20. Octavia
Atriumphant smile ghosts across my father’s lips at the sight of Vasiliy leaving, but it quickly dissipates when I angle my gaze back on him. Even his gloating grin reminds me of one I’ve worn countless times.
When I look away, a heavy sigh hisses through the air.
“This is uncomfortable, isn’t it?”
I glance down at my torn, black dress, stiff with dried blood and grime. “Sure is.”
“I want to know everything about your life.” He steps closer and sits, perched on the edge of my bed. “I want to get to know you.”
I hum, trying desperately to process the words I never thought I’d hear.
As a kid, I often thought about what my parents would be like; I dreamed about them finding me in the foster care system and declaring they’ve decided to give the whole family thing another go.
Then there was that year I spent fully convinced that the CIA had recruited my mom and dad for a top-secret assignment.
I blame Octavia Butler for that one. Susanne, the lady who ran the foster home, had a deep-seated obsession with the writer, and once I learned that she’d been my namesake, I developed one too.
Bloodchild had always been my favorite, despite the short length.
Susanne didn’t like that one—said a pregnant man was far too impractical—but I was more taken by the sacrifice of the child.
There’s nothing like an acute science fiction infatuation to convince a nameless nobody that her origin story was more than simple abandonment. Besides, it was much cooler to pretend my daddy was doing alien research in Area 51 instead of shooting up in an alley a few blocks away.
I let go of those foolish fantasies long ago. The wanting crystallized into bitterness.
My throat clears as I shift awkwardly. “I think I’m owed some answers, first.”
“Yes. Of course you are. Right…uh,” he stammers. The spectacle of such a large, scary guy stuttering through his words would be funny in any other situation.
“How about telling me if I have a mother?” I deadpan.
“Oh.”
I can see a cloud of dread envelop his face.
“There’s no pressure. It’s not like I had a mother to start with.”
The words sound weird coming from my mouth, because I think I did have a mother in my mind. One who was a fantastical figure when I was younger, slowly morphing into some unfortunate, lost soul as reality caught up to me.
“Right,” he says with a bracing sigh. “Well, when I took over as the Siderov Pakhan, replacing your grandfather after his death, there were certain expectations. It’s a common practice in our world to solidify alliances with marriage contracts.”
“You’re not going to try to marry me off, right?” I suddenly interrupt, stomach dropping. “I’d be a terrible wife. Not to mention, I’d kill you myself.”
“No.” He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “I’d never do such a thing to a child of mine. Especially after how it ended up between your mother and me.”
Instead of settling my nerves, the statement only amplifies them. What happened to her?
“I was arranged to marry the daughter of our enemy at the time, Della Popov. The idea was to unite the two competing Bratvas in Chicago, making us an impenetrable force.”
A bad feeling settles over my bones. “I don’t suppose that truce ended up happening?”
His jaw ticks, gaze turning glazed and far.
“No. Della was quite young and impressionable when we married, and her father had poisoned her against us for years. When she came to us, she was under strict orders to collect information from the inside and report back to her family. After she fell pregnant with you, the Siderovs were overjoyed to finally have the heir they’d hoped for. The Popovs, however…”
Despite the circumstances, I almost snort at the term heir. Yeah, some great heir they got out of me. Still, if I’ve learned anything from Vasiliy over the last week, it’s how seriously the Bratva takes loyalty.
“Did you off her after catching her spying?” I ask carefully. Maybe it was a mistake to send Vas away for this little chat. My father talked a big game about getting to know me, but what do I really know about him?
“No. I wasn’t happy when I realized what was happening, but I wasn’t the one who killed her.”
Oh. Oh.
My mother is dead.
Huh. I’m not sure why that feels so weird. It’s not like I had confirmation she was ever alive in the first place, but I never assumed she was murdered.
“A few months after she’d given birth, Della visited her parents. She brought you along under the guise of meeting your grandfather. I returned home the following morning from a business trip, and when she still hadn’t come back, I knew something was deeply wrong.”
My swallow goes down thick as I wait to hear the end of the story.
“I don’t know what went down at the Popov compound in those few hours.
All I know is that Della turned against her father, took you, and fled the state.
I have my suspicions about your grandfather’s intentions, but I don’t actually know what was said.
Della cared for you deeply, and I wholeheartedly believe she would have done whatever was necessary to remove you from harm’s way. ”
Whatever was necessary.
My stomach turns.
“I expended every resource I had to locate the two of you, but when Della’s body turned up a few months after you disappeared, our best leads dried up.”
Each detail is separated in my mind like a numerical statistic—impersonal pieces of evidence that have nothing to do with me. I can’t think like that. Not right now. Not while stupid little words like grandfather and mother have the capability to knock me to my knees.
“You believe Popov threatened me, and Della chose to run,” I whisper, reading his tense expression.
“Yes.”
“So, what you’re saying is that my own…” I swallow, steeling my face. “That my own grandfather tried to murder me?” And I always thought I actually wanted a family.
“Well, your mother didn’t allow it. I think fleeing was her own way of trying to save you. My guess is that she dropped you off at an orphanage to give you a chance. One that she would never be able to provide you with.”
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t she just go to you for help if her dad was threatening me?”
“I’ve often wondered the same, love. My best guess was that she was conditioned to hate my family from birth, and she didn’t know who to trust.”
Della. My mother’s name was Della Popov.
A sigh blows through my lips. I had always considered the act of giving a child up for adoption as a show of great weakness and terrible life planning.
One of the caretakers from the foster home used to say we were all destined to continue the cycle.
Condemned children create condemned children.
The cruel words repeat monthly in that one, sweaty nightmare that never seems to leave me be.
The one where I didn’t manage to get away that night in the studio.
Where my stomach swells with a child I’m horrified to share blood with, and I’m forced to bring it to term and leave it on those same steps.
Was that my mother’s experience? The Condemned creating the condemned? How could I have never considered that she might have been helpless, too?
The bed shifts. Now that I’ve seen the younger version, I can identify the way years color my dad’s face. Dark circles ring his lids, but those familiar, green eyes flare with a curious emotion I can’t quite name.
“You really looked for me?” I want to be big and angry, but my voice comes out small. I don’t know what to believe.
“Every goddamn day.” He leans forward, grasping my hands in his. Rough calluses line his fingers, scratching against my skin. “I’m sorry you’ve had to live such a hard life. But I want you to know that you’ll never be alone again, okay?”
The sensation stirring in my gut is unsettling.
I clear the wetness from my throat, trying to feel strong again.
If Della Popov decided she couldn’t trust the man sitting beside me, how can I?
His story was clean and orderly, a vendetta completed and tied into a neat bow.
But something whispers that I’m not seeing the whole picture.
And it’s the same voice that’s currently pulling me toward the man on the other side of the bathroom door like a string knotted around my rib.
I disentangle our hands. “I appreciate the information, but I haven’t gotten this far on my own by believing nice words.”
A look of irritation sweeps through his face, there and gone in half a second. “I understand,” he says with a tense nod. “You should rest. We can talk more later, if you’d like.”
Then he rises to his staggering height and shuffles a step backward.
“You may hate him,” I say quietly, stopping his path to the door. I gesture towards the bathroom. “But that man in there has already earned my trust. The jury’s still out on you.”