Page 80 of Wicked Heiress

A man shouted in the hallway.

“Where is my daughter?” Shoes clicked on the tiled floor. “Abigail, where are you hiding?”

It was my grandfather.

He scared me.

I hated him.

Mom swept me into her arms, rushed into the hallway, and headed toward the front door. Armed men swarmed the house, the red dots from their weapons shining on my father's forehead. Papa grabbed the gun at his waistband and raised it to defend himself. His gaze moved between the gunmen to my mom and me.

“Abigail,” Grandfather said as she set me on the floor, keeping me at her side. “You knew the entire time, didn’t you?” Disgust dripped from his tone, and as he approached her, his lip curled upward into a snarl. “You let a criminal into our family. Into your home.” He shook his head. “You’re not as smart as you think, my dear. I uncovered all of your lies.”

She stood straighter, chin raised. “I never lied to you, Father.”

Grandfather clicked his tongue. “Save it, Abigail. You’re a terrible liar. Almost as bad as your conman husband.” He inched toward her. “You and your sister are such a disappointment. The two of you could have been anything. I gave you every opportunity, and you both married poorly against my counsel.”

My mother threw out her arm in front of me.

Grandfather smirked. “You can’t keep her from me. And you won’t be seeing her where you’re going.”

“I’ll never let you have her.” Mom pushed me to the side, but I could see her face. “Katarina is my daughter.”

The red dots on my father’s head shifted toward my mom, and her eyes widened.

Grandfather turned on his heels, his dress shoes tapping on the floor. “Get rid of them.”

A shot fired, sinking into my mother's chest. She fell backward and onto the marble floor, blood seeping through her white blouse, a puddle pooling around her body that went painfully still.

"Mommy!” Tears stung my eyes, her blood coating my skin. "Mommy, wake up!"

There was so much blood.

On my face and fingers.

All over my clothes.

“Abigail,” my father yelled, sinking to his knees on the floor beside her lifeless body. “No.” He breathed air into her mouth, but she was not moving. “Abigail, please.” He pressed his palms on her chest and took turns breathing into her mouth. “Come on, my darling. Open your eyes.”

“Back away from her, Romanov,” a man dressed in camouflage growled at my father, pointing a gun at his head.

Dad rose to his feet and faced off with the man. “You killed her.” He effortlessly stole the gun from the man’s hand and turned it on him. Then he glanced at me. “Katarina, go to your special place.”

I knew what that meant, but I shook so badly I couldn’t move. My dad created a hiding spot just for me. He said it would keep me safe if the bad men came looking for us.

When I didn’t move, Papa attempted to lift me off the bloody floor with one hand while holding the gun in the other. “Katarina, I want you to close your eyes and sing our song. Can you do that for Papa?”

I closed my eyes and sang my favorite Russian lullaby, Bayushki Bayu.

Sleep, my darling, sleep, my baby, close your eyes, and sleep.

Papa sang it to me every night. It was how he taught me to speak Russian.

I was still singing when my dad fired his weapon at the men. He got a few more shots in before a gunman on his right tackled him to the ground. I crashed to the floor with them while another man forced him to submit. A different man gripped me beneath my armpits and lifted me.

“Papa, no!” I kicked, screamed, and even tried to bite the man carrying me toward the door. “Help me!”

"Katarina," he said as his eyes met mine, fighting against the weight of the men holding him down. “Papa will find you. I will never stop looking for you, kisa."

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