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“No.” Sabrina looks at me, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”
“She was a Fratto from Sicily. My father was Armenian.”
“That explains why Adrik is so dark.”
My mother laughs. “His hair when he was born—I’d never seen anything like it. A full shock of jet-black hair, three inches long, sticking straight up off his head.”
Sabrina smiles. “So basically the same as now.”
“Yes, exactly.” My mother reaches up to ruffle my hair. I sigh and let her do it. It wasn’t going to lay flat anyway.
“Do you ever go back to Sicily?” Sabrina asks her.
She shakes her head, the smile fading from her face. “My mother died when I was young, my father shortly after Adrik was born. My brother, too. Dom is all I have. And the boys, of course.”
“I’m sorry,” Sabrina says.
“Dynasties can fall in an instant, no matter how powerful they may seem.”
“Your father had it coming,” my dad says, angry after all this time. If my grandfather were here in this room, my father would kill him all over again for how he treated my mother.
“Sabrina’s father is Italian but her mother is Puerto Rican,” I say, to change the subject.
“It’s good to intermarry,” my father says. “Keeps the bloodline strong.”
“Of course you’d say that,” my mother laughs, kissing him lightly on his scarred cheek. “You’re completely biased.”
“Too bad Kade couldn’t come,” Sabrina says.
“Kingmakers is so strict.” My mother scowls. “They should at least let them come home for Christmas. Or you should have,” she shakes a finger at me.
“We were working.”
“I’ve heard about your work.” My father raises an eyebrow at me. “Not exactly what we discussed.”
“I think you know I’m always going to exceed the mandate.”
“Is that what you call what happened with Zakharov? Exceeding the mandate?”
“We’re not here to talk business,” my mother says, laying her hand on his arm.
“I don’t need you checking up on me,” I tell my father, my temper rising.
If I wanted to be under his thumb I would have stayed in St. Petersburg.
Sabrina slips her hand into mine, standing close by me.
“Adrik is doing incredible things here,” she says. “No one’s ever grown a market as fast as him. Every one of his men is brilliant and loyal to the bone. He’ll handle Zakharov like he handles everything else—like the man you taught him to be.”
I look at Sabrina, my throat too tight to speak. She’s meeting my father boldly, her tone respectful, but her words impossible to mistake. She won’t stand anyone criticizing me.
My father is surprised, though not entirely displeased.
“Indeed,” he says. “Adrik has always been a son I could be proud of.”
As my parents move on to congratulate the Markovs, I pull Sabrina tight against my side.
“Remind me not to piss you off.”
