Page 45 of Thorns of Death
“I beg your pardon,” I spat out.
“You look just like your mother.” Shock rolled through me. I barely knew anything about my mother, so how in the heck wouldsheknow anything about her? She cackled, something unhinged and truly terrifying in her laugh. “A brothel whore.” A shiver of unease climbed up my spine. “Unless you want the world to know, you’ll get out of this city.”
“How do you know my mother?” I rasped, staring into her crazed dark eyes. Something wasn’t right with this woman. “From where?”
“She was in one of my husband’s whorehouses,” she snickered. “The Marchettis’ brothel.”
My breath hitched, cutting off oxygen to my lungs. A whorehouse? No, it couldn’t be. My mother died in childbirth. My brother told me so.
“What do you mean?” My voice was hoarse, and I could feel my pulse racing in my ears.
She scoffed, the look in her eyes hateful. Scary. “How do you think your father met your mother, stupid girl?” I swallowed. Nobody had ever told me how my father and mother met. She continued, her words the only thing I could focus on in the middle of this busy street. “By visiting one of the Marchetti family’s famous brothels.”
Her words felt like a whip against my skin. My soul.
“How do you know that?” My voice cracked, sounding strange and distant to my own ears.
She sneered, her lips curving with distaste. “I’ve seen her. She was their main brothel’s most prized whore. They called her Pixie.”
Reina’s quick steps took her further away from me, unaware I was cornered by this madwoman.
“You got it wrong.” My voice came out stronger than I felt at this moment. After all, it was what my brothers taught me: never show your weaknesses to the enemy. I didn’t really understand it. Until now. Deep down, I knew this woman was an enemy. “I have no fucking idea who you’re talking about. Now get the fuck away from me.”
She cackled—actually cackled. It sounded witchy. Slightly mad too.
“I’m never wrong. She looked like you. Full of fire that men wanted to tame. A fucking savage.” I gasped. Maybe my backbone wasn’t all Konstantin’s blood. Maybe some of my mother’s heritage gave me my strength too. If only I knew what that heritage was. “She tried to kill every man who paid for her, so they had to sedate her before her working hours so she’d be compliant.”
Dread settled somewhere deep in the pit of my belly. My stomach hurled, but I refused to react as a weak woman. Instead I opted for boiling fury. Anger—red and hot—ignited in my veins. I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t. It was obvious she was threatened by me and was probably acting out for attention.
My eyes darted to my best friend who was oblivious to what was happening as she continued to berate the poor cyclist farther up the path.
“Take your hands off me, you crazy bitch,” I said, yanking my wrist from her grip.
I knew at that moment, I’d be making a trip to Russia.
* * *
My father’s home in Russia—Konstantin Castle as I liked to call it—was an impressive building. It dated back to the Romanovs in the 17th century, and it was entirely too big. I didn’t consider this my home. Although I was born in Russia, I was a California girl through and through. Whenever I said the words “I’m going home,” never in a million years did I mean Russia.
I landed in Moscow two days later, thanks to a last-minute cancellation, my reward miles, and my well-funded bank account. Despite my big brother’s disdain, I often flew commercial. Although, now was not one of those times I could claim this to be one of my favorites. I was squashed between two teenage girls bickering back and forth, throwing insults and popcorn. So damn immature.
Stepping off the plane cranky as fuck, I was met with cold Moscow temperatures. I shivered, letting out a breath and creating a cloud in front of me. It was another thing I didn’t care for about Russia; the cold stole the heat from your body and left your teeth chattering.
At least I had plenty of warm clothes at the castle. Throwing my Lily Pulitzer overnight bag over my shoulder, I made a quick exit out of the airport. I flagged down the first taxi driver and recited the address.
Once in the seat, I leaned back and sighed tiredly. Ever since Enrico’s maybe-wife-slash-stalker uttered those words about my mother, I hadn’t been able to shake them off. I had always been curious about my mother, but the details were vague. Aside from her first name and that she had red hair and green eyes like me, I hardly had anything to go by. But every time I asked Illias about her, something dark and uneasy—almost painful—passed his expression, so eventually I stopped asking.
But now I had to know. I was sick and tired of being left in the dark. About my mother. About my father. Even my brothers. Because if Illias thought for one minute that I still believed Maxim was shot by a stray bullet in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, he didn’t know me at all. He didn’t know what I’d discovered the day of Maxim’s funeral.
My mind shifted to last summer, to the private funeral that only Illias and I attended in Russia before he was buried next to his mother in New Orleans.
Gray clouds gathered in the distance, forming thick layers that darkened until they were nearly black. Just like this day.
Maxim’s issues had been known for years. As much as Illias had tried to hide them from me, I’d lived enough to know the signs.
“Why is the casket closed?” I asked again.
“It’s for the best.”
