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If the past five years have taught me anything, it’s that living your life for others’ gratification is stupid.
Now, I’m living for my own.
My fists clench as I stare down the latest obstacle to my desires.
A road block. Literally.
The wrought iron gates to the Baranova estate are always closed. Night or day. Rain or shine. I can’t think of a time I’ve seen them open.
Today is no exception.
They’re locked up tight. No one is getting in or out without proper authorization, including their long lost mafia princess.
After five years out of the city, you’d think I would have a plan for breaking into my childhood home. A team assembled for this kind of thing. Security, or backup, or at least a friggin’ grappling hook or something.
Instead, I’ve got a pair of worn combat boots, a skirt I snagged from the thrift store a few blocks away, the plainest, gray sweater in existence, and a whole lot of courage.
My father is not a forgiving man.
The minute he sees me, he’ll condemn me to whatever punishment he sees fit for my crimes. Abandonment. Breaking a vow. Being a bad daughter. The possibilities are endless for both the sentencing and what reparations follow.
But I’m not here to stay. I’m not planning on coming back into the fold of the Bratva. I’m here for one thing and one thing only.
Answers.
A girl shouldn’t lose her mother without warning, and she sure as shit shouldn’t still be left wondering what happened to her, five years later.
My breath catches as the trees overhead rustle in the breeze, dropping crisp brown leaves on my head. Movement out of the corner of my eye makes my heart beat double-time.
I haven’t been invited back home. I’m trespassing on dangerous ground by coming here unannounced. Especially after undoubtably pissing off not only my father for taking his only heir away from him, but my fiancée for walking out on him.
My punishment will be severe.
Standing here being nervous about it won’t solve my problems, though.
Climbing this damned fence will.
I hike my skirt up a little higher and plant my boot on the first rung of iron. My pulse races as I pull myself up off the ground and start climbing. Autumn leaves fall like rain around me, and I pray that it’s enough camouflage to keep me hidden from any wandering eyes. My father always kept tight security on the grounds, probably to keep my mother and me in rather than keep anything out.
I reach the top of the fence and breathlessly peer down the other side. The drop looks more intimidating from above than it did from the ground. I throw my right leg over the side and notch the toe of my boot against one of the bars, securing my weight as I swing my other leg?—
My left boot tightens painfully around my foot as I try to swing my remaining leg over, the laces caught on something.
Lovely.
As I try to wriggle my boot free, panic sets in with each passing second.
If my father catches me, he might wrap his iron fist around my throat and squeeze. But if one of his guards sees me perched atop their precious fence, they might shoot first and ask questions later.
If I can’t free my boot from this godforsaken fence, I might have to gnaw off my own ankle and crawl to the back door of my father’s house, the shame from my botched break-in killing me before the blood loss ever could.
I grimace at all those outcomes.
None of them get me even remotely close to why I came here.
Which means, none of those outcomes are acceptable.
When frantic leg tugging and toe wriggling doesn’t work, I start rotating my ankle and trying, desperately, to will my foot to shrink by two sizes to squeeze it out of the chokehold knot my laces have tied themselves into.
