Page 82 of Deadly Oath

“Proof.” I sink down in my own chair. “Open it up.”

She goes for the pouch first, as I thought she might. There’s a recorder inside, and she stares at it for a long moment. “How did you get this?”

“Dima Kariyev has gone to prison,” I tell her. “His oldest son will go there with him. Two of his sons are dead. His fourth one, the bastard, fell in love with some woman and tore a hole through the family. Led the FBI right to them when they threatened her.”

“Sounds romantic.” Sabrina bites her lip. “What does that have to do with my father? And this?” She taps a nail against the recorder.

I look at her for a moment, startled by her poise. This isn’t Sabrina Miller, the frightened woman in witness protection that I seduced in Rivershade, I realize. This is Sabrina Petrova, daughter of Yuri Petrov, the only daughter of a Bratvapakhan. This is the woman I had expected to find—and yet, she’s still not what I expected at all.

“Connections,” I say finally. “By the time all of this happened, I wanted more information on what went down with that deal. And I got this.” I nod to the recorder and file. “Listen to it.”

Sabrina draws in a slow breath, looking at the recorder as if it were a snake that might bite her. And it very well might.

She stares at it for a long moment, letting the seconds tick by, and then she reaches out decisively, pushing theplaybutton.

Two men’s voices fill the air. One, I know, is Dima Kariyev, so the other must be Yuri. Sabrina stiffens when she hears her father’s voice.

“Your territory can be taken easily, Yuri, if I want it. That I’ve allowed you as much as I have all these years has been a boon. Now, I’ve had enough of your pride. I can take your territory back, or I can take something else.”

“What? Money?”Yuri snorts, the sound fuzzy on the recording.“I have money. Name your price. We’ll go from there.”

“My price is your daughter.”

That snort again. “You have a wife. Or has something happened to her that I haven’t heard about?”

“Not to marry. To sell.”

“You fucking insult me, Dima.”Yuri’s voice rises, and I see Sabrina’s shoulders relax a fraction. Something tightens in my chest, because I know what comes next. And I shouldn’t care about how this will make her feel, not after everything—but I do.

“You insult me,”he repeats. “My daughter is not for sale. I know what business you run, Dima. I hear the rumors. And you will not?—”

“I will, or I will take your territory. Your place aspakhan. Your influence. Choose, Yuri. I’ve had enough of your insolence over the years. Your daughter will fetch a high price. An impressive prize to sell. Answer me, yes or no.”

There’s silence on the recording for several seconds. Sabrina is staring at it, white-faced, her mouth tight, as if she’s willing the answer her father gives to be the one that she needs it to be. And then Yuri speaks again.

“Fine. But I want a portion of the sale. Fifty percent.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

“Thirteen.”

There’s silence again, and then Yuri speaks once more.

“Done.”

There’s more talk after that, discussions of Dima’s bastard son taking Sabrina to a gala where she’ll be handed over—the night that I know the FBI got their hands on her. But I don’t think she hears it. She’s sitting stiffly in her chair, her face pale as death, a thin line of tears trickling down each cheek. I’m not even sure that she’s aware she’s started crying. She reaches for the file, opening it, and stares at what’s inside for a long moment.

I know what’s in there already. A glossy photo of her. The bill of sale from her auction. A photocopy of a check for her father’s portion of the five million dollars. And the contract Yuri signed with Dima, agreeing to his daughter’s sale in exchange for the territory he occupied.

Sabrina doesn’t move as she looks at it. Her eyes flick back and forth, still dripping tears, and I’m seized with the urge to go to her. To cross the room, wrap my arms around her, and hold her. It’s in that moment, that I know that I’ve been wrong about everything. Not just about Sabrina herself, but about what I feel for her.

I’ve lied not only to her, but to myself as well. And it’s too late to make any of it right. To take any of it back.

“Has anything happened to my father?” Her voice sounds remote, as if she’s speaking from far away. “You said Dima Kariyev is going to prison. What about my father?”

I shake my head. “Dima’s son informed on him. I have this information, but I haven’t been sure of what to do with it. It should go to the FBI, but?—”

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