Chapter 40
Nika
“I’ll be out here if you need me.” Max rests a hand on my back as I stare at the cherrywood door that separates me from Roman.
No, not Roman. My father.
We’ve had a few phone calls over the past four days while Max and I recovered in the hospital.
My badly broken hand required surgery. We explained away the injury by spinning a tale about how we found ourselves stranded in the woods and how I slid off an embankment during our trek back to civilization.
The hospital staff proved surprisingly understanding, and no one even mentioned calling the cops.
Shocker.
Now I’m here, in the Kozlov compound, about to confront my father face-to-face.
As I enter his office, Roman—no, Dad—rises, an imposing figure behind his reddish brown desk. His steely eyes track my every movement while the rest of his body stays rigid.
Though I’d still describe him as handsome, the years have left their mark in the silver at his temples and a few extra wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. How many of those came from nights grieving his lost family?
His shoulders remain stiff and strong, though. Unshed tears fill his intense dark eyes.
He’s wearing a black suit, his crimson tie left loose and the collar undone.
A strange urge to cry has me choking out a strangled laugh.
“You had a son.” I eye him, not as a challenge, but as an equal. “His name was Dimitri. He killed Mom and convinced me that you were responsible. That you were going to kill me, too, in order to keep the locket.”
I hold the pendant out from its rightful place on my neck.
Roman doesn’t say a word.
“I saw you rip it from her body that night. That’s why I believed him.” I push down those awful memories. “I thought you wanted me dead too. That’s why I came after you. To make sure you stopped hunting me, and to make you suffer like I did. I also wanted this necklace.”
Roman’s hands clench on his desk. “Nika. That was…always yours. I took it from you mother’s neck as a way to remember you both.” He gestures at the portrait on the wall. “It looks good on you.”
Tears track down his face, his eyes brimming with wonder as he regards me.
I don’t know what to say. How to speak past the years of pain and anger and longing for a home that I’ve ignored for so long.
I suck in a breath. “Dad—”
He trembles, and for a second, I worry he might pass out from stress.
Without thinking, I rush forward and hug him, partly to ensure he doesn’t collapse.
“We have so much lost time to make up for. So many things to discuss.” He wraps strong arms around me and places a kiss on the top of my head. “But all of that can wait. Welcome home, Nika.”
As his grip on me holds fast, the scent from my childhood wafts over me. Long-forgotten memories surface, of bedtime stories, tickle monsters, and swinging from his arms like he was my trapeze and safety net all in one. In this moment, I know I’m safe. Protected. Loved.
Home, indeed.
Nika
The next morning, I wander into the not at all “small dining room” where Dad asked me to meet him for breakfast. A dozen chairs surround an ornate walnut table. Side boards align each wall, and tall windows overlook the garden.
Christmas carols like my mother used to play drift from somewhere deeper in the house.
I remember her voice singing along, off-key but still joyful.
Staring at the garlands that hang from every window, the table runner of green, red, and gold, and the miniature Christmas tree that sits fully decorated in the window, I can’t help but wonder what celebrating the holidays with family will be like after so many years estranged.
Dad sits across from me, platters of eggs, bacon, pastries, fresh fruit, waffles, pancakes, crepes, and some kind of porridge between us.
He seems to favor the porridge, scooping himself a bowl and adding some sort of cream and jam.
The meal is a far cry from my typical breakfast of a microwave biscuit or meat lover’s bowl.
Dad pours himself a cup of coffee from a silver pot, then silently offers me some.
I flip my cup over on its saucer and push it close.
He fills the mug, slides it back over, and gestures to the silver service tray with cream, sugar, and packets of sweeteners.
Lifting the cup, I take a sip and savor the rich flavor. “That’s good coffee.”
Dad nods before drinking from his own mug. “You mentioned last night that you saw me rip the necklace from your mother’s neck. I’m sorry you had to see that. I can only imagine how terrified you must have been. I was out of my head. Blind with grief and desperate to find you.”
The man I remember as my cousin Alexei and a younger guy who looks a lot like him stroll past the open dining room door.
Alexei acts nonchalant, but the other guy leans around him to peek inside.
A young woman with the same facial structure trails a few paces behind them.
She doesn’t pretend not to look, but at least she doesn’t dawdle.
They’re probably trying to get a glimpse of me.
Trying to pretend this is a normal meal, I reach out for the spatula and attempt to serve myself with my left hand since a cast encases my right arm. I manage the scrambled eggs, but the bacon proves more difficult.
Dad rises, spears three pieces, and puts them on my plate.
He clears his throat. “That night, I intended to give you the necklace. It was always supposed to be yours. My father said so. When we couldn’t find you…
or your body…I hung it on Lilia’s portrait so the two of you would always be together.
” He indicates each platter, serving me whatever I nod toward.
