Page 118 of Heart of Thieves

“And, in that dream, when I would scream for you, the nursemaid would say, ‘You have no father, child.’” I swallow the thickening lump in my throat, blink away the tears warping my vision. “I always woke up sobbing. Do you remember what you did?”

“I took to making the last night of my stay a sort of party,” he croaks. “We’d push the sofas together in the living room and drape sheets over them.”

“You’d bring in sweets from the city, and we’d stuff ourselves sick. Then I’d fall asleep while you promised me over and over that you were real. That you’d come back. That you’d never, ever disappear.”

“Lola-girl?” he whispers, and gone is the terrifying crime lord brandishing pistols and barking orders. His expression is one of brokenness and vulnerability, the lines around his eyes tired and drawn.

“It’s me, Daddy.”

He stuffs his pistol into his belt and takes four slow, measured, careful steps toward me, pressing a gentle thumb to my chin to raise my face. He scrutinizes my features as a tear slips from my lower lashes and trails hot down my cheek.

“Your hair is darker,” he murmurs.

“We dyed it.”

“And your nose . . .”

“Salazar’s chap broke it.”

His jaw hardens. “He’s going to regret that.”

“I’m sure he already does,” I say, glancing past my father to Nic. “The Liar had him arrested when he learned of it.”

My father’s eyes narrow, following my gaze and scowling at Nic. “I still want to put a bullet in you.”

Nic nods. “Duly noted.”

“Please don’t,” I say, grasping my father’s arm. “He’s not as bad as you think he is.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone and forgotten your senses, Lola. He’s a criminal.”

“So are you.”

“Are you giving me lip, young lady?” He chuckles.

My heart aches at the sound of that pretend-scolding voice he always used when he would catch me sneaking cookies behind the nursemaid’s back.

He’s put on the mask again—the one that looks like the father who loved me. Seeing him again—having that version close enough to touch—makes the hurt so much rawer.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Tears leak between my clenched lids. A strangled sob chokes out.

His arms come around me, so familiar and warm and comforting, and suddenly I’m crying harder than I have in years. As hard as I did the night I finally allowed myself to believe he wasn’t going to save me. The night I gave up waiting for him.

I suck in the scent of oranges and coffee and cigar smoke—the scent I’ve smelled in my dreams for four years that is so much warmer and stronger and realer now that he’s here wrapped around me, crushing me against him the way he did when I was small.

But all those happy memories sour when the more recent ones rise to the surface. Him threatening me in the dark. Killing men for petty annoyances. Speaking about me—his daughter—like a possession.

I push him away with shaking hands. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“It’s . . . nice to see you again,” I say, grasping Nic’s arm, “but we’ve got to get out of here. We’re on a time crunch.” I pull him up the stairs. Enzo joins us, still noncorporeal.

“No.” The word is brutal and hard, and it stops my heart.

“Excuse me?” I look over my shoulder as my father raises his pistol once more, aiming straight at Nic’s heart.

“You think I’m going to let you walk out on the arm of one of the men who brainwashed you?”