Chapter 19: Filthy Lies: Chapter 19

Mount Sinai Hospital. How many hours have I spent in these sterile halls? How many cups of vending machine coffee have I choked down while waiting for test results?

The oncology ward’s familiar antiseptic smell hits me as I step off the elevator. I hurry down the hallway and pause outside my mother’s door, steeling myself for what I’ll find.

She’s asleep when I enter. She looks frail. Her cheekbones jut sharply beneath skin the shade of old paper.

The experimental treatment had given her some weight, some color, some life. But it seems now like that was only borrowed, and it’s time to pay it back with interest.

She looks worse than ever before.

“Mom?” I touch her hand gently.

Her eyes flutter open. Recognition dawns slowly, followed by a smile that breaks my heart. “Row.”

“Hi, Mom.” I sit beside her and thread my fingers through hers. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” She coughs weakly. “But seeing you helps.”

I force a smile, though my chest feels like it’s being crushed. “Dr. Patel called me.”

“Ah.” She sighs. “Bad news travels fast.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, unable to keep the accusation from my voice.

“You just had a baby, sweetheart. You were kidnapped. You have enough to deal with.”

Typical Margaret St. Clair. Always protecting me, even when she’s the one who needs protection.

“We can try something else,” I say, the desperation evident in my voice. “Another treatment. Vince can⁠—”

“Rowan.” She squeezes my hand with surprising strength. “We both know how this story ends.”

Tears blur my vision. “It’s not fair.”

“Life rarely is.” She tries to sit up, but the effort makes her wince. “How’s my granddaughter?”

“Perfect.” I pull out my phone, showing her recent photos of Sofiya. “She has your smile.”

Mom studies the pictures with a wistful smile. “She’s beautiful. There’s something in her eyes, though…” She pauses, her gaze distant. “Reminds me of her grandfather.”

“My grandfather, you mean? Like, your dad?”

Mom meets my eyes with quiet certainty. “No, sweetheart. I mean Grigor.”

My heart stutters in my chest. “You know about Grigor? But how⁠—”

“Oh, Rowan.” She reaches for my hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “Of course I know. I’ve always known who your father is.”

“But— Wait. How? When? Why didn’t you ever tell me?” The questions tumble out, each one louder than the last.

“I knew this day would come.” She sighs, pushing herself to sit straighter and ignoring my efforts to help. “I met Grigor Petrov in the summer of 1995. I was waitressing at a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach to pay for grad school.”

I lean forward, hungry for every detail of this story I’ve never heard.

“He came in every Thursday. Always sat in my section and always, always left ridiculous tips.” A faint smile touches her lips. “He was charming. Almost too charming. The kind of man your grandmother warned me about.”

“Did you know who he was?” I ask. “Or what he was?”

“Not at first. By the time I figured it out, I was already in love with him.” Her voice grows wistful. “We had three months together.”

“What happened?”

“Reality intruded. There was an incident. A rival of his was found dead. The FBI started asking questions.” She looks away. “Grigor wanted to marry me, to bring me into his world. But I’d seen enough to know I couldn’t live that life.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Here I am, married to a Bratva pakhan, living exactly the life my mother fled.

“So you left him?”

She nods. “I disappeared. Moved to Albany.” She meets my eyes again. “I was two months pregnant with you.”

“Did he know?” My voice barely rises above a whisper.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I never told him. I thought I was protecting you.”

My entire understanding of my past—of myself—wobbles beneath my feet.

“He knows now,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen. “How?”

I give her the abbreviated version—Vince’s investigation, the folder with my name, the revelation that I’m Grigor’s daughter.

“… and now, he wants to meet me,” I finish. “He’s given us an ultimatum.”

Mom closes her eyes briefly. “Be careful, Rowan. Grigor isn’t evil, but he’s complicated. He lives by a different code.”

“Did you love him?” I need to know, suddenly desperate to understand this piece of my history.

“With my whole heart.” No hesitation. “He’s the only man I ever truly loved.”

“Then why⁠—”

“Because love isn’t always enough.” She squeezes my hand again. “Sometimes, we have to choose between what we want and what is right.”

Then she falls back onto the pillows, too tired for more.

But my mind is reeling. All those years of wondering. All those unanswered questions. The whole time, my mother knew. She always knew.

And now, she’s leaving me, just as the puzzle pieces are finally falling into place.

I stand and leave a kiss on her forehead. “I love you, Mom.”

She doesn’t stir.

I slip out of the room, but I pause at the end of the hallway. I don’t know what to feel. Angry? Sad? Hopeful? Something else, something new? I’m not sure.

What I do know is that I’m done running. Done hiding. Done living in reaction to secrets others have kept from me.

It’s time to write my own story—for myself, for Sofiya, for the family I’ve built with Vince.

Starting with meeting my father.

I step into the hallway, already composing the argument I’ll make to convince Vince⁠—

And freeze.

Standing ten feet away, clutching a bouquet of yellow daisies—my mother’s favorites—is Natalie.

Our eyes lock. The daisies tremble in her grip.

“Hi, Row.”