What was the word for Russian mafia? Bratva. It explained the strange men who came and went from our home, my Ppapa’s secrecy about his work, his refusal to allow me into Russia, and Ivan. It explained red paint leaking from beneath . . . no. I couldn’t go there. It just explained everything. Every suspicion I’d ever had. His secret family now felt like a welcome reprieve. “She has nothing to do with our business,” Papa snapped. “Semantics,” Ronan countered drily, his thoughtful eyes on me. “She could be Tatianna’s twin. Must be awkward you fucked a woman who looked just like her.” The only one who made it awkward was this heartless bastard. “Mila is nothing like her mother.” “Now, that I believe,” Ronan drawled, leaning against the dresser. “I’ve heard she was a Sadistic bitch.” My throat tightened. He was lying. He had to be. Though I couldn’t help but remember the odd reactions in response to her name, including Vera’s terror when she’d looked at me. No. I wouldn’t let him ruin my mother’s memory—the memory I created at least. “Enough,” my papa grated. “We both know what you want. I will trade myself for her.” Understanding became terror that closed my lungs. “No,” I breathed. I knew what Ronan would do to my papa. I knew I would never see him again. The idea of having to traverse life all alone dropped a heavy weight on my chest. I didn’t know about my papa’s transgressions—this secret, terrifying life he led—but I couldn’t just forget the good father he always was. The one who braided my hair as a child in place of the mother I never had. The one who read me bedtime stories, kissed me on the forehead, and called me his little angel. “Mila.” It was a weary sigh over the line. He didn’t know I was listening, and regret softened his voice. “I’m so sorry, Papa,” I sobbed. Ronan’s eyes narrowed.