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Covering my mouth in horror, I scan the photos one by one. I was wrong; not all of them are of me. Some are of my mother, a few are of the dance studio itself. That’s when I notice the horrific fact that unifies all of them. These photos ... They were all taken after my father’s funeral! I know because I had my mother braid my hair that day. She placed one of the white roses from Dad’s wreath in my hair.
Afterward, too grief-stricken to even shower, I left my hair braided for days. The flower wilted, but I kept it in place. One morning I woke in a panic to find it gone.
I tore apart my bed. My bathroom. Even my car. That was when Mom found me. Taking my hands, she pulled me close, ignoring—or so I thought—my rattling sobs. When she curled my hands around something solid, I saw she was crying too.
She pressed a small brooch—the rose cast in resin—into my palm. That brooch is in the photos, pinned to my collar. Lifting my fingers, I touch my neck, feeling for the ghost of the small hard object. I stopped wearing it daily a few months ago. I wish I hadn’t.
“What is all this?” I whisper. Shaking my head in horror, I look for more clues. Someone had to take these pictures. Was it Arsen? Or someone else? How long have I been being followed? Clutching the hem of my dress, I fight back a violent tremor. Being stalked isn’t new to me.
But this … This is like something from a horror movie come to life.
One of the photos of Mom catches my eye. She’s standing outside the studio, cigarette between her fingers. What if it’s not me who’s being watched? Could this have something to do with her? If I had a match, I’d set this strange altar on fire. The second-best option is to leave.
Rubbing my arms nervously, I begin to back away, only for my shoulders to thump against something solid. It yields slightly, the way a wall can’t. Yelping in surprise, I turn just in time to see who’s behind me.
Thick shoulders allow him to effortlessly block my only path of escape. His presence commands obedience. Like any good prey, I freeze under the twin voids of his eyes, the blackness sucking me in.
Holding me down.
Arsen has found me.
7
ARSEN
Shock. Unease. Fear. Each emotion that skirts across Galina’s face makes her beautiful in a different way. But it’s only for a fraction of time. With an impressive smoothness, she bundles everything behind a mask of genuine rage.
Making fists at her sides, she advances on me. “What the hell is going on? What is all of this?”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” I chuckle.
Knitting her brow, she gestures at the photos on the wall. “Have you been following me?”
“Just doing some research.”
It’s the casual way I deliver those words that gets under her skin. Galina tenses, as if she’s holding back an urge to slap me. Heat surges in my blood. I love riling her up. It’s not professional, nor is it part of the plan. But not everything can be predicted.
She exhales enough air that her shoulders slouch. “Stop playing games. I want to know why you’re doing all of this.”
“I’m not playing any game, ptichka.” Her eyes shoot wide open. It’s my turn to advance on her. In a single step, we’re chest to chest, my shadow cloaking her until her pale skin looks ashen. “You and your family have been on the front line of a Bratva war led by a man so terrible, you’d call me a saint in comparison.”
Her bottom lip pulls between her teeth. She’s trying not to tremble, but it’s pointless. She can act brave, but no one would be calm hearing what I’ve just said.
“The Bratva,” she says. “You’re part of the Russian Mafia?”
The way she asks creates a clear line between her world and my own. Galina’s innocence is almost endearing. “I’m the pakhan of the Grachev Bratva.”
She recoils, taking me in with fresh eyes. “Stay away from me.”
I laugh from low in my belly. “Didn’t you hear anything I said? You should want to be as close to me as you possibly can, Galina. There’s someone out there hunting you. Someone much worse than me.”
“Who?” she whispers.
“Yevgeniy Grachev.” The word is acid on my tongue. I roll my jaw, trying to erase the taste of it.
Blankness registers on her face. The name either means nothing to her, or she’s good at hiding it.
“You call him a monster, but you’re the one who marched me through your mansion blindfolded!” She rounds on me. “I don’t even know why, since you let me see where I was going all the way here in the car. You probably have people spying on me to make sure I don’t leave, so was it purely to disorient me?”
