She reached out and touched the bright colors of the cashmere scarf, her face filled with wonder as much as shock. "This . . .this is Ibrahim's scarf . . .it's a family heirloom. . . " <br />"No, it belongs to this mobster guy named Abe. . .<br /><br />[...]<br /><br />"Mom," I said disbelievingly. "You know Abe."<br />"Yes, Rose. I know him." <br />"Please don't tell me. . ." <br />Oh, man. Why couldn't I have been an illegitimate half-royal like Robert Doru? Or even the mail-man's daughter? <br />"Please don't tell me Abe is my father. . . . " <br />She didn't have to tell me. It was all over her face.<br />"Oh God, " I said. "I'm Zmey's daughter. Zmey Junior. Zmeyette, even." <br />That got her attention. She looked up at me. "What on earth are you talking about?" <br />"Nothing," I said.