Chapter 16
ASTRID
My hands are still shaking when I get back to my apartment after the appointment.
Spalding’s voice loops through my head. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
I didn’t confirm it, but I didn’t have to. The look in his eyes said enough—he knows. Which means someone’s watching me. Closely.
I pace my living room, too keyed up to sit. My belly aches with tension, a phantom pressure that’s more fear than anything else. The baby. God. How do I protect him or her when I don’t even know who I’m fighting?
And Yuri, he knows more than he’s letting on. I’ve felt it in every deflection, every measured silence. Tonight, I need it all laid out on the table—no more riddles, no more hiding in the shadows.
I grab my laptop and open the employee directory.
Ivanov Holdings internal database is efficient and too transparent for a crime family masquerading as a legitimate corporation.
Yuri’s emergency contact lists a building name.
A few keystrokes and a bit of digital sleuthing later, and I’m staring at a listing.
Astoria Heights. Penthouse. Private elevator access.
Of course.
I throw on a coat and head out without thinking twice.
Downtown’s dressed in fog, the streets wet and silver beneath the street lamps. Astoria Heights’ lobby is all marble and quiet opulence. The concierge desk is manned by a woman with a headset and perfect posture.
“I’m here to see Yuri Ivanov,” I say as I approach her.
She eyes me for half a second before dialing. I can’t hear what’s being said, but she nods. “He’s expecting you,” she says, and gestures to the far corner. “Private lift. It’ll take you straight up.”
“Thank you.”
I cross the lobby, pulse kicking harder with each step.
By the time I reach Yuri’s penthouse, the fog outside feels like it’s settled into my chest. My hand hovers over the doorbell for a moment before I press it. I’m not here to be polite. I’m here for answers.
The door swings open faster than I expected. He’s not in a suit but dark slacks and a button-down, sleeves rolled up halfway along his forearms. Casual. His eyes narrow the second he sees me.
“Astrid.”
I step past him into the penthouse without waiting for an invitation.
“I need to know the truth,” I say. “About my parents.”
He shuts the door behind me slowly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
I turn and face him fully. “Did your father have anything to do with their deaths?”
The question hangs in the air, taut as piano wire. His expression doesn’t change, but something in him stills.
“I know you know who I really am.”
“I think,” he says quietly, “you should sit down.”
I remain standing.
He watches me for a beat longer then exhales. “Wait here.”
I want to scream. To shake him. I bite down on the instinct and pace instead, eyes tracing the skyline through the glass. I’ve never felt so trapped in a room with this much space.
Footsteps sound, two sets. A man enters behind Yuri. He’s older, with snow-white hair and a briefcase tucked under one arm. He’s wearing a tailored pinstripe suit and wire-rimmed glasses over sharp eyes.
“This is Mikhail Levin,” Yuri says. “Family counsel. He’s here reviewing security protocols with me in case of… escalation. Nothing you need to worry about.”
I don’t ask about the escalation of what.
Mikhail nods. “Ms. Devereaux.”
Devereaux. He used my real name.
“Why did you bring him out here?” I ask, eyes locked on Yuri.
“Because I want there to be no doubt that what I’m about to tell you is true. This isn’t gossip. This is documented, witnessed, and long overdue.”
I say nothing. My throat is tight.
Yuri gestures to the sofa. “Please.”
This time, I sit. He doesn’t, not at first. He stands before me like he’s bracing himself against a current.
“According to what my father told me, your parents, Thierry and Melanie,” he begins, “were brilliant. Thierry especially; he was a gifted financial strategist. My father trusted him implicitly. They weren’t Bratva, not in the way people think.
But they were part of our circle. Close friends. Loyal.”
He glances toward Mikhail, who nods slowly.
“Thierry helped build the foundation of Ivanov Holdings,” Yuri says. “He kept the money clean. He made sure our legitimate empire remained within the confines of legality.”
My heart thuds harder. This isn’t new. It’s just confirmation.
“However, at some point,” Yuri goes on, “he discovered something. My father’s ally—Evgeny Smirnov—was siphoning off Bratva funds through side operations. Dangerous ones. Drug corridors, arms shipments. Thierry tried to bring the evidence to my father, intending to expose it.”
A pause. His jaw tightens. “But Smirnov found out first.”
I look down, fists clenched in my lap. “So he had them killed.”
Yuri nods once. “Staged a car accident. No fingerprints. No direct trail. But we knew who it was.”
