My hands begin to shake and my knees tremble to the point I’m forced to grip the doorframe to steady myself.

My father.

Here in front of me.

I don’t...I don’t understand.

“I...”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?” he barks.

His voice...so deep, so thick. Not exactly a father like voice. No, it’s very masculine, very authoritive.

I can’t believe it’s him. Does he know about me? Does he even know he has a daughter? I want my voice to come out but it won’t. It’s gone. I’m empty. I can’t speak. Emotions swirl through my body, so many questions come to my mind but the thing that gets me the most is the burning curiosity about the man in front of me.

I came from him...

“I...”

“Jesus, tell Marcus he has a guest, will you?”

I blink at him.

He hasn’t really studied me, not a lot. His eyes have barely landed on mine, because they’re darting behind me, from side to side, and basically scanning the perimeter. When I still don’t answer his question, he finally looks at me and his eyes scan over my face and he freezes. His entire body jerks and he goes so still I’m worried he’s about to have some sort of panic attack.

I know it’s because he can see her. I look so much like my mother, there’s no denying that. I thought it was always her I got 100% of my features from, but now I’m studying him, up close, there’s so much about me that’s like him, too.

“I’ll,” I swallow. “Get him.”

I turn, with trembling legs and hurry back into the house.

“Wait!”

Shit. He can see it, too.

I keep rushing.

“I said,” he growls, rushing in and taking hold of my arm. “Wait.”

He spins me around and I gasp, struggling backwards.

“I don’t...understand?” he breathes. “Who are you?”

“I’m sorry,” I cry. “I don’t know you. Please, let me go.”

It’s such a lie, I don’t even know why I said it, but suddenly I’m panicked. My father is in front of me. My father. How the hell am I supposed to understand it, let alone deal with it? His eyes flash at my words and I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

“Who is your mother?”

Oh shit.

“Marcus?” I cry, angrily.

“Answer me, girl.”

“Please,” I whimper.

“It’s Sandra, isn’t it?”

“Stop, oh God,” I cry. “Marcus!”

“How old are you?”

I jerk my arm from his grip and we stand there, staring at each other. I can tell by his face this has come as a shock to him. A huge shock. His eyes are frantically scanning over my face and his breathing is deep and trembling. He can see it; I know he can because I do. My skin. The shape of my eyes. Even my nose. It’s all his.

“It can’t be true,” he whispers.

Tears burn under my eyelids. It’s my dad. My dad...

“It’s why she ran, isn’t it?”

He really didn’t know about me. Oh God.

“I didn’t know.”

Double oh God.

My chest seizes.

“I didn’t fucking know,” he whispers.

I don’t have time to process his words. My heart is aching and tears are burning my eyes. Suddenly my father is in front of me. Yesterday I didn’t even know him. I didn’t know he lived close by, let alone knew my husband.

I try to push the fact out of my brain that Marcus knows this man because it makes fear and slight rage burn in my belly. Is that why he’s married to me? Does it have something to do with my father?

“What’s your name?” he murmurs, low.

“Katia, what’s going on?”

I hear Marcus’ voice invading the space like a whip and I spin to see him standing in the doorway in his running clothes. I back towards him, but stop suddenly when I realize this is quite possibly why he’s with me. I glance back at my father, who is watching Marcus now with a hard expression. A hand curls around my arm and Marcus hauls me back.

“Let me go, Marcus,” I whisper.

“Do you know who that man is?” he growls in my ear.

“Yeah, my Father.”

He flinches and breathes, “What?”

He doesn’t know? He had to know. How could he not know?

“Marcus, let her fuckin’ go,” My father breathes, low.

“Why the fuck are you in my house, Pierre?”

Oh God.

“Why the fuck have you got that girl?”

“This girl,” Marcus hisses. “Is my wife.”

I don’t understand what’s happening.

“What?” Pierre growls. “You fuckin’ piece of-”

“Why the fuck are you in my house?” Marcus roars.

I flinch and try to jerk my arm out of his, but he won’t let me go. He pulls me tighter against him, wrapping an arm around my waist.

“I’m in your house,” Pierre hisses, low. “To warn you to back the fuck off my operations.”

What?

“You’re signing a fuckin’ death warrant if you think you can come in here and tell me what to do,” Marcus snarls.

Oh God.

“That fuckin’ job was mine. You and your men came in and fucked it. I don’t take kindly to people fucking around with my jobs. I kill for less, Marcus.”