Page 12 of Vendetta Crown

The man standing next to him clears his throat and explains in perfect English: "He wishes to know your father's name, so that he may address you with the respect that your position demands."

My father's name. A simple request that opens a floodgate of memories. My father. My real father. Murdered in our family home, his blood spelling out awful words on the walls.

"My father's name is Mark," I stammer out. "Mark Fields."

The moment the name leaves my lips, Potyomkin's expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable. His eyebrows lift slightly, and his perpetual scowl deepens into something more contemplative.

"That is not the name I was led to believe," he says in heavily accented English, each word slow and deliberate.

A chill runs through me. Liliya's warning echoes in my mind:Others are looking into who you are... being intriguing in the bratva world is the easiest way to get killed.

Potyomkin must have been one of those people digging into my past.

But it doesn't matter now. The monster that I was trying to hide from has already found me.

"The man you saved me from." My voice cracks, and I swallow hard. "He murdered my family seven years ago. My parents, and my brother. He wrote messages on the wall in their blood, and stalked me for seven years." I shudder at the memory. "I had to change my name. I had to become someone else to survive."

Potyomkin watches me with those wolf's eyes, assessing everything. My trembling hands, my tear-stained face, and the fear that still claws at my insides.

For a long, terrible moment, I think I've made a mistake by telling him the truth.

Then, something impossible happens. A ghost of a smile appears on his stony face.

"Very impressive, Aurora Markovna," he says. "To survive seven years alone and hunted requires strength and cunning most do not possess."

His approval shouldn't matter. This man is dangerous, perhaps as dangerous as Kristofer in his own way. But after spending the last few hours next to the monster that haunted me, having Potyomkin acknowledge what it took for me to stay alive feels like validation.

Just then, one of the men who took Kristofer away comes back into the room.

He crosses to Potyomkin and leans close, whispering urgently in Russian. I catch nothing except Kristofer's name, but the effect on Potyomkin is immediate. His face darkens like a storm cloud, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.

He barks something back, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch. The man nods and hurries from the room.

"There is a complication," Potyomkin says, turning back to me. "You should have told me your stalker is not merely police, but head of his entire police force. You have put me in a very difficult position, Aurora Markovna."

My stomach drops. "I didn't know."

I truly didn't. Seven years ago, Kristofer was just a rookie cop with a badge and a gun. Even that was terrifying enough.

The thought that he's risen through the ranks while hunting me makes my skin crawl.

"I cannot kill a police officer of this rank so brazenly." He smooths down his tie. "Even in my own city."

My heart sinks.

"I understand," I whisper. "All I ask for is shelter. Safety under your protection for just a little while until I can get back to Ruslan."

Potyomkin's head tilts slowly to one side, his eyes studying me with an unsettling blend of curiosity and what almost seems like pity.

"Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?" The question comes out as barely more than a breath.

"Ruslan Vitalyevich is dead."

The world stops. Everything from the room, to the lights of the Strip outside, and even my own heartbeat freezes in place.

"No," I say, the word automatic, instinctive.

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