Page 3 of Dust to Dust

Damian whistled and shook his head, "You either have a first-class stalker, or it's her. Most likely both.”

Tension laced my necked as I clung to his every word. "We already know Nova followed you to the bar, but besides that, well shit, man,” Damian exhaled, "she's good." He raised his hand and pointed his index finger, "But she's cocky. She wasn't trained as extensively as us, so it was easy for me to blend into the background and watch her." He whistled, "She's got a hard-on for you. Watches you all the time. I know her type."

"Because you are her type," I murmured, but Damian heard. It was a dig at Damian’s obsession with his normal girl. Damian hunted in the shadows and had eyes and ears around Plain Jane 24/7. Dash and I named her Plain Jane because she wasn’t from a family like ours.

"You asked me to help you. I didn't ask for your help." Damian poked. "Nova is up to something that much, I know. I had Helen dig," Damian admitted.

Helen was one of the top hackers working for King Corporations. You'd never guess it by looking at her. Helen was in her fifties and looked like the all-American soccer mom; blonde hair, pink collared shirt, and khaki pants. Little did her friends know she had successfully hacked into the more notorious governments worldwide. Helen had pocketed millions using hold-up tactics, taking over sectors of governments that would cripple their power until they paid her back in cryptocurrency. Helen then took her resume and applied to King Corporations. It wasn't that she needed the money or job but rather our protection from her past deeds.

"Whoever did Nova's credentials was good. You dig deep it comes back clean until you see a facial recognization scan of her past. Once again, the tiny details start to crumble." That was Nova's problem. Not covering every single detail of her past.

Nothing got past the Kings when we put our full force to it. Damian paused as he pulled out his phone. "Seven years ago, a blonde hair girl was registered into the Russian juvenile prison system. The mug shot is one hundred percent, Elsa. Elsa never died, Titan.” He extended the phone to me. On the screen was a photo registration of Elsa.

I don't know how long Damian and I stood in silence as I studied the picture. I examined every detail of the girl who escaped death. Elsa's eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying, and her skin was so pale that it was as if she had been dragged through hell and locked up. She was hidden away from the sun she loved so much. The devil had ripped her angelic wings off. The eyes looking back at me in the photo were not the eyes of the girl I fell in love with in that treehouse. It was a haunting image I could never erase from my mind now.

"How the hell did a girl from Connecticut end up in a Russian prison a few weeks after her parents were killed?" I murmured, knowing that Damian had all the answers.

A tremendous amount of guilt sunk into my stomach. I felt like I was going to be sick. I did this to her. I did as my father asked and spied on her, got close to her so I could plant a virus on her parents' computer. My mistake was falling for Elsa. Karma paid me back by making me suffer, thinking she was killed only to have survived and been dragged into hell.

"Titan," Damian tried to soften his words, but he knew exactly what I was thinking. "Even if you knew, you would not have been able to help her. Your dad—"

I cut him off, "My father has always been the problem!" I roared.

Damian grabbed me by the back of my neck, forcing me to breathe, calm down and look at him, "A few more weeks, a month or two tops, and we will be free. I know it's hard, brother, but maybe it was better this way. Better Elsa was hidden from you. It was what probably kept her alive."

I didn't want to register his words. I pulled out from his grasp and looked back at the phone. I knew that Damian was right. I was a fourteen-year-old boy when Elsa died. A puppet that was controlled by my father. If my father knew Elsa was a distraction, he would have killed her. But none of that knowledge made anything right.

I grabbed the back of my neck, my fingertips digging into the muscles to kneed out some of the tension. “I’m going to continue,” Damian warned me. “When you start to connect the dots, you land on her uncle first. Ever heard of the Stepanov Bratva?"

"Shit…" I muttered. How did I not know this? I knew Elsa's parents were Russian, but she never claimed to have lived in Russia. I always assumed Elsa grew up in France because that's all she mentioned. I just accepted what she confessed to me as a child. A mistake I'd never make now.

Damian continued. "Her uncle is Pakhan. He had something to do with her move to Russia."

"But why and how?" I probed. My father wanted her father’s business which had nothing to do with the Bratva.

"I don't know, the digital trail ended there. You have to get the rest from the horse's mouth. How did her uncle save her, and why bother to bring her to Russia only to allow her to be put in prison?"

"Her uncle could have used her as leverage. Elsa's father's company was worth a shit ton. His tech is the foundation of some of our top tech. Rightfully the company would have been passed down to Elsa. Why not come forth with her and claim the power?" I voiced aloud.

"That's what has been racking my mind."

Nothing made sense because there were too many holes.

"What are you going to do now?" Damian asked.

My father.

Everything linked back to him. It was my father that wanted her father’s business. There was more than dad was telling me. I could turn to him, but that would make me weak. Dad would never tell me the truth. He would dangle it over my head and relish his added power over me.

"I'm going to make Nova trust me; then I'll break her," I confessed. When Nova did crack, I'd find the missing parts that had been tucked away from me.

Chapter 3

One month ago...

The walls inside my father's office made my skin itch. Nightmares echoed in my mind about being called into this room as a child. I never knew if my meetings with him would be a lesson, an order to kill, or worst.Yeah, there were things worst than killing.

I stood to attention with my arms clasped behind my back. The perfect soldier that my father crafted and sculpted. Lucas King sat in his chair; his desk separated us.A fire crackled behind me. My father always had the wood-burning fireplace on. Through winter and summer, the fire burned. Maybe it was my father's way of getting used to the constant flames. He'd be living eternity in hell, that is.

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