Page 83 of The Wrong Monster

I step closer.

“Tell me how you know Semiyon.”

Matilda swallows. “I don’t.”

“That’s too bad. Because I don’t believe you.”

Chapter 23

Matilda

By the time we get back to the lake house, I know something is wrong. Vasily doesn’t take me to my rooms. He’s been entirely silent on the drive back as I pressed myself against the car door, mind whirling in panic and anger and shock.

Semiyon. Here.

I knew this was where he and Mom met, but I didn’t think…

Until today, I didn’t even know whether he was alive. He could have left town decades ago, or died. A name doesn’t tell you any of that.

I can’t believe he’s actually still here.

Vasily takes me to an outbuilding on the grounds, through a path in the woods that’s clearly used regularly by ATVs. There are deep ruts in the ground that suck my heels in with the squelch of mud. It’s not raining anymore, but the trees drip warnings overhead, and I shiver when a wet drop runs down the back of my neck.

The outbuilding is long and narrow. A tin roof, rusted siding.

The door closes behind us, and my stomach drops.

I’ve been in interrogation rooms before. I’ve watched defendants fall apart across polished conference tables. I’ve sat across from men accused of murder and never once forgotten who I was.

This is different.

There are stains on the concrete floor. Dark ones. Old ones.

The building is sectioned off by particle board walls, but the main area we step into is spacious and obviously only has one use.

A metal table sits beneath a single overhead light, surrounded by things I don’t want to identify too closely. Tools. Chains. Things that have no legitimate reason to be together in a configuration like this, unless you’re Vasily Borisov, Pakhan of the Adirondacks.

My pulse kicks hard. For the first time in my career, I’m scared. Not nervous, intimidated, or cautious, but truly scared. My bladder suddenly feeling too full and my skin hot.

Vasily shuts the door and bolts it.

“You’ve been lying to me.”

Turning quickly, I blurt out, “I’m not lying.”

“Your father is Semiyon Usayon.”

The word makes my stomach twist. “I…yes, but I don’t know him. I knew only his first name⁠—”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.”

Vasily laughs, but there’s nothing remotely amused about it. The sound is dark and deep. He walks toward me with an inevitability that makes me tremble; I can’t help stumbling backwards.

“You spent days telling me criminals are monsters. You judged Mikhail. You judged me.” His eyes move over me with something colder than anger. “And all this time, you’re a Bratva brat.”

He spits the word out like it’s an insult. The same way I’ve used it when I lectured Emma when I had my staff look into her new husband. Now it stings, like a slap.