Page 96 of Filthy Lies

“She’s asking for Sofiya,” I tell him, voice cracking despite my best efforts.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll bring her. Give me an hour.”

True to his word, Vince arrives exactly sixty minutes later, Sofiya bundled against his chest in a carrier that looks comically domestic against his broad frame. Four armed guards flank him. Their eyes never stop roving.

Sofiya gurgles when she sees me and reaches with pudgy hands. I lean over to bury my face in her sweet-smelling hair and inhale her innocence like a drug.

“How are you holding up?” Vince asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

I meet his eyes, those impossible blue eyes. “I’m fucking disintegrating, Vince. Is that what you want to hear? That I’m watching my mother die while trying to keep our daughter safe from men who want to kill us, and it’s tearing me apart molecule by molecule? Does that satisfy your need for honesty?”

He doesn’t flinch at my venom. “Yes.”

The simplicity of his answer deflates my anger. I lean into him, just for a moment. “They’ve increased her pain medication,” I mutter against his chest. “She’s lucid, then gone, then lucid again. It’s like watching someone drown in slow motion.”

His hand strokes my hair, just once. A gesture so gentle it threatens to unravel me. “I can have specialists flown in from anywhere in the world. Just say the word.”

“There’s nothing to be done,” I say. “Except this. Let her see Sofiya.”

We enter the room together. Mom’s eyes open at the sound, then widen further at the sight of Vince carrying our daughter.

“Well, look at that,” she whispers. “The Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood.”

Vince’s mouth twitches. “Mrs. St. Clair.”

She gestures weakly. “Bring her closer. Let me see her.”

I watch as Vince places Sofiya gently on the bed beside my mother. Our daughter immediately reaches for Margaret’s tubing, fascinated by the new toys within reach.

“No, baby.” I guide her hand away. “That’s helping Grandma.”

“Let her explore,” Mom tuts, her fingers brushing Sofiya’s dark curls. “She’s perfect, isn’t she? Looks just like you did. Except those eyes. Pure Akopov blue.”

“Like ice,” Vince murmurs.

“Like the sky after a storm,” Mom corrects him, and something passes between them—a moment of understanding I can’t quite grasp.

For twenty minutes, we exist in a bubble of almost-normalcy. Mom babbles at Sofiya in sing-song. Sofiya babbles back in her secret language. Vince stands guard.

When Sofiya grows fussy, Vince takes her into the hallway for a change of scenery.

“He’s good with her,” Mom says. “Better than I expected from a man like him.”

I bristle instantly. “‘A man like him’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A man born into violence. Raised to be ruthless.” She reaches for my hand. “Don’t misunderstand me, Rowan. I’m not criticizing. I’m observing.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She’s silent for a long moment, gathering strength. “I wanted to hate him, you know. The man who dragged my daughter into his dark world.” She pauses, swallowing painfully. “But I can’t hate him. Because I see how he looks at you.”

“And how’s that?”

“The same way Grigor looked at me.” Her eyes meet mine, sharp with sudden clarity. “Like nothing and no one else exists. He would burn down heaven and build it back up from hell if you asked him to, I just know it.”

---