Page 170 of Vicious Games

“But that didn’t happen,” I say, already dreading his answer.

“No,” Misha says quietly. “Katya did return to Russia. But not as we had hoped.”

“What happened to her?” My voice breaks. “What happened to my mother?”

“I’m not sure—” Aleksandr begins, only to be cut off by the crack of Misha’s fist slamming into the coffee table beside him.

“She deserves to know!” he roars.

I should be afraid.

The force behind his voice is thunderous, echoing through the ornate room.

But I’m not. I see it—feel it. His fury is steeped in grief. Grief so deep it rattles through his bones.

“My father found her, didn’t he?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“That man wasnotyour father,” Misha snarls, his lips curled with disgust. “He was a dog. A flea-ridden animal that I personally made sure to neuter and put down.” He takes a few shaky breaths, then nods, voice more controlled. “But yes. Vasily found our Katya.”

“What…what did he…do to her?” I stammer.

“The same thing I did to him,” Misha growls, eyes like winter steel. “I tortured him. Maimed him. Then hung his carcass on a lamppost in front of the Basil’s Cathedral for the whole world to see.”

The image strikes me like lightning, even if my mind is unwilling to conjure it. The horror of my mother’s body… displayed like that. My chest tightens.

“Can I…” I whisper, “Can I see her? A picture, maybe?”

Misha’s face softens at the request. Without a word, he looks at Aleksandr, who nods grimly. He walks over to the desk and picks up a small, timeworn photo frame from it. Carefully, he brings it to me and places it in my hands.

It’s a family portrait.

Worn at the edges, but vibrant with life.

A teenage Misha—sixteen, maybe—stands with his arm slung around Sasha, who’s clearly about fourteen. Sasha holds a toddler in his arms, a round-faced boy with wide eyes that must be Kostya. Kneeling in front of them is Kirill, no older than six maybe, his thin frame held upright by an elderly woman’s frail hands resting on his shoulders. Her eyes are clouded, but her smile is soft.

But it’s the woman in the center who steals my very breath away.

She looks just like me.

Wild blonde hair dancing in the wind, cheeks pink from the cold. Her blue eyes shine with joy and fierce devotion. She looks like she could take on the world.

“She’s beautiful,” I whisper.

“As are you,plemyánnitsa,” Misha says affectionately, his voice trembling, just a little. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to bring you home. I never lost hope. Not for one second.”

And I believe him.

I believe that he would have done just about anything for his sister, even if that meant searching Chicago top to bottom until he found me.

He reaches forward and gently hands me the stack of letters, still bound in red ribbon.

“Katya loved you more than life. You were her world, Kira. You’ve always been loved—always.”

“Kira,” I repeat the name, running my fingers over the ribbon. A tear slips down my cheek. “That’s the name she gave me?”

He nods. “Though I imagine she’d be just as proud to call you Frances. She’d be proud of both names. Proud of who you’ve become.”

More tears follow. This time, I can’t stop them. Misha’s face begins to blur through the flood.

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