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My father had to have paid off Dr. Babich and those nurses who took care of me after the attack. Dimitri was right. Hiding evidence of a crime is a crime in and of itself. If my father didn't pay them to keep it quiet, he most certainly threatened them with something that scared them enough to do it.

"What's gotten into you?" he says curtly. "You're so disrespectful lately. Ever since we announced the upcoming marriage, you act so entitled."

If I snap at him, it will come across as my being rebellious and insubordinate. It won't mean a thing to him. But I can't keep sitting on this knowledge pretending I don't know what he did. I think I always knew he'd covered it up somehow because otherwise, there would've been a trial and he'd be in jail. But I guess I never knew to what extent.

The fact that my doctor saw how bad this was and said nothing—that's not nothing. Batya probably had to fight the man off calling the police.

"Why don't you ask yourself what's gotten into me?" I say quietly.

Batya sets his fork down, and I can see him trying to figure out if this is just another mood or if something has actually shifted. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I've had enough of all of this. Dimitri's passionate push to stop this wedding at all cost has made me rethink how awful the whole situation is. I lived in a state of shock and PTSD for so long, I excused my father's behavior, and after having my blinders pulled off, I know how wrong his actions were. Ivan might have gotten what he deserved, but his father never had to feel the sting of shame for what his son did.

"I know what you did," I say quietly, growing bolder by the second. "I know you paid off Dr. Babich and threatened the nurses. You buried the evidence so no one would ever know what Ivan Sokolov actually was." I lift my eyes and look directly at my father’s face as his concern dips into anger. "And you let his entire family believe he was martyred in a territory dispute. He died a hero, not the pig he was."

The table goes silent. Mamochka's hand freezes halfway to her wineglass. My sister’s head drops and she backs away from the table, folding her hands in her lap. They both know what I've just started, but I'm willing to bet neither one of them will stand up for me.

"Alana," Mamochka whispers.

"No," I say, and I'm not shy about it. "Don't 'Alana' me like I'm a child who doesn't understand. I understand perfectly. I understand that you decided my truth was less important than protecting the family name. I spent five years hiding in this house, too scared to walk down the street alone, while you all pretended nothing happened."

Now my heart is hammering, begging me to get up and run away, but I won't run anymore. I deserve true justice, if nothing more than my father’s apology. I damn well deserve to know I meant more than someone’s pride.

Batya leans forward and glares at me. "Where did you get this information?"

"I took the photos myself when I went to Dr. Babich's office with Natalia. I took pictures of my own medical records." It's hard to choke out all of these words without getting too angry. I know if I do that, I'll just start crying because I’m too emotional. These truths must be delivered calmly, though my hands shake. "There was a rape kit done, and DNA evidence, and you paid him to make it go away.

"I know the truth. I know you decided what happened to me was acceptable collateral damage in your great game of protecting the Volskaya name." When I say that, he sits back, waving a hand through the air dismissively, but Mamochka sits back and covers her face with her hands.

"You don't understand what you're playing with," Batya says.

"I understand perfectly," I tell him, but I'm not going to sit on my hands anymore. If Batya won’t do the right thing by telling the council about Ivan, I have to. It's terrifying, because I know what it might mean, which is the next thing he throws in my face.

"If that evidence had surfaced," Batya says, "there would've been a public trial and the Bratva Council would have been involved. Do you know what that means?"

"It means justice," I tell him plainly, scooting back so I can stand up if I need to. I'm feeling too antsy to sit still. My whole life changed because of that incident. I demand that someone pay for it and help me fix my broken heart.

"It means war," Batya says. "It means every family in Moscow would've known that the Volskaya Pakhan's daughter was assaulted. The Sokolovs would have been obligated to retaliate for the death of their son, regardless of his crimes. You would've become the face of a scandal that would have destroyed us all."

I stare at him. "So you buried it. You buried the truth to protect the family? But what family, Batya? It seems like you protected Ivan Sokolov's name more than my own. And his family didn't have to feel the shame at all."

"I buried it to protect you. You were never publicly shamed," Batya says, and now he sounds angry. This is where it always goes. I was never dragged through the mud and shamed, but I never got justice, either. "You think I wanted this? I wanted to string him up in Red Square and let the crows pick at his bones. But to see my daughter be humiliated?"

I scream and growl at the same time, standing up at my seat. But Natalia reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Alana, please."

I pull away gently. "I understand that you decided my truth was something that could be packaged away and hidden, but I've been more humiliated knowing my own father won't speak out against the family that raised my attacker. The shame of that! It's outrageous."

Batya's eyes narrow. "You've been talking to someone."

"I've been learning things, yes, and I've learned that my own father won't even protect me." Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them back then drop my napkin onto my untouched plate. I'm not hungry anymore.

"With who?"

"That's not important."

"It's very important," he says. "Because someone is feeding you lies, Alana, and I won't let them poison you against me. Do you hear me? You will sit down at this table and you will eat your food and you will keep your mouth shut. The conversation is over."

My hand slides into my pocket, and I feel for the button on the side of the phone to start recording a video. It will only show the inside of my pocket, but it will record his voice, and this is just what I need.