Page 54 of Till Death Do Us Part

“Now, we need to get ready. We’re only here for a few more days, and I want to enjoy this time with my baby sister.”

“Don’t you want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” she answers, popping her p. “Come on. Up and at ’em, let’s get these pins out of your hair, and I’ll finish your make-up.”

Dimmed lights, with neon flickers. The murmur of the crowds. The jiggle of coins as people place their bets. And two of three sisters that refuse to speak to each other. What more could you want for a sisters’ night out?

Papá throws his arm over my shoulder, pulling me towards the bar. He orders us both a neat vodka while my sisters split off behind us, finding tables and escaping the mindless bickering.

“Don’t you have friends to meet?” I tease when he lifts to sit on one of the bar stools and spins to face me.

“Can’t a father spend one minute with his daughter without being rushed away? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

“Never.” Shaking my head, I chuckle, leaning over to squeeze his arm. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I’ve missed you the most, Papá.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret too,” he tells me, whispering dramatically. I watch eagerly, my brow raised. “You’re my favourite.”

“Not much of a secret. But I’ll take it.” Silence befalls us after that, and for the next ten minutes, we enjoy the quiet of each other’s company in a room full of life and laughter. It’s not a lie to say being my father’s favourite isn’t a secret. It’s not that he loves me more or treats me better than my sisters—he’s just always been more protective of me.

Beneath the silence though, there’s something etched into Papá’s face I can’t read. Something that has me opening my mouth before I can think better of it.

“Why did you marry me off?” I’ve asked the question before, but it’s always gone unanswered. He sighs heavily, dropping his gaze to the glass in his hand. “Please, Papá. I need to know.”

“Growing up, I always wanted you to fall in love with a nice little English boy. Move to the countryside. Have a bucket load of children and live happily ever after.”

“Really?” I deadpan, my brows raising. That sounds like my worst nightmare, and with the smirk playing on his lips, I know he agrees.

“That was my dream, bambina. Not yours.” Another sigh, before he tips the clear liquid to his lips. He swallows the drink in one, placing the empty glass on the bar and gesturing for a refill. He looks lost as his eyes find mine, his lips turning down before he speaks again. “I never got a say. Your life was planned for you, Pippa. From the moment you were born, it was set in motion. I kept you away from it, for as long as I could. But I was never going to be able to stop the wheels from turning.”

“But why? Why me, Papá?”

“There’s a war happening right now, Pippa,” he tells me, ignoring my question.

“You mean the Italians and the Russians?” He nods sharply, his jaw tensing.

“That doesn’t explain why I’m here. Why you sent me here? Why you signed me away to a man like Antonio,”

“Because you are the most important piece in this battle. I never wanted this for you, Pippa. If I could have kept you with me, hidden, for the rest of your life I would have. But it was never my decision to make.”

“Then whose was it?” I snap, watching as my father straightens his back and looks over my shoulder.

“Mine.” My head snaps to the side, my eyes locking on the direction the voice comes from. A familiar figure stands before me, my mind buzzing as confusion grabs hold of me.

“I know you,” I say to him, my lips pursing in confusion as the man steps towards us. “You sat with me. Here at this bar, weeks ago.”

“I did,” he agrees with a smile, moving closer before he stops about a foot away. His suit fits perfectly today, his frame broader than I originally thought when I first met him.

“Who are you, Alek?”

“Aleksandr Kovalev,” he offers, a smile playing on his lips as he holds my gaze. “Not to sound allStar Warsor anything, but I am your father, Pippa.”

Glass shattering breeches my ears followed by the rush of blood. Warm liquid runs over my hand, and when I look down, I see the stain of crimson coming from a deep gash where I was holding my glass.

The glass now lays on the floor, the liquid seeping into the carpet. Papá rushes me, grabbing my hand and pressing a napkin to it to stem the flow of blood. His hand trembles as he holds my arm. Glassy eyes watch me, his face a sheet of white as I remain frozen.

“He’s lying, Papá,” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. There’s no other option. “Please tell me he’s lying.”

He shakes his head, his mouth quivering a little—but that can’t be. Papá doesn’t get upset. He doesn’t cry. And he definitely doesn’t lie. Not to me.

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