the gallery on Friday, so maybe he got it back. What reason would he have to remember his end of our deal once he got what he wanted?
I’m such a fool. He’s not coming back. I feel so stupid for trusting him.
The bell jingles again. I look up at the door with that stupid hope flaring in my chest again. But this time it extinguishes when my gaze lands on my father walking through it. Everything inside me flatlines as I take in the stormy look on his face and the deep furrow between his dark brows.
Dad has never come here to see me before, so that’s the first heads-up that something is wrong.
The moment his bright blue eyes rivet to mine and the fury burning in them intensifies, I know I’m right. Something is wrong. And I have a feeling I know what that something is.
It’s me.
The emotions scattered over his face tell me that he knows what I did.
My father knows everything . God, from the look on his face, I’m also willing to bet my left lung that he might also know that Parker is working here.
Shit.
Because he’s a principal, people often mistake my father for a gentle man. Someone understanding who can deal with high-school kids and their crazy shenanigans. When they hear he’s a computer specialist they expect a geek.
But my father is neither a geek nor a gentle man.
If his broad-shouldered six-foot-four ex-Russian special forces stature doesn’t give him away, you can tell from the commanding manner in which he speaks that he’s something else entirely.
The kind of something else that makes him unique.
Dad might not be a Knight but he was chosen to be principal of Raventhorn Academy by the Knights because of his military training and status in the Bratva—the Russian mafia.
My father was the senior guard to the leader of the Knights for over ten years and head enforcer in the Komarovsky Bratva, a unit owned by the Knights.
So Dad is the principal of the school because the heirs to the Knights, the Bratva, and their allies go there. And Dad takes care of their computer security for the same reason. Protection.
He’s a kill-first-and-ask-questions-later kind of man who could deal with a siege from the most dangerous of opponents.
Yet he’s always treated me like his princess. As I look at him drawing closer, I can’t find that man anywhere. He’s looking at me like I’m one of the threats he’s been sent to eliminate.
“Dad,” I start, my voice shaking.
He cuts me off with the raise of one large hand and an Arctic look that could freeze hell. “No, Isabelle. We need to talk in private. Now .” His Russian accent is as thick as the tension clinging to the air.
Oh God. This is not gonna be good. “Okay.”
Quickly, I retrieve the ‘gone for a break’ sign and place it on the counter, then, with my soul quivering in terror, I turn to the door that says 'Staff' on my left.
I lead Dad to the break room, thankful to find it empty.
Most of the staff are in the gallery preparing for the next exhibition that will open in a few days.
I close the door and face my father, praying for strength.
“I know what you did.” Dad speaks in a low, dangerous voice.
“What do you mean?—?”
He cuts me off again, stopping my attempt to save myself. “Don’t you dare try to act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m sorry.” My breath catches and I can scarcely inhale.
“What exactly are you sorry for? That you got this job because you knew Parker Federov would be working here? Or because you hacked the gallery systems and his computer?”
My lips part and my eyes pop wide. “Parker’s computer?” That wasn’t part of the equation.
Sure, the man gave me a code that I input into the gallery’s computer. But that’s all I did. And no one was ever even supposed to know it was me.
Shit, shit, shit.
If I were in any doubt that I’d been played by my asshole accomplice , I certainly know now. No wonder he’s been MIA.
And the problem I now face is: what’s going to happen to me? If my father knows what I did, then who else knows?
He would only have been alerted if someone reported a problem.
“We could both be punished for this, Isabelle. I could lose my job and never be allowed to work anywhere again. You’d lose your place at the school and college prospects at Raventhorn University.” His nostrils flare and his face turns beetroot. “What the hell were you thinking?”
My skin breaks out in an angry sweat and my heart almost stops beating. “Dad, I didn’t know what I was doing. There was a man. He promised to help me find the truth about Mom.”
He exhales a frustrated breath, suddenly looking like a man who’s had to issue the same warning a million times. “Isabelle.” The disappointment in his tone is palpable.
“I’m so sorry, Dad.”
“Tell me everything about this man.”
I don’t wait another second. I tell Dad everything. What happened, why it happened, and my reasons for helping that asshole—which my father already knew. I’ve never spoken so fast in my life.
“I can’t believe you met with some stranger behind my back. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
“I know. I’m so very sorry.”
“It should have been a dead giveaway that he was trouble if he didn’t want to give you his name.”
“I know. I was just desperate.”
Finally my father’s face softens and he becomes more like the version of himself I’m used to. The one who adores me and was so in love with my mother he called her his sun and his moon. He’s the only person in this world who understands my grief over losing her.
“Listen to me.” His tone is softer and quiet. He moves closer, as if he’s worried our already hushed tones will float away and reveal our secrets. “No one else knows it was you.”
Relief floods me, parting the constriction in my lungs. “Don’t they?”
“I got to your trail in time and erased it from the system. Even though the code had a cloaking algorithm protecting it, the moment you inserted it into the system, it registered your name. I deleted everything as best as I could so no one should ever find out that it was you, but we need to be careful.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
“Do not thank me, girl. Consider yourself lucky.”
“I do.” I nod so fast I feel dizzy. “How did you know the system was hacked?”
“Parker contacted me. His access had been revoked. I can’t see any signs of this new guy doing anything else on the system.”
He wanted the paintings. I don’t know where they went, but I’m sure he got what he needed to find them. If he hadn’t, he would have come back to see me. To use me and shove me deeper in the shit.
Dad rests his large hands on my shoulders and stares at me with that fatherly warmth I always take comfort in. “Isabelle, you’re going to finish the day here and act normally. As far as you're concerned, nothing happened. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“If you see the man again, call me.”
“Okay.”
He inches closer and touches his forehead briefly to mine, then he pulls away and the sternness returns to his face. “My sweet girl, I know how hard it was for you to lose your mother the way you did, but you must never do anything like this again.”
“But, Dad, Parker was?—”
“There’s no evidence, Isabelle. None.” The firmness in his voice grips me. “There’s no evidence he was near you or your mother that night. You know that if there were I’d be the first to find it.”
“Not if he’s hiding it. And no one will help us because they think we’re outcasts.” I hate saying that to him just as much as he must have felt telling me how our family is viewed as outsider by the Knights.
Mom might have come from one of their elite founding families but she committed a cardinal sin when she fell for my father and got pregnant with me while still in college. She was promised to marry a Knight of the same caliber. Not my father, who might be amazing and useful to them in all sorts of ways but will never be one of them because their blood doesn’t run through his veins.
“We can’t put ourselves in danger. You can’t . Parker is a senior Knight.”
The reminder highlights that I’m out of my depth, but I still have fire in me to never stop trying. “That doesn’t mean he’s better than us.”
“But it means he could have us killed with one word for such a serious accusation with no solid proof.”
My lungs lock, my stomach flips, and my skin becomes so hot I fear it may burn right off me. “ Killed ?”
Dad squeezes my shoulders. “Yes, my love. Parker Federov could have killed us both and he wouldn’t stop there. He’d have the right to work his way through our family until he was satisfied we’d paid enough in blood.”
My soul weeps as I think of Dad, my family, and myself dying for my mistakes. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do. So you must promise me that you will never put yourself in danger again.”
“I… promise.” I nod slowly, my resolve crumbling and my heart aching with the weight of remorse.
There’s nothing more we can do to get justice for Mom’s death.
Dad tried. I tried. And we both arrived at the same dead end.
I’m so sorry, Mom…
I’ll honor my promise to stay out of danger but that doesn’t mean my eyes are closed.
My heart still tells me that Parker wanted my mother dead.
I just wish I knew why.