“And your father did nothing.”
“My father,” Yuri says, his voice dipping with quiet rage, “was furious. Devastated. But if he’d moved against Smirnov openly, it would’ve started a war the Bratva wasn’t ready for. So he waited. He made one decision, one quiet, final act in honor of Thierry’s loyalty, and your mother’s memory.”
He glances toward Mikhail again, who clears his throat. “We located you a week after the funeral,” Mikhail says. “You were barely one. The initial plan was to bring you into the family household under a new name, but your mother’s relatives wanted no part of us. And frankly, it was too dangerous.”
“So they just left me?” I whisper.
“No,” Yuri says. “He placed you with a vetted foster family. Monitored your well-being from a distance. And when you turned eighteen, the trust was activated. Your Harvard scholarship. Your apartment. The job offer after your graduation.”
He lowers himself onto the chair across from me. “Everything was planned but never imposed,” he says softly. “You were always meant to have a choice.”
I stare at him, heart hammering. “And when did you find out?”
“After Paris. After the plane. When the lawyer came to me and told me who you were.”
I swallow hard. “So you knew. And you didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t want you to wonder if I touched you because of guilt.”
Silence. The kind that scrapes.
“I’ve lived my whole life thinking you were the enemy,” I murmur. “And now that I know the truth, I don’t know what to do with it.”
Yuri leans forward, elbows on his knees. “How can I help?”
I look at him—this man who has kept my secrets and his own. Who held me like I was something fragile and rare. Who knew the truth and still kissed me as if he didn’t.
“I need time,” I say.
He nods. “Take all the time you need. But know this—my father loved your parents. And I will never, ever let anything happen to you.”
I stand on trembling legs and walk past him to the balcony. The city glows below, an endless sea of lights. I rest my hand on my stomach, where life grows in the shadow of ghosts.
I don’t know what comes next, but at least now I know what came before.
The door closes with a soft click. Mikhail is gone. And with him, the last buffer between me and the full weight of the truth. I suddenly feel out of place—like a girl playing dress-up in someone else’s house.
Yuri stands a few feet away, watching me in silence. I can feel the tension in the air, stretched thin. He’s giving me space, but he doesn’t like it.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For not lying.”
He doesn’t speak. Just waits. I try to breathe. Try to keep it together. My fingers clench around the hem of my shirt, like if I just hold still long enough, the emotions will pass.
“They were good people,” I murmur, my voice catching. “Weren’t they?”
“The best, from what I remember,” he says quietly.
“My father always told us your father was brilliant. Steady. Always thinking three moves ahead. My father trusted him like a brother. And your mother was as kind and loving as they came. She was so excited to be a mom. I remember that even though I was only about ten at the time.”
I don’t look at him. I can’t. I stare at a crack in the floorboards. Anything to keep the tears from spilling.
“But no one came for me,” I whisper.
Yuri takes a step forward.
“I was right there,” I say, louder. “In the system. A baby. And no one came.”
“My family wanted to but couldn’t,” he says. “It was far too dangerous.”
Something inside me breaks. A sob claws its way out of my throat, jagged and sudden. I slap a hand over my mouth and turn away, humiliated by the sound of it. But another follows. And another.
All these years, I told myself it didn’t matter. That not knowing meant freedom. I didn’t need closure to be whole. But now the truth is here, and I can’t contain it. I’m drowning in it.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, breath hitching. “I don’t know why I’m—”
Yuri doesn’t say a word. He just wraps his arms around me, slow and careful, like I’m a precious object.
I collapse into him before I even realize I’m moving.
My face presses into his chest and I sob.
It’s ugly. Messy. Shaking, hiccuping, uncontrollable.
He holds me tighter, his hand warm against the back of my head, the other at my waist, anchoring me.
“I didn’t know it would hurt this much,” I whisper into his shirt.
“You’ve carried it alone for too long,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to anymore.”
I cling to him. My arms tighten around his waist like if I let go, I’ll fall straight through the floor.
“I thought no one wanted me,” I say, barely audible.
“They wanted you safe,” he softly corrects. “And that meant distance. But never, not for a second, did it mean you were unloved or unwanted.”
We remain wrapped in silence and tears. No masks. No secrets. Just warmth and the ache of finally knowing. Eventually, my sobs quiet. The room softens around me. I’m still tucked into him, my cheek against his chest, my hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
He doesn’t let go.
Neither do I.