Page 12 of Broken Embers

Alarm shoots through me. Of course they know who Oleksi is. General Ergorov said he was not there to cause trouble with the Mirochins when the bastard plucked me away from Oleksi. I turn back to the photos to steer the conversation away from Oleksi and pick up one of my mother and father standing together on their wedding day.

Shock ripples through my fingertips as I know I can no longer deny the truth—well, to myself anyway. I won’t admit to the ice queen that I’m starting to believe her—not yet. Just in case this is still some sort of lie for some sick reason.

My fingers trace the picture. Were they really not the simple Vegas couple who juggled nightclub shifts and shady security jobs but Mariya Morozov and Leonid Zorin.

Ghosts from a country I never even knew I belonged to.

“I’ve never seen pictures of my parents when they were young,” I say before I can stop myself, my voice hard and brittle. “They always told us everything was lost in a fire. The house they bought together after they got married.”

Yelena nods once, like a teacher rewarding a student for remembering her lesson.

“That was true,” she says calmly. “But it wasn’t in America, if that is what you believed. It was here. In Russia.”

The floor under me shifts, invisible and violent.

“Are they really Russian?” I say, the words falling out like broken teeth. “They never had a trace of an accent.” Now that I think of it they never had a heavy American accent either.

“Born and bred,” Yelena confirms.

It takes everything in me not to flinch.

“How did their house burn down?” I don’t know why that’s the first question that pops into my mind. “Or should I ask why?”

She taps the folder with one long, manicured finger.

“Your mother had your father burn it the day after you were born,” she adds. “A distraction so they could flee the country and to make sure that whatever there was in the house that Mariya didn’t want anyone finding was destroyed.”

I let out a breath that feels like it’s tearing something inside me apart.

“They always said the fire took everything,” I mutter, bitter. “Guess they forgot to mention it wasn’t just bad luck but by design.”

Yelena’s mouth tilts—not quite a smile, not quite anything.

“In hindsight, I know they were protecting you,” she says, pausing for a moment and saying almost hesitantly, “and your sister.”

The thought of my sister stops me and while I do already know the answer I need her to say it.

“Why are you looking for my sister?”

“Because your mother and father stole her,” Yelena says without a flicker of emotion in her eyes. “From me. Lidiya is my daughter.”

5

SABRINA

My head spins as I stare at the pictures in front of me. Part of me knew—the minute Yelena said her name, the minute she slid that fucking folder across the table—I knew. Deep down, I knew. The birth certificate Tara had hidden all those months ago wasn’t a mistake or a lie. It was a warning. A breadcrumb she left behind because some part of her must have known the past would come looking for us one day.

My eyes fall on the photo of my father—young, proud, and heartbreakingly familiar—and my throat tightens painfully.

“So what you’re saying is that Tara is yours and my father’s daughter?” I manage, my voice sounding like it’s coming from somewhere outside myself.

Yelena gives a slow, almost indulgent nod, as if she’s humoring a particularly dense toddler.

“And that I’m the daughter of my father… and my mother...” I trail off, waiting for her to correct me, to say anything that might make this nightmare unravel. But she just nods again, solemn and composed, like she’s delivering some divine truth.

“And you’re related to my mother,” I press, though the words taste like ashes.

“Your mother is my younger sister,” Yelena confirms, her hands folding neatly in her lap.

---