Page 160 of The Wrong Brother

Neither woman answers immediately. Then, almost together, they nod.

* * *

The moment we step through the doors of the Ritchie Center, I know we’re right on time.

The applause that had been filling the arena falters, replaced by a ripple of confused murmurs that spread outward like a stone skipping across water. Hundreds of faces turn toward us in unison, and somewhere near the front row a camera flash pops, followed immediately by another.

Then another.

The media reacts first.

They always do. The smart ones noticed us out in the lot and shot a few surreptitious photos then, but now they’re sure. They know that Andrei’s half-brother hasn’t returned for a loving reunion.

His security reaches us before anyone else, four men breaking away from the edge of the stage. They don’t make it more than a few strides before my own team intercepts them, each confrontation over almost as quickly as it begins. No punches are thrown. Arms pinned, radios confiscated, egos bruised more than bodies.

It’s professional, clean, and exactly what I told them I expected. The last thing I need is to be kicked out of Denver again, this time for inciting violence.

Emma’s hand slips into mine. I squeeze it once before letting go.

“Stay close.”

She nods, though I can already feel every eye in the room following me as I walk toward the stage.

Andrei has stopped speaking. He stands frozen behind the podium, one hand still resting on his carefully prepared notes while outrage slowly replaces surprise across his face. His campaign banner hangs behind him, immaculate and patriotic, as though appearances alone can hold back the truth.

I climb the steps without hurrying.

“Ruslan,” he snaps. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer, hearing the strain it’s taking for him not to throw some expletives into the question. Instead, I cross the stage until we’re only a few feet apart.

“You don’t belong here.”

I reach for the microphone. He tightens his grip on it, and for half a second we simply stare at one another before I pull it cleanly from his hand.

The speakers crackle. Every conversation in the arena dies. I look out over the crowd.

“My apologies for interrupting.”

The room remains utterly silent.

“My brother was just discussing integrity.”

A nervous laugh escapes someone near the back, and I wonder bitterly just how many people find the hypocrisy in that—but aren’t saying anything about it.

“I thought it appropriate to add context.”

Andrei steps toward me, reaching for the mic, but having to call out: “Don’t listen to a word this man says.”

I continue as though he hasn’t spoken.

“When I was younger, I believed family meant something. I was mistaken.”

The cameras never stop flashing. This is much more forward than the speech I gave at his wedding, and if they were there forthat, they know something earth-shattering is coming.

“So allow me to introduce the real Andrei Smirnov, before you decide to elect him as one of your state representatives.” I let the silence settle before continuing, wanting to make sure everyone is paying attention to my next words: “The man standing beside me abandoned his own daughter before she was born.”

A wave of whispers rolls through the audience.