Chapter 1
Mischa Stepanov has brutalized my body in ways I could have never imagined. My face bears his permanent mark, and he made me sever my own ring finger to feed his lie. He’s toyed with me. Mocked me.
But this is the cruelest torture he’s inflicted. His aim isn’t to merely hurt me.
He’s after my soul.
And his attack comes in the form of one sentence only he could deliver.
“I can help you find your son.”
Even though Sergei Vasilev is standing before me, I know who’s responsible for this. And I know that only lies lurk in the envelope brandished in his outstretched hand.
That’s all this is: lies.
Ithasto be.
“You don’t believe me?” Sergei’s mouth twists into a contemplative frown. When I don’t move, he raises the envelope higher, letting the ivory surface catch the dim light in the hall. “Fine. I’ll say it again: I have proof that your son is still alive—”
“Please don’t do this.” I sound so hollow. Not angry. Not panicked. Just so damn tired. When he takes a step forward, I throw out my hand as if my trembling palm alone can ward him off. At least, for now, it does. “Please…”
“No?” A low hiss rumbles from his throat. A sigh? “I must admit that I expected you to receive this news differently.”
“Did Mischa tell you?” I stare at my hands. The fingers twitch, aching to guard my ears against any more lies. “About my…him?”
“Mischa?” The inflection in his tone is convincing. He sounds confused—but I’ve already decided.
Only a man like Mischa would weaponize my darkest secrets against me. In fact, he’d relish in doing so.
“Well, he lied to you.” I force a weak laugh as I scan the hall for my tormentor. Is he lurking there beyond the stairwell? Or maybe around the corner?
No matter the hiding place, he’s somewhere close, savoring his victory.
“Mischa didn’t tell me a thing.” Sergei sounds too damn genuine. Smug, almost. He knows my captor better than I do.
“He’s the only one I’ve told,” I confess, hating myself for being so foolish. “No one else.”
“Is that so?” Sergei surprises me by throwing his head back, and of all things, he…laughs. “Child, I’ve known about your son since the day he was born.” When he meets my gaze, there is no amusement in his expression. Just unsettling insight that betrays a knowledge of so much more than I’m willing to accept. “In fact, I’ve known aboutyousince the day you were born.”
“How?”
I hunt his wizened features for any hint of a lie and come to one grim observation: He shields his emotions well. Better than Mischa. It’s as if he can flick a switch, displaying only what he chooses to. And in this moment? His eyes reveal nothing.
“Your husband has hidden him well, your son,” he says softly. “So well that my spies have gotten only a glimpse of him in four years—”
“How can I believe you?”
“You don’t have to.” He nods to the envelope. “You merely need to see for yourself.”
He steps forward cautiously, giving me plenty of time to back away. When he’s close enough, he presses the envelope into my hand and coaxes my fingers into curling over the square surface.
“I am the only one who can help you rescue him—”
“And Mischa can’t?” Through watering, burning eyes, I watch his expression flicker—the briefest hint of irritation.
“Mischa rescue the son of his sworn enemy?” His doubtful tone reveals what he thinks of that scenario. “You and I both know that he could sooner chop the boy into pieces and sell him off to the highest bidder—”
“And you wouldn’t?” God only knows why I’m even playing this game. The envelope in my fist burns. Every cell in my body warns me to let it go. I watch my nails flex over it, but the damn thing won’t fall. Looking up, I meet Sergei’s gaze directly. “Why would you even want to help me?”