Page 156 of I'm sorry, Princess
I tilt my head, waiting.
“And Ian’s birth certificate is falsified.”
My brows lift. “Falsified?”
“Yeah.” He slides a photo across the table. The edges are blurred, but the stamp, the dates, they don’t match. “I found the original buried in state records. No mother listed. Just the father.”
My jaw clenches.
“I tried tracing the mother’s name,” Andres continues, his voice even. “But she doesn’t exist. No records. No history. Like she was never alive. The official file claims she died giving birth to him. But…” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing. It’s like she was erased from existence.”
I stare at the photo.
It’s strange. Too strange. And it gnaws at me, crawling under my skin like something I can’t shake.
But I shove it aside, shaking my head. “Irrelevant.” My voice is clipped, though doubt coils in my gut. “I don’t give a fuck about Archibald’s family tree. I need leverage. Answers. And this,” I jab the photo with my finger, shoving it back at him “isn’t it.”
Still, the thought sticks. It is strange. And strange means dangerous.
Maybe I’ve been looking at the wrong Archibald all along. Maybe the son is nothing but a shield. And the father, the father is where the truth waits.
For the first time tonight, I feel a chill instead of heat. Because I might have taken the wrong pawn.
Chapter Forty-one
Lorenzo
“You know what I think?” Lev asks, his mouth full of ice cream, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
I lean back in my chair, unimpressed. “Wow. The brute’s thinking? That’s new.”
He ignores me, licking the spoon with disturbing seriousness. “Why bother stopping the wedding when you could just kidnap her?” His tone is calm, dead serious, like he’s suggesting we go out for drinks. “Kill him. Kill anyone who gets in your way. Take her. Done.”
If I were as fucked in the head as him, I might consider it. But unlike Lev, I still have a thin thread tethering me to the civilized world, legitimate businesses, reputations, the kind of things you can’t scrub clean withbleach and a shovel.
“That’s what I’d do,” he shrugs, already starting on his third ice cream.
We sit in silence for five minutes, the only sound being Lev devouring sugar like a rabid animal. Then the door opens, and Kirill steps in, the weight of authority trailing behind him. We exchange a nod, no words needed. Ice follows, silent as stone, escorting the mafia princess herself.
Alisa.
She glares at me as she enters, all fire and defiance packed into her slim frame. I nod at Ice, who doesn’t so much as blink, and then my eyes flick back to her. I still don’t understand why Kirill brings her here. The Bratva don’t exactly throw chairs at the table for women. The fact she’s allowed to stand here at all? Impressive. Dangerous.
“Did you eat all the ice cream?” Andres’s voice rumbles as he walks in, his glare immediately locking on Lev.
Lev tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Wasn’t it all for me? Who the fuck eats one ice cream? Takes at least three to quiet the craving.”
Alisa rolls her eyes so hard I almost hear it. “Grown men bickering over ice cream. My grandfather would roll in his grave if he knew who was sitting at this table.”
Kirill throws his head back and laughs, the sound sharp and booming, while Ice stands like a statue in the corner, his face as unreadable as stone.
Lev smirks, eyes flashing with mischief. “Why are you even here, little one?” He leans forward, studying her like prey. “You’re basically a baby. What are you, twelve?”
Her eyes sharpen into blades, her voice laced with venom. “I’m eighteen, idiot.” She lifts her chin with pride. “And I’m the daughter of the Pakhan.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lev waves her off with mock boredom, digging back into his ice cream. “Go buy some more, then. Pretty sure they do baby discounts.”
Kirill roars with laughter again, clearly entertained by his daughter’s fire. Alisa mutters something sharp in Russian under her breath, too fast for me to catch, but judging by the fire in her eyes, it wasn’t anything polite.
