Page 59 of Filthy Lies

Arkady opens the door, and Vince guides me inside, his hand protective at the small of my back.

The room is elegant—crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, delicate china waiting on a table set for four. But I notice none of that. My eyes lock immediately on the man standing by the window.

My father.

Grigor Petrov is tall—taller than I expected. Graying hair, impeccably styled. A sharp jaw covered with salt-and-pepper stubble.

But it’s his eyes that freeze me in place.

Myeyes.

The same shade of green I see in the mirror every morning.

“Rowan.” His voice is deeper than Vince’s, but something in its cadence feels hauntingly familiar.

“Mr. Petrov.” My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.

“Please.” He gestures to the table. “Sit.”

Vince’s hand tightens on my waist. I feel him radiating tension, ready to intervene at the slightest provocation.

We sit across from Grigor. Vince positions himself just a hair in front of me.

“Thank you for coming,” Grigor begins, his eyes never leaving my face. “I have waited many years for this day.”

“Have you?”

His smile is small, melancholy. “You have her skepticism.”

“My mother taught me not to trust snakes. They tend to bite.”

“Yes, Margaret was always wise like that.” He folds his hands on the table. “How is she?”

“Dying.”

Grigor nods solemnly, like that’s exactly what he expected. “I am sorry to hear this. She is a remarkable woman.”

“You don’t know her.”

“I knew her once. Better than most.”

Vince shifts beside me. “We’re not here to discuss the past.”

Grigor’s eyes flicker to Vince, cold and assessing, before returning to me.

“You look like her,” he says, ignoring Vince completely. “Around the mouth, the chin. But the eyes…” His voice goes dreamy. “Those are mine.”

Sofiya stirs against my chest. Grigor’s gaze drops to the bundle in my arms, and something transforms in his face. The hard lines soften. The bitterness in his eyes gives way to something that looks suspiciously like wonder.

“My granddaughter, yes?”

I find myself instinctively angling Sofiya away from his view. Vince’s hand finds my knee under the table, a warm, steady reassurance.

“Why now?” I ask. “You’ve had twenty-seven years to find me. Why wait until now?”

Grigor leans back in his chair, studying me. “I did not know you existed until you were nearly five years old.”

My breath catches. “What?”

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