Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles, #6)(17)

A member of the staff opened the door for me and I slid out of the car. It always took a few seconds to find my balance on my champagne-colored pumps after days or weeks of living in boots. I smoothed down the silk and cashmere dress that matched my heels and headed toward Dad. Dima stayed back, but the hard look Dad sent him concerned me.

Dad smiled but it was strained, as if his smile was forced onto his face by invisible strings. Dima must have warned him about what I knew. I wanted to resent Dima for being my father’s spy as much as my confidante. I dreaded the day he’d have to choose between us and I’d lose him for good. Maybe that was another reason why I’d ended things between us.

The moment I arrived before him, Dad pulled me into a hug. I sank against his tall, strong form, smelling his familiar aftershave. He pulled back with my cheeks cupped between his big hands and pressed a gentle kiss to each of my cheeks. “You look good, Katinka.”

I didn’t smile, only stared up into Dad’s pale blue eyes. He was only in his late forties, one of the younger Pakhans, and his blond hair still hid the gray streaks well.

“Dinara,” I corrected, even though I knew he wouldn’t use my second name. When I’d stopped using my first name, Ekaterina, named after Ekaterina the Great, another reason why Dad had chosen to build her palace, he had been heartbroken, and continued to call me by the nickname Katinka.

I rarely corrected him anymore, nor did I wear the clothes I preferred when I was around him.

I always chose dresses or skirts in light colors, because he loved seeing me like that. Ekaterina meant pure after all and he wanted to see me in the light, not stumbling into the darkness that lingered deep inside of me. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and led me inside the splendid mirror-walled foyers with its white and gold décor.

“Where are Jurij and Artur?”

“They are already asleep, and so is Galina.”

Dad always tried to keep his young wife and my halfbrothers out of sight, as if he worried his new family would upset me. I gave him an exasperated look. He needed to stop thinking I needed to be put on a pedestal. I’d been happy when he’d married, and Galina had given him heirs. That meant he wouldn’t hover as much anymore and I’d have more freedoms.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

I nodded. Except for vodka and gin, I hadn’t consumed anything yet, and it was starting to show in the fuzziness in my brain. Dad snapped his fingers and at once a member of the staff who’d been lurking in the background rushed off toward the kitchen. “Let’s go to my office.”

Calling the vast room where he worked an office was a mockery. Its sheer size awed most people, and some families of four or five lived in apartments that were much smaller. The gold and white décor carried on, but the furniture was darker. A reddish wood dominated everything, and Dad’s desk was the size of a small queen-size bed. We settled on the plush gold and blue sofa that he’d bought from a collector and which originated from the 18th century: Catherine the Great’s time. Dad was a man with one foot firmly set in the past and one in the future, maybe that made him so well respected among his men.

A knock sounded and our cook entered with a tray of fresh khachapuri, baked bread in the shape of an almond with cheese and egg filling. She carried it over to us and carefully set it down on the table in front of us before she disappeared again. I reached for a khachapuri, wincing as it burned my fingertips but too greedy for the delicacy of Dad’s childhood. The runny egg yolk spread on my tongue, mingling with the saltiness of the cheese and comforting denseness of the dough. Dad had spent the first few years of his life in the Caucasus. I swallowed the first bite then put the bread back down on the plate.

I was done postponing the inevitable, so I met Dad’s gaze.

“Why did you lie?”

A muscle in Dad’s cheek twitched, a sign of his displeasure. Many people would have had reason to cower at this sign of danger, but I wasn’t one of them. “Dima wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“He didn’t. Adamo Falcone did, and then I didn’t leave Dima a choice but to admit he knew the truth. You know I can be convincing if I put my mind to it.”

Dad chuckled. “Oh, I know. You have the stubbornness and cunning of a great empress.”

I sighed. “Why did you lie? You made me believe she was dead. All these years.”

“It was for the best. I wanted to protect you.”

“That’s bullshit!”

Dad’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Not that tone around me.” He hated when I cursed, and maybe even more when I spoke in English.

I took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“The truth doesn’t matter, because what I said is as good as true. She’s dead to us, erased from our lives, and out of our reach in Camorra territory.”

“Nothing is out of your reach, Dad, if you really want it.” He’d dragged his wife Galina out of the furthest corner of the Caucasus, a small village where her parents had hidden her away from my father, despite it being under the control of the enemy.

He shook his head with a rough laugh. “I’m a businessman and I’ve survived many attacks to my life, only because I’m cautious. Going to war with Remo Falcone isn’t wise. Breaching his territory for a dead woman is insanity.”

“She’s not dead,” I whispered harshly.