Chapter Twenty-Six

I could hear myself gasp, and I could feel my eyelids fluttering uncontrollably. I could see them standing in front of me, but it was like I was watching them through a TV screen that was showing a film deemed inappropriate for children.

“Anastasia, darling, step away from the door,” said my mother. My mother!

“It’s okay,” my father added.

Okay? What was okay? Nothing about this was okay.

I stood like a broken statue, unable to be dislodged, unable to process anything.

Finally, my dad stepped forward, slowly, like a hunter not wanting to startle the doe-eyed deer. He clasped my hand and gently guided me from the entry. I felt his strong fingers interlaced with mine, and I stared at the familiar hand I held as a girl crossing the street.

I stopped short. My high heels clanked on the marble floor as I yanked myself free of him.

I stepped away. Far away.

“What. The. Fuck?” I shouted. Because there really were no other words.

My mother sighed as though she were expecting my oh-so-dramatic reaction. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see me? It’s good to see me!” I yelled from the depths of my throat, the words ripping their way out. The room sloped at an odd angle, all of the elegantly appointed leather furniture tilting and my parents stretching like demons. A bomb ticked deep inside, and I pulled at the asymmetrical strap of my fancy black dress like it might stop the explosion.

“Calm down. Breathe,” said my father, putting a hand on my back.

I jerked, his touch like fire. No. No way. Did he actually think he could touch me?

“We realize this is a shock.” There was a hint of child psychology in his voice, reminiscent of the shrinks I saw after their funerals.

I opened my mouth to scream, the sound halfway up my throat, but my mom held up a long slender finger, silencing me. I bit my tongue, literally. I could taste the blood.

“I imagine you have a few questions, but first, let us explain.” She pulled herself up to full height and raised her brows as if to insist, This is how things are going to be. Now hold your questions until I call on you. Oddly, I noticed her eyebrows had been professionally groomed; she’d gone to a spa recently. “When everything—”

“No,” I cut her off, finding my voice. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You don’t get to tell me how this will go down.” I gestured between the two of us. “I will ask whatever questions I want. And you. Will. Answer them.”

We eyed one another, the room falling so silent I swore they could hear my heart pounding a death metal beat. But I didn’t blink first.

“You’ve changed,” she said, making a clinical observation.

“What did you expect?” I snarled. “Everyone in my life is either dead or being threatened. Because of you!”

Annoyance slipped into her face as she glanced at my father, like she wanted him to deal with me.

Dad nodded. They didn’t need to speak; they knew each other so well. Yet here I was, their daughter, and it was like we’d just met.

“Anastasia, I know Allen got you up to speed on a few things, but there’s more to the story,” Dad began, casually moving toward me with the poise of a politician used to spin.

I stumbled a step, then another two, certain if he got any closer, the furor I was trying to restrain would break free like a feral animal.

He stopped his approach. “Our deaths, they weren’t by choice. Urban had plans to terminate us, and it was either let him succeed or let him think he succeeded.”

“Funny how neither of those options takes your children into account.”

“We did think of you,” Mom interjected. “You remember that night, when we said we were moving to Canada, and you said you wanted to stay in Boston with Keira.”

Actually, I’d said a lot more than that. I’d told them that I hated them, then they died. I’d regretted those words every second of my life since. I’d apologized again and again to their tombstones, to their empty bedrooms, to the thin air, hoping it would be enough to absolve me, but the guilt never lifted. Until this moment.

Because back then, I didn’t mean it. Now I did. I really, really did.

“We were honoring your wishes,” Dad said. “You and Keira staying in Boston was the right decision. It was what was best for you.”

“What was best for me was having my parents, not being orphaned, and not falling into depression!” I cried, a sob lodged in my throat. “Did you really need me to say that?”

“It would have meant spending your lives on the run,” Dad said.

“We had to make an impossible choice, and our options were limited,” my mom continued. “There was no simple ending, and Allen’s plan seemed like the best decision for everyone.” She looked at Allen Cross slumped on the floor, his shoulders sagging from scotch, drool on his chin, and the dagger laying on the marble in front of his outstretched legs. He looked nothing like the controlled, unbreakable spy I’d met in Rome.

“You have no loyalty.” Cross lazily lifted his chin, his tongue sounding too thick for his mouth. “Not to me, not to anyone! That’s why people want to kill you, and I really hope someone finally does. You deserve to be in the ground.”

He meant it. It was why he kept shouting his words on the balcony. He wanted them to know how much he regretted ever helping them, how much that decision ruined his life. Well, it ruined mine, too.

I gawked, any innocence that was left in me draining away, pooling by my feet, sliding out the door, and dripping into the toxic lagoon below. The only adult in my life I thought I could trust just wished my parents dead, and I wasn’t sure I disagreed with him. “How long have you known that Randolph Urban is my father?”

The question triggered an immediate reaction. My mom cleared her voice, tensely pulling her thick espresso hair, which rippled down her back in waves, like mine. I could see myself in her, the way she tugged at her shoulders, and in the shape of her mouth, the curve of her hips. But not in her eyes. My blue-gray eyes belonged to someone else, and now we all knew who.

“It’s complicated,” she replied.

Hot blood rushed down my arms. I was not a child anymore. They’d made sure of that. Protecting me from harsh truths was no longer an option. Especially not from this, from him.

My dad reached for me, the depth of his eyes revealing that of all the accusations I could throw their way (and there were plenty), this was the one he was dreading. “He is not your father.” His nose wrinkled in offense. It was long and pointy like Keira’s. His light brown hair matched hers, too.

The years had been kind—his hairline was thinned a bit, and there were new crow’s feet around his small hazel eyes, but otherwise he looked the same. And he looked nothing like me. How had I not seen it?

“I’m your dad,” he insisted in a “biology doesn’t make a family” kind of way. Only to pull that card, he needed to prove love was what bonded us together. And we both knew I didn’t have much of that stacked in my deck.

“You know what I’m asking. I have results of a DNA test, confirmed by the CIA.” I spat the truth. “Randolph Urban’s sperm met your egg. So tell me, Mom, exactly how long were you cheating on Dad?”

I didn’t blink as I said it. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to shove at least one ounce of the pain she’d inflicted on me back onto her.

“Your father and I dealt with this a long time ago,” she replied, her patience sounding thin. “I knew how Urban would react if he knew the truth, and I knew he’d never let you out of his clutches. After a lifetime in this business, I didn’t want that for you. As much as you hate me, Anastasia, I was thinking of you. So I faked amnios; I faked blood tests. I did everything a woman could possibly do to prove you were not his child. To keep you safe.”

“Well, you’ve done a bang-up job of that.” I gave a bit of fake applause. “He kidnapped one daughter and had me chasing assassins around Italy!”

“You handled yourself quite nicely, I must say. Very impressive.” My dad actually sounded proud, like I’d hit a grand slam in little league.

Who are these people?

“Since you brought up the CIA.” Mom shifted gears, signaling to my dad that it was time. For what, I didn’t know, but I sensed I wouldn’t like what I was about to find out. I never did. “You haven’t asked the big question yet, darling. Don’t you want to know where we’ve been?”

She was right. I hadn’t asked. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to know; it was because I hadn’t thought to bring my notecards to better organize the questions I had regarding their betrayal.

She paused, the odd look on her face adding to the intentional drama. Then finally, she stepped beside my father, hand on his shoulder in solidarity. They were in this together. Them against me.

“We’ve been in CIA custody for almost two years now,” she revealed. “We’re in Rio, because we finally broke ourselves out.”