“That was shitty, Rafail. You don’t get to ‘defile’ me either, you weird pervert.” God, what a possessive grump he is. Who talks that way? About their stepsister?
“A mistranslation on my part. English is not my native language.” He shrugs. True. I know he was born in Russia and that Dmitri brought him to the U.S. when he was a kid. Oldenough to still have an accent despite the fancy boarding school he went to.
“That’s not exactly an apology,” I grumble, eyeing Melanie. She’s run to her clique of friends and is clearly telling them what he just did. There goes my social life.
“I am not apologizing.” His gaze catches mine. I can’t look away. “I meant it.”
“Smile, children! It’s picture time.” Mom beams. She navigates the treacherous sea of pink skirt to take me by the shoulders and move me into place next to my stepbrother. The sudden proximity sends a full-body shiver coursing through me. A photographer with a big camera and an even bigger lens gestures for us to get closer together. We already took group photos before the party. I guess he wants some candid shots, too.
I grit my teeth and wobble a couple of inches closer to my obnoxious stepbrother I barely know. He splays one hand around my waist. My body can’t figure out how to react to his touch. Hot and tingly. Is he a threat? Do I like this? I don’t know which way is up. Ten minutes ago I was fantasizing about him giving me my first kiss. Now, I’m fantasizing about killing him.
I still want him to kiss me, though.
Being this close to Rafail is so confusing that I barely notice my mom leaning into the frame. She keeps a smile on her lips, but there’s an edge to her tone when she says, “Do I smell alcohol?”
I shake my head, beaming for the photographer. She’ll murder me dead if she figures out I’ve been drinking. Rafail’s grip on my waist tightens fractionally. A warning. He brings his other hand to my chin, fanning his long, blunt, tattooed fingers lightly along my jaw. He turns my head up to his. My smile falters. I hardly register the camera’s flash.
“That is me you detect, Mahchykhah. I apologize. I will remove myself from your celebration.”Mahchykhahis what he calls Mom. Dmitri said it means stepmother in Russian.
Perplexed, I gape up at him, my sharp tongue silenced for once. He lied to protect me. Again, that not-quite smile tugs at his lips. I stare at his mouth as it lowers to mine. His warm breath fans my face. Not a trace of booze on his breath. He stops short of kissing me.
“Enjoy your birthday,printsesa. Do not lose my gift.”
He squeezes my waist and releases me. The last time I see him that night is him ducking out a side door, his broad shoulders, dark suit, and black hair unmistakable. Disappearing like a ghost through a wall.
Taking off the dress that night, I find an odd-looking USB-looking thing tucked into the waistband of my dress where he touched me. I turn it over and over, wondering what it means. It doesn’t fit into the slot on my old laptop. Why did he give me a piece of old, broken technology, anyway?
Three months after my sixteenth birthday party, the comfortable life we had with Dmitri comes crashing down. FBI agents stampede through the big house we moved into less than a year ago, breaking things and tearing apart furniture, while my mother and I sob.
Turns out Dmitri never ran a construction company in Vegas.
He was in the Russian mafia—and so was Rafail.
My stepbrother disappeared before he could be caught.
So did we, into Witness Protection. The family I briefly cherished was shattered beyond repair.
2
HAILEY
NOW
The astringent smell of vodka always makes me think of Melanie. She dropped me as a friend right after my sweet sixteen party. It didn’t matter, though it stung. There was no more money to pay for my private school tuition after Dmitri was arrested and his assets seized.
I shake the metal cocktail mixer and strain the contents into a glass, setting the garnished final product before a woman in a navy sheath dress with a shiny haircut that probably costs more than I’ll earn this entire week. I school my face into a pleasant, distant mask. One that discourages casual conversation.
It feels like there’s a wall between my world of struggle and survival and people like hers, who grew up with plans for college and internships and actual careers that cover all your bills.
After Mom and I went into witness protection with new identities, we were right back where we had started. Cleaning houses and offices to scrape by. Those months with Dmitri still feel like a dream. Witness protection is nothing like what you see in the movies. The Feds gave us new names and told us to go stay with family, but we don’t have any other living relatives, so we just ran.
I still think about that beautiful pink dress. I often disassociate with daydreams of my sweet sixteen party. Definitely the high point of my twenty-one years of life.
Despite everything we learned about my stepfather after his arrest, Mom never really stopped loving Dmitri. When she died after three grueling years on the run, it was as if the life had already been hollowed out of her. We were both traumatized by the violent way we’d lost everything. She never recovered. Before she died, Mom managed to get a divorce. Something about wives not testifying against their husbands, according to our contact at the FBI.
Rafail vanished. All I have left of him is that silly thumb drive that doesn’t work.A gift.I haven’t lost it. What a good little girl I am, all these years later.
Officially, Rafail is my ex-stepbrother now. Sometimes, I’ll jumpscare myself thinking I glimpsed him across the street or out the window of a store.
