Dmitri moves to my side. We watch through the frosted glass as she crosses the warehouse floor past the velvet chairs and the forgotten placards, past Artur who is still kneeling and weeping, out into the Boston night.
"She'll be dead in a week," Dmitri mutters. "That much cash on a girl like that? She's prey. She doesn't know how to be anything else."
I say nothing. But the memory of that girl—that fury, that hunger, the way she looked at me like I was the obstacle and not the predator—stays under my skin. It burrows. It itches.
I should forget her. Instead I say, “Follow her.” His brows raise but he only nods.
I turn back to the safe, to the money, to the empire that needs bleeding. But when I close my eyes an hour later, standing alone in my penthouse with the city spread out beneath me like an offering, I do not see Artur's begging face. I see hers.
And I know with the certainty of a man who survived by listening to his gut that ten thousand dollars is not enough for a lease. Not enough for a shop. Not enough for safety. It is a start, not a finish.
She walks the streets now. Red braids under streetlights. Shoulders squared against the wind. Counting bills that will never stretch far enough. Has she counted them yet? Realized the trap?
And when she does she will do exactly what I would have done at twenty. She will find a sharper edge and cut herself on it.
The thought stays, cold and quiet, even as dawn breaks over the city.
Chapter two
Riley
The bus station reeks of piss, but it’s mostly deserted. I triple-check the hallway and lock the door before I lay the bills out on the stained counter of the family bathroom. Ten thousand. Charity I didn’t ask for but can’t afford to refuse. The state gave me a twelve-hundred-dollar check for “re-homing” when they kicked me out of the home. My little rooming-house cubby-hole has already drained seven hundred of it. I spent another hundred on my dress and heels, trying to appeal to men who would judge me by appearance only. Thanks to Mikhail Kutuzov, that’s irreplaceable money down a drain.
I count the money again. Then I do the math. First month plus security deposit for a shitbox studio in Dorchester: three grand minimum. Chair rental if I hustle without my own shop. In someone else’s place, I’ll spend at least two-fifty a week and hope to bring in five. Not enough. I need to open my salon, that’s the goal, but commercial space, products, liability insurance, and state board fees are so expensive. The ten thousand will disappear before I wash my first head. Two months. Three if I skip meals and shower at the Y.
A start. Not a finish. I stuff the cash back into the envelope and stare at my reflection. Red braids, dingy gray t-shirt, holes in the jeans, budget gym shoes already coming apart. Who would even come to me looking like this? But that’s defeat talking, and I’m not a quitter. Mikhail said to be someone. He handed me a ladder with three rungs and told me to climb to heaven.
Fuck him. Fuck this. But mostly, fuck being hungry.
I take out my phone. Scroll to a name I swore I’d never use. Dante Briggs. The last group home. He was older, visiting his cousin who bunked on the boys' floor. Always had cash.
He’d said: You ever need real money, not foster-care nickels and dimes, call me.
I need real money. I know it’s a risk. I know exactly what he is. But I don’t have a better option.
Dante picks up on the second ring. He doesn’t immediately answer; he waits. I get it. A man in his position doesn’t speak to strangers without a damn good reason. “It’s Ril—”
“—Riley Miller. They said you aged out. You good, or you need help?”
“Help.” I grit out. “I got ten thousand cash. I need it flipped fast.”
He laughs, and my stomach turns. “You? You're trying to get your hands dirty?”
“I hear about your corners. You’re expanding into Roxbury. You need more money. I got it. Two weeks. Triple. Then I’m out.”
Silence. I can hear him thinking. Not about the money. About me. Pretty. Alone. No people. The perfect mark or the perfect set-up. We’re both taking a risk. “Come by,” he says. “Tuesday. The spot on Dudley. Don’t be late.”
I’m not late. The building is a three-decker with a bodega on the first floor and Dante’s operation above it. Bass music leaksthrough the ceiling. The kid at the door—sixteen, maybe, with hungry eyes—frisks me with hands that shake. He finds nothing.
Dante waits in a back room. He’s bigger than I remember. Thicker. Gold chains. A grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Riley.” He spreads his hands. “Beautiful as ever. Sit.”
I sit. The leather couch crackles against the back of my thighs.
He counts the money on the coffee table. Licking his thumb. Taking his time. “Ten grand,” he says. “You sure about this? Two weeks is a fast turnaround.”
“I’m sure.”
