Page 52

"I'm sure," I tell her, squeezing her hand. "Let's go." I nod at the door to my father’s study and brace myself. God only knows how he's going to react to seeing me again, and after seeing me with a baby, he'll flip out entirely. I'm not looking forward to this, but I'm not backing down anymore.

Natalia pushes open the door to Batya's study, and he looks up from his desk with a scowl that freezes when he sees me. His face contorts, rage flooding his features, and he slams his hand down so hard, the papers scatter.

"What is she doing here?" he roars, and he stands so fast, his chair tips backward and crashes to the floor. "You brought her into my house after what she did? After she shamed us?"

"Sit," Natalia commands, lifting her chin. That's the attitude I remember, and Batya looks shocked to hear her speak to him like this. "You will listen to her. You owe her that much after what you put her through."

Batya stares at her, his jaw working, and I see him struggle with the shock of his obedient daughter speaking to him like a dog. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and he kicks the fallen chair, sending it spinning across the room. It hits the wall and makes me flinch, but he doesn't appear to be in a yielding sort of mood.

"I owe her nothing," he shouts, and he grabs a glass from his desk and hurls it against the fireplace. It shatters, and the pieces scatter across the rug. "She abandoned her family and ran like a coward with that Sokolov filth. She has no right to stand in my presence."

I think he forgets that before that "Sokolov filth" was ever mine to have or behold, he was my enemy too, and back then, my father was so eager to marry my sister off to them. Now he seems ready to slaughter them all. A lot really has changed.

Natalia holds Misha closer to her chest and scowls at him defiantly. "She has every right. She's your daughter. And you will hear what she has to say, or you will never see either of us again."

Batya turns to me, and his eyes burn with a hatred that masks something deeper, like fear. "You turned her against me," he accuses. "You poisoned her mind the way you poisoned everything else." The idea of losing both of his precious daughters is crippling. I see the hesitation in his eyes and the reluctance to yield, but he'll listen. I know that now.

"I chose this myself, Batya," Natalia says, walking toward the door. "I'm taking your grandson to meet Mamochka. She deserves to know him. And when I come back, you will have listened, or you'll have lost both your daughters."

She leaves before he can respond, and Batya and I stand alone amid the wreckage of his temper, the shattered glass, the overturned chair, and the silence that follows, heavy enough to crush us both.

Part of me feels sorry for him for all of this. He killed Ivan in cold blood to protect me, and honestly, I probably owe him my life. If I'd been left alone with him even a few minutes longer, his beatings might've killed me. But what happened after that was the unacceptable part. I can't ignore how he betrayed me for what seems like now was just money.

"You dare," he grumbles, quieter now but no less angry. "You dare come into my house and command me. You think you can bring that child in here and poison my mind too?"

"I dare," I tell him firmly, kicking some broken glass away from my feet. "I'm done being afraid of you, Batya. I'm done letting you decide what my life means."

He scoffs and runs a hand over his balding head, stalking to the window to stare out into the dark yard. "I protected you," he says as he sinks into the chair perched there. "Ivan hurt you, and I made him pay. I buried the truth so you wouldn't have to carry the shame."

"It wasn't your shame to bury," I tell him, feeling all of those heavy emotions well up again. I've done a lot of healing over the past year, but some things still feel raw. "It was my truth. You decided my truth had to disappear so you could keep your comfortable life instead of fighting for me. It was just your property that a Sokolov touched and you killed him to claim me back. You never wanted to protect me, Batya."

"He raped you," he says. It's such an ugly word, I cringe at it, hair rising on my neck. But I won't shy away from this conversation. "I know what he did. I made him pay."

"And then you made me suffer for five years," I say, stepping closer to his desk. "You've been abusive ever since that night, controlling every move I made, deciding what I would say, how I would behave. You turned my trauma into a reason to cage me and decided that because Ivan broke me, you had to keep the pieces."

Batya looks up at me, and I see the battle in his eyes, the man who loves his daughter warring with the Pakhan who can't show weakness. He stands slowly and turns to face me, though it isn't regret I see in his eyes. Pity, maybe, or nothing but a lie aimed at more control. I don't know what to believe anymore. I'm just as lost as anyone else in this war, except my war isn’t against the Sokolovs anymore. It's against my own family.

"I thought I was protecting you," he says more quietly.

When his shoulders sag, I take a step back. I won't let my own compassion or my childish desire for my father to change cloud my judgment. I'm here to force his hand and make him own up to his mistakes.

"Batya, this war has to stop now. You have to sit down at the table and come to terms with Mikhail. Everyone knows Ivan raped me. It's been out in the open for almost a year now. It's time to stop fighting. The money you hoped for isn't coming. And the reputation Mikhail is fighting to protect is gone."

"No," he grumbles, turning to stalk back behind his desk. He pulls another whiskey glass out of his drawer and the bottle of vodka and pours himself a few fingers, then downs it. "Not a chance in hell."

"Batya," I say softly, but the word feels wrong now. He's not some tender, dear man to me anymore. He is simply a man I need to work with. Someday, if healing happens, I might feel differently, but right now, I have to make him see the light.

"Tell me about the boy," he says, flicking a glance to the door where Natalia whisked Misha off in privacy.

"He's my son, and he's not part of this discussion."

"But he can be leveraged."

Disgust crawls up my spine, making me cringe. I clench my jaw tightly and blink my eyes slowly as I pinch my lip between my teeth and refuse to say the first thing that comes to mind.

"My son is not leverage. He's not some political pawn you're going to use to end this war. I'm not that sort of mother." I want to spit that I’m not like him, but I bite the words back.

My father downs another glass of vodka and narrows his eyes at me thoughtfully as he studies my expression. I try to stand tall, shoulders squared with my chin erect, but he's so intimidating. I'm not sure what to do. I wish Dimitri were here.