Chapter 51
MARIYA
The library is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page.
I'm curled up on the leather couch near the window, a book resting against my rounded belly while afternoon sunlight streams through the glass.
The baby kicks occasionally, little flutters of movement that still make me smile despite how common they've become.
I've read the same paragraph three times now, my mind too distracted to focus on the words. Andrey's been gone for a week, and even though he texted this morning saying he was on his way home, I can't shake the anxiety that's been my constant companion since he left.
The sound of the front door opening makes my pulse quicken. I set the book aside and push myself up from the couch, my hand bracing against the armrest for support. Getting up is awkward at seven months pregnant, my center of gravity completely thrown off by the weight of my belly.
Footsteps echo through the hallway, familiar and steady. Andrey's boots against marble floors, the sound I've been waiting to hear all week.
I move toward the library entrance, a smile already forming on my lips. When he appears in the doorway, relief floods through me so intensely, it makes my chest tight. He's here. He's safe. He's home.
"You're back," I say, my voice catching slightly.
His blue eyes find mine immediately, warm and intense in that way that still makes my stomach flutter. "I'm back."
I start to move toward him, ready to throw myself into his arms despite my awkward waddle. But then I see movement behind him.
Another man steps into the doorway, and my breath stops.
I know that face. I know the shape of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way his blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he looks at me. I've dreamed about seeing him again for nine years, imagined this moment so many times that for a second, I think I'm hallucinating.
"Papa?" The word comes out as barely a whisper.
Yegor Pushkin stands in my library, older and more weathered than I remember, but unmistakably my father. His dark blond hair has more gray in it now, and there are new lines around his eyes and mouth. But when he smiles at me, it's the same smile I remember from childhood.
"Mariya," he says quietly, his voice rough with emotion.
I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except stare at him like he might disappear if I blink.
For so long, I've been wondering if he was alive or dead while I built a life without him, carrying the weight of his secrets.
Seeing him outside the property when I was jogging seems like a lifetime ago, and sometimes, I wonder if I'd made the whole thing up in my mind.
But he's really here, standing in front of me and smiling at me.
My legs finally remember how to work, and I cross the distance between us in three awkward steps.
He meets me halfway, his arms wrapping around me carefully, mindful of my belly.
I press my face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something earthier, and the tears I've been holding back for years finally break free.
"I thought I'd never see you again," I sob against his shirt.
His hand strokes down my hair, the gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. "I'm sorry, dorogaya. I'm so sorry."
We stand like that for several minutes, just holding each other while I cry. Andrey moves past us quietly, giving us space, and I hear him speaking in low tones to someone in the hallway. Probably Matvey.
When I finally pull back, my father cups my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away my tears. "Let me look at you." His gaze drops to my belly, and his expression softens. "You're pregnant."
"Seven months." I place my hand over his where it rests against my cheek.
His eyes fill with tears, and I've never seen my father cry before. Not when my mother died, not ever. But now tears stream down his weathered face as he stares at my belly.
"A grandbaby," he whispers.
Andrey clears his throat from across the room. "We should sit. There's a lot to discuss."
My father nods and releases me reluctantly. I wipe at my face, trying to compose myself as we move to the large table where all the evidence is still spread out. Matvey appears in the doorway, his massive frame filling the entrance as he takes in the scene with his usual unreadable expression.
We settle around the table, my father and me on one side, Andrey and Matvey on the other. It feels surreal, sitting here with the four of us like we're about to have a normal family meeting instead of discussing conspiracy and murder.
My father's gaze sweeps across the documents, the photographs, and the decoded messages. "You figured it out," he says quietly. "I knew you would eventually."
"It took long enough," Andrey says, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp. "Why don't you tell us what really happened? From the beginning."
Yegor leans back in his chair, his hands folding on the table in front of him. "I first found out about what the families were planning about five years before the massacre. Bogdan Belyaev, of all people, reached out to me in Russia."
My stomach drops at the name. Sophia's father. The man who disowned his own daughter.
"He wanted to gauge my response," my father continues.
"See if I'd be interested in joining their plan to consolidate power.
I played along and acted interested just to get information.
I had no idea they were planning something as brutal as the massacre, though.
I thought they were just talking about political maneuvering, maybe some strategic eliminations. "
Andrey's jaw tightens. "But they weren't."
"No." My father's expression darkens. "When I realized what they were actually planning, I knew I had to do something. But I couldn't go to the Bratva leadership because I didn't know who was involved and who wasn't. So I went to the FBI."
"You became an informant," Matvey says, his voice flat.
"Yes." My father doesn't flinch from the accusation in Matvey's tone.
"I started gathering evidence and documenting everything I could find.
The safehouses, political connections, the financial networks.
I hid it all in the icons because I knew if the families found out what I was doing, they'd kill me and destroy the evidence. "
I reach across the table and take his hand. "That's why you testified. Not because you were a traitor, but because you were trying to stop them."
"I testified against the families I had solid evidence on," he confirms. "But there were others involved that I couldn't prove. Families with connections so deep that exposing them would have gotten me killed before I could even make it to court."
Andrey leans forward, his blue eyes intense. "And the heirlooms? My family's icons?"
My father meets his gaze without flinching. "I never stole them. Bogdan did. He took them during the massacre and hid them in that crypt, probably planning to eventually sell them. I found out about it later, when I was gathering evidence, but I couldn't retrieve them without exposing myself."
"So you left clues," I say quietly. "Leading us to the truth."
"I left clues leading you to everything." His hand tightens around mine. "The massacre, the conspiracy, the families involved, and yes, the location of the stolen heirlooms. I knew if anything happened to me, you'd need that information to protect yourself."
The room falls silent except for the crackle of the fireplace. I stare at my father, seeing him differently now. Not as the man who abandoned me, but as someone who sacrificed everything to expose the truth.
"Why didn't you contact me sooner?" The question comes out quieter than I intend. "Nine years, Papa. Nine years of silence."
His expression crumbles. "Because they were watching. Waiting for me to make contact so they could find you. I couldn't risk it, Mariya. Not until I knew you were safe."
"She's safe now," Andrey says firmly. "She's my wife. Anyone who touches her answers to me."
My father's gaze shifts to Andrey, assessing. "You love her."
"Yes."
The simple certainty in Andrey's voice makes my chest warm despite everything. My father studies him for a long moment, then nods slowly.
"Good. She deserves that."
That evening, we have dinner in the formal dining room. The table is set with fine China and crystal glasses, the kind of meal that feels celebratory despite the weight of everything we've discussed. Sophia joins us, her expression cautious as she takes in my father's presence.
I can't stop staring at him. Every time I look away, I have to look back, just to confirm he's really here. That this isn't some dream I'll wake up from.
We talk about safer things during dinner. The baby, mostly. My father wants to know everything. When I'm due, if we've picked a name, and what the nursery looks like. His enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself smiling more than I have in weeks.
"I want to be part of his or her life," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to my belly. "Once everything is settled, I want to be a constant presence. A real grandfather."
"You will be," I promise, my hand covering his on the table.
Andrey sets down his wine glass, his expression serious. "Everything will be settled in two days. The plan is in motion."