Page 148 of Dance of Deception

I'm not letting her fade again. I tighten my hold, my grip on her jaw commanding. “Someone gave you those photos?”

She nods furtively.

“Who,” I snarl.

She shakes her head, water trailing down her cheeks like tears.

“Why thefuckwould anyone send you those?” My voice drops lower, harsher. I need to know. I need names. I need a target for my wrath.

“I—”

“Lyra, think. Who?—”

“I was the star witness in Arkadi’s case.”

The whole fucking world stops.

My breath stills, my arms locked around her as my blood turns molten.

I remember the news clips when it all happened—how the neighbors called the cops after they found that monster’s own daughter running screaming through the neighborhood, sobbing about “girls in the basement".

Lyra.

I remember how later Arkadi’s own wife was exempt from testifying—firstly because her lawyers were able to prove she was mentally unfit to take the witness stand, given her mental state and her alcoholism. When the prosecution threw a fit, the same lawyers hit back with “spousal testimonial immunity”.

Lyra swallows hard, her voice breaking as she looks up at me. “My testimony sealed his conviction. It’s what sent him to prison.”

That can’t be. As I recall, there was never anything about Lyra being a witness of any kind. I mean she was achild, for fuck’s sake.

“It was sealed,” she whispers, seeing the question in my eyes. “Because I was a minor.” Her voice shakes. “I wasn’t going totestify, because of who my father worked for. But then Kir came to see my mother and me during the trial. He told us that no retribution would come from the Bratva if I testified. They had excommunicated my father for his crimes. Kir made it clear that if I testified—and that he thought I should—I’d be safe.”

Kir.

Raw, blood-soaked viciousness snarls inside me.

Kirwas the one who put her in that courtroom and made her face that monster.

I see. Fucking.Red. But I force it down. For her.

I drag in a slow breath, pressing my lips to her wet forehead, grounding myself in the feel of her.

“Tell me about the past.” My voice is low. I need to know everything.

She hesitates, but only for a second. Then it all starts pouring out.

“I always knew about the door in the basement,” she whispers. “But it was always locked, and my father always told me it was just an old storm cellar. Then one day, when I went downstairs to do laundry, it was open a crack.”

I stay silent, my fingers stroking her back, willing her to continue.

Her breath stalls. “So, I… I went through it, and down the stairs.” She chokes a small, broken laugh. “I thought… I don’t even know. I thought maybe I’d find something interesting down there, a piece of our family history or something.”

Her fingers curl against my chest, clinging, desperate.

“I saw the cages. The chains. The handcuffs. The row of girls’ clothing on a rack.”

My entire body goes tense.

Her voice drops lower. “There were cameras. Lights. Like it was a movie set.”

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