Then he hands me my plate and reclaims his seat like this is a typical Tuesday.
“I never got over failing you two that night.” He pokes his porridge again.
“The meeting was supposed to be safe enough for our children to run around and play and enjoy the island. But all this time later, we still don’t know who started the fighting or the fires.
Then we discovered your nanny, shot dead in the hall. You might not remember her.”
“I do remember her.” Vaguely, anyway. “It was Dimitri. He admitted to setting the fires, attacking people, and killing Mom as a way to get back at you for his own mother’s death. Though the story he told didn’t make a lot of sense.”
Dad just nods, then busies his hands.
“I searched for years, using every resource, connection, and possible lead. But you were…gone. No body. No evidence. Nothing. Eventually I had to accept…” He pauses to massage his temples.
The silence is heavy with fifteen years of grief and loss.
“This isn’t an excuse. It’s a confession.
I failed you and your mother, but I want you to know…
” His voice gets softer. More vulnerable.
“I loved her. I loved her so much. And you were my everything. Are my everything. I’m so sorry, Nika.
I’d appreciate it if you gave me another chance. I’d like to be part of your life.”
I’m both tempted and terrified, but maybe I can sweeten the deal.
“I have something for you, though I’m not sure whether it’ll help or make things more painful. It’s back in my room. I can go get it.” I slide my chair back and start to stand.
He waves me back down. “Kirill. Kolya.”
The men walking past the door, watching us out of the corner of their eyes, freeze.
The olive-skinned one who’s dressed for a board meeting looks familiar.
I try to picture him in my childhood, but all that comes up is a fuzzy memory of a quiet teen who kept to the edges and jumped at Dad’s every order.
The other one reminds me of a barbarian king, and I can’t imagine him as a youth at all.
Except as they tentatively cross the dining room, they look less like Bratva brawlers and more like kids summoned to the principal’s office.
“These two can fetch whatever it is for you. They seem to have plenty of time to wander around aimlessly.” Roman places his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “Any particular reason you wanted to interrupt my first family breakfast in fifteen years?”
The Suit swallows. The other man goes still, like a shark might before striking. Neither responds.
Damn, I’d forgotten how intimidating my father can be.
Working to not show my amusement, I describe the bag I put the photos in, and the two men hurry away.
Dad shakes his head and finally gulps down a spoonful of his cooling porridge.
“What about Dimitri’s mom?” The question escapes me before I can stop it, before I can decide if I really want to know the story. “What happened with her?”
His expression shifts from annoyed to confused.
“You mentioned that yesterday, and I spent all night searching my memory. I don’t…
” He stops, his eyes narrowing. “I had a girlfriend when I was sixteen. Marina. We were together for maybe six months, until her parents found out who my parents were. What my family did. They made her break up with me, and I never saw her again.”
I wait for him to say more, but he only shrugs. “She never told you? Never tried to contact you?”
“No. That’s the downside of being a man.
If the woman chooses not to tell you, there’s nothing you can do.
If Dimitri was mine and she reached out at any time, I would have welcomed him.
Raised him here. My father would never have allowed a grandchild of his to be left alone and forgotten.
I wouldn’t let that happen to my child either. ”
Just like that.
If one woman had simply spoken up over thirty years ago, the family could have avoided so much pain.
A few minutes later, Kirill and Kolya return with the blue suitcase I bought to transport the keepsakes. I gesture to Dad, who glances at the luggage, then motions for them to set it on the table.
“They’re kind of dirty. I used one as a weapon, so it got a bit smudged up. Not what I would prefer, but needs must—”
“When the devil drives.” Dad finishes the saying and smiles.
My heart stutters.
I must have adopted that specific saying from him considering no one else I knew, including Dimitri, ever said it. Even after all this time…I remembered that.
My chest tightens.
When Dad pops open the suitcase, his breath catches. Tears well in his eyes.
Kirill and Kolya turn, and this time, half-run out of the room. Two big, scary men, and they’re afraid of a few happy tears. Max shoots me a look that I respond to by rolling my eyes.
I packed the case, so I know what’s on top and why it hit Dad so hard.
The wedding photo.
His breath shudders out as he traces the protective plastic sheet with his finger. “I forgot how she looked. How she…” He keeps hold of that picture while looking at the next. And the next.
Setting them on the table, he goes through them all, his eyes widening and narrowing, his lips dipping and curling up in joy.
“I don’t recognize most of the people. I think that’s Uncle Mik there. And maybe that’s Alexei? MJ?” I shrug and scrape my fork across my plate.
“Would you…” Dad sets down Mom’s photo and pulls out the chair next to him. “If you want to go through it with me, I can tell you who everyone is. And I’ll reintroduce you to them after breakfast.”
“I’d like that.” I switch seats as Dad flips to the first page. “I’ve got so much to learn about my family.”