“Rika . . .” I said in a low voice. “She’s yours.” “Oh, I wish,” he shot out, smiling to himself. “But no, Erika is a Fane.” What? Then I don’t . . . “A few years before her, though,” he told me, “Christiane had a son.” And then he looked at me, taking a drag of his cigar and thinning his eyes against the smoke. A son. I stopped breathing. They were my sisters, but Erika wasn’t my father’s. So that meant . . . I bared my teeth. “You’re lying.” He broke out into a smile, enjoying every second of this. It wasn’t true. “Natalya Delova was my mother,” I maintained. “I look just like her.”
