I was done postponing the inevitable, so I met Dad’s gaze.
“Why did you lie?”
A muscle in Dad’s cheek twitched, a sign of his displeasure. Many people would have had reason to cower at this sign of danger, but I wasn’t one of them. “Dima wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
“He didn’t. Adamo Falcone did, and then I didn’t leave Dima a choice but to admit he knew the truth. You know I can be convincing if I put my mind to it.”
Dad chuckled. “Oh, I know. You have the stubbornness and cunning of a great empress.”
I sighed. “Why did you lie? You made me believe she was dead. All these years.”
“It was for the best. I wanted to protect you.”
“That’s bullshit!”
Dad’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Not that tone around me.” He hated when I cursed, and maybe even more when I spoke in English.
I took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“The truth doesn’t matter, because what I said is as good as true. She’s dead to us, erased from our lives, and out of our reach in Camorra territory.”
“Nothing is out of your reach, Dad, if you really want it.” He’d dragged his wife Galina out of the furthest corner of the Caucasus, a small village where her parents had hidden her away from my father, despite it being under the control of the enemy.
He shook his head with a rough laugh. “I’m a businessman and I’ve survived many attacks to my life, only because I’m cautious. Going to war with Remo Falcone isn’t wise. Breaching his territory for a dead woman is insanity.”
“She’s not dead,” I whispered harshly.
He cupped my hands. “She is to me, and she should be to you too. Forget she exists. She’s the past and we’ve left it behind us, haven’t we, Katinka?”
Maybe he had, maybe he could. But I saw her in my dreams almost every night, a ghost from the past. I had to see her again, face to face, even if it meant offending Remo Falcone and risking war with the Camorra.
We were cutting it closer than I liked but Dad had insisted I stayed until the morning to grab a few hours of sleep before I took the private jet back to Salt Lake City. He’d tried to convince me to stay altogether. He knew I was taking part in the races and maybe even why, but he had trouble caging me in. Not because he didn’t have the means to do so, but because he worried what I’d do without my freedom and a purpose. He trusted I’d eventually return home, not able to go through with my goal.
It was almost 1 p.m. when Dima and I raced back toward camp. Dima hung in his seat. The right side of his face was swollen and blue, and those were only the marks I could see. Dad had him beaten for admitting to the truth about my mother. Guilt burned a fiery path through my insides. “Next time you don’t come back with me.”
“That’ll only postpone my punishment.”
“Then don’t do things that’ll get you punished for me. Maybe it would be best if you didn’t follow me on this path anymore. Stay away before my father punishes you worse.”
His expression was wounded. “I’ll protect you, Dinara. It’s my job, my desire.”
I sighed. We’d had that conversation before when I’d first decided to join Adamo’s races. Dima could be almost as stubborn as I.
We arrived at the camp. Most racers were busy tinkering on their cars, some of which were already set up in a sort of starting formation: ten rows of three cars each.
Last time Dima and I had to start in the last row because we were newbies but due to our good result in the last race, the first race of this circuit, we were bumped up into one of the middle rows. I hadn’t bothered reading up on the point system and rules in detail. I always wanted to be first, and for that, I needed to drive fast and risk everything. Easy peasy.
Adamo’s car was in the first row, naturally, together with a completely black car I’d butted heads with in the last race. Its owner was an obnoxious, tall rich kid from the suburbs of San Francisco.
I parked my car next to Crank’s trailer to ask for my exact position before I weaved into the grid. Dima heaved himself out of the passenger seat, clutching his left side with a groan.