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I watch as he leans into the desk directly in front of me, his hands in his pockets again as he crosses his ankles and peers down at me.
I’m struck by how large he is. Towering over me like this, he feels even more man than he usually feels, which is a lot.
“What do you want from me?” My voice is small, but I hold his dark gaze. I pray he can’t see the flutter of my pulse where it tries to hide beneath my skin.
“You have two choices, Ruby, when it comes to how you live the remainder of your life.”
The remainder of my life? Does he mean to kill me?
Fear flickers through me. I swallow the bitter swell of it down.
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“You can go with your brother, or you can agree to be mine.”
I flinch away from him. “I will never be yours. And I don’t have a brother.”
He sighs, like he’s over this. But he’s the master of this mess. If he’s tired, all he has to do is let me go. I’ll find my own way home. I’ll catch a bus, whatever.
Twisting, he lifts a stack of papers I quickly realize are photos, from the desk. He hands me the stack. “Take a look through the photos.” I scowl up at him, too afraid to glance down. Too afraid of what I might see. “It’s nothing like last night.” His voice is somehow gentler and rougher at the very same time. “These are the men your father sired, though I am certain there are more. They are your brothers. Only one remains alive today.”
Curiosity gets the better of me, because my eyes drop. The first photo is of a younger man, maybe a few years older than me. He’s smiling widely, his arm looped around a beautiful woman in a bikini who looks up at him as though he can make her every dream come true. He’s standing on a—a yacht? His white shirt is unbuttoned and blowing in the sea breeze, showcasing a set of well-honed abs. There is nothing remarkable about him, other than he has an excellent bone structure, as had Daddy. On the top of the photo, where the white of the printer paper cuts the image off, is two words ‘Lev’ and ‘Deceased’ written in red ink.
I flip the photo. This one is a headshot. The man has a face that whispers of pain. I see it in his eyes. In the firm set of his wide mouth. He looks more like my father than the other man, but I’m still unconvinced. My eyes move to the top of the photo, and I read, ‘Boris’ and ‘Deceased’ in the same red ink.
I flip the photo to a man who, shockingly, looks the most like my father. They share the same stocky build, the same dark eyes, and the same wide forehead. Only, where my father’s eyes had shone with adoration and kindness and life, this man’s eyes are cold—chillingly, deadly cold. And so dark. Something unpleasant skitters up the length of my spine, because—could my captor be telling the truth? My eyes fly up to the red ink. ‘Ivan III’ and ‘Deceased’ stamp the top.
“His name was Ivan?” I breathe. I’m not sure if I’m waiting for a reply.
I get one. “Ivan was his first legitimate son, with his only legal wife, Rebeka.”
“Legitimate?” My soul hurts.
Legal wife? Mama had been Daddy’s wife.
My captor’s face is a hard, emotionless mask. Does he even know that he’s shredding the very foundation of my life? Does he know he’s tearing my soul from the fabric it was weaved into on the day I was born? Does he know he’s mincing my heart…?
“Ivan married his first wife, Rebeka, when he was twenty-two. The marriage was arranged, as are many Bratva marriages.”
Wait, what? “Bratva?”
He nods, matter of fact. “The Bratva is a word for Russian Mafia.”
“Russian—M-mafia.” I feel cold and hot and confused and scared. But I giggle. My captor’s brow arches. “My father—was in the m-mafia?”
“Bratva, or so he liked to claim. The Popov family has been trying to overthrow my own since Ivan Popov, the first.” He smirks. It’s deadly. “He’s a thorn. Mostly, we’ve allowed the Popov family to play their games, but enough is enough. It won’t be long before the entire line is wiped out.”
My giggle turns into a full-on laugh. A hysterical laugh. “You can’t think I’m buying this. My father was not a mafia man.”
“He called himself the Pakhan, or boss.”
I gape. “You’re delusional.”
He tips his head toward the photos between my hands. “There is another photo. Another son.” His voice pitches lower. “Another brother.”
Huffing, I flip the photo. In red ink at the top, I read, ‘Artyom’ and ‘Alive’ before my gaze slides down to the image of the man. He’s standing outside what appears to be a restaurant. The shot is taken from just far enough away, he clearly hasn’t clocked the photographer, but it’s close enough that I can see his face clearly. This man may as well be my father’s doppelganger. He’s his spitting image.
My blood runs cold.
