Page 52 of The Russian Retribution

Shit.

“Viktor, it’s not like that,” I snap, shoving him away.

“Isn’t it? I heard you.Screw tradition, we’re loyal to her. I heard all that crap.”

Thankfully, it looks like he didn’t hear everything. “Am I wrong?”

“Of course you’re wrong!” Viktor balls up one hand but after a moment, he lets it fall with a deep sigh. “Do you not care about me anymore?”

“Huh?”

“Am I not the man who raised you?”

My chest tightens when I look him in the eye. “Of course you are.”

“Then why is your loyalty not to me? Why is it not with the man who is working himself to the bone to find thePakhan’skiller? Why are you so blinded by a pretty face and some woeful words?”

“I’m not,” I insist, pushing him away a little. “But you refuse to tell me why you’re so certain it's her and why you think she’s guilty.”

“Because she was the only one here,” he snaps.

“Among the countless other guards, sure,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low.

“You know…” Viktor steps away and his expression grows cold. “You’ve spent so long questioning me and telling me to think of her innocence, but have you even spared a moment to think about what happens if I’m right? If she is guilty? You’re letting her drive us to ruin because you’re so certain that you’re right.” Viktor adjusts his tie. “And you’ve never stopped to wonder what will happen if you are wrong. Whereas, me? If I’m wrong, then at least the family knows they have a strong leader.”

As he strides away with his head held high, my instinct to defend Anastasia is strong, but something about his commitment ignites something in my mind.

What if I really am wrong? Can I stand the guilt of this family crumbling around me?

22

ANASTASIA

Father’s office is off-limits.

It has been ever since he died, unless we need something really important regarding past businesses that weren’t grabbed when his office was quickly scrubbed after his death at my request. Becoming the Godmother was one thing, but I couldn’t inherit his office like he did from his father. He died in there, and the thought of spending my working hours in the same place he was killed turned my stomach.

So, I had the place cleared out of the majority of files and made it a no-go zone. I heard the whispers that people thought it was because I wasn’t strong enough to handle my grief or that there was some weird superstition involved.

That’s never been it.

The handle is cold to the touch, and despite my need to step inside the one place I never wanted to visit again, something holds me back. The memory of him in that chair with his arms limp, his head back and his throat slit wide open like a letterbox,is hard to ignore. It rests constantly on the edge of my mind, haunting every step I take toward my future.

I hold the handle until the metal grows warm under my touch. Outside, wind and rain howl together like a dangerous symphony. The lights flicker, and a pinch of nervousness trickles down my spine like the scrape of a long fingernail.

I just need one file. An old file, if it even exists. In and out.

It’s not like his ghost is going to be waiting for me.

Swallowing hard, I turn the handle. The office door opens with a familiar creak, followed by the familiar snap of the stiff upper hinge snapping free from its resting place. His door has always been like that, and as a child, the sound of his door opening was always as scary as a gunshot.

It was the sign that I was to be on my best behavior since my father was no longer confined to his office and nine times out of ten, he was in a bad mood.

Pushing the door open, the scents of leather, old books, and faint alcohol sting my nose just underneath the sickeningly sharp chemical smell from when we cleaned up his body and all of the blood.

I blink as the lights flicker once more. My father’s body appears in the chair for a split second.

His skin is pale, his eyes wide open and his mouth parted in a scream that escaped through the large slit in his throat. Blood sprays up the window behind his chair, across the surface of his wooden desk, staining all the important papers he was working on, and down onto the floor in an arc.

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