Page 73 of Nemesis

“Jeez, sorry. If the Morozov boy means that much to you, we’ll work harder on tolerating his presence. So long as he behaves himself around you, that is.”

“Really?” My mouth gapes. “Just like that?”

One of them flashes a crooked smile nearly identical to his father’s. “You’ll learn quickly enough that nothing comes between the members of this family. Not even falling for a Russian psychopath who’s infamous for blowing up random clubs for fun.”

I skip right over the whole “falling for him” implication—definitely not ready to deal with that loaded bomb yet—and right to the fiery accusation. Perhaps I’ve finally discovered what his fuck-up at work was all about.

Breathe, Octavia. How would a balanced person respond to something like that?

“Vasiliy.”

“Yeah?” He tilts his head down, as though we’re having a private conversation rather than broadcasting to the entire tarmac.

“Did you blow up a club?”

“Yeah.”

Jesus.

“Did they deserve it?” I ask, drawing a palm over my face in exhaustion.

“Kinda, yeah.”

I turn to the group, extending my arms. “There. Settled?”

I realize they’re all still staring at me with dopey, wide eyes. The one they called Kirill is the first to break the silence, letting out a manic laugh and smacking my dad’s arm.

“Seriously. Where the hell did you find her?”

Cool glass presses into my cheek.

Colors blur before my eyes. Monotonous greys and bushy greens. Endless trees that wind around the twisting road. Under the glistening rain and setting sun, the leaves brighten into a breathtaking color you’d never see in the city. I’m sure tourists travel for days to take in such peaceful serenity. I hate it all the same.

“You’re quiet.”

I don’t bother turning towards the low voice. His attention has been burning a hole in my cheek throughout the drive. Maybe the rain extinguished the angry blaze that swirled in my chest during our ride to the plane hours earlier. The passion is already a distant memory, only dancing to life when I feel a certain pair of lips grazing the tip of my ear.

I hum, leaning my face further into the glass. “I’m tired.”

I’m not sure of any other way to describe the weight that yanks down every single breath. My father’s seated in the next row up with Alex, who only looks away from the glow of his phone every few minutes to murmur something in Russian. Part of me wants to kick his seat and demand to know how much time is left in the drive. Another part of me hopes whoever’s driving this tank falls asleep at the wheel and sends the vehicle careening into one of the massive oaks so I never have to face our destination.

Inaction wins out in the end.

We must be several hours into the drive when I catch my first glimpse of the compound’s gates. At first, it looks like a typical property gate—all embellished metal and pointy rungs. That assessment falters when we crawl closer to the lights, revealing lanky shadows stationed every few feet, nearly blending into the cover of night. As the car slows to a stop in front of the iron bars, those shadows mobilize, swarming us with such efficiency that my hand drops to the gun still tucked into my sweatpants.

My stomach curdles when I thumb the metal. I don’t want this anymore.

The driver rolls down his window to greet the guards—not that I can understand their conversation. The only Russian I know is the creative insults my old teachers used to hurl during technique classes. Unless one of them equates someone to a fat cow lazing in a pasture, I’m in the dark.

I lift the gun, silently depositing it onto Vasiliy’s thigh. His attention drifts up. Eventually, he accepts the offering, soundlessly sliding the weapon into his own waistband. I know that this is technically my family. My domain. I should be the one taking point and leading the charge, just like I did when we stepped off the plane.

But with every passing minute, I feel more out of place. My domain is the tiny zip code containing my shitty apartment, the two trains I take to the studio every morning, and the barre spot I’ve laid claim to for the past fourteen years. I’m useless in a place like this. I can’t even understand the language being murmured by the guards up front. I might as well be on Mars.

The feeling of wrongness only intensifies as the gates screech open and the car rolls into a massive complex that looks like a cross between a mansion and a shady business headquarters. Then I’m being tugged out the door.

He must sense my resistance, because Vasiliy doesn’t wait for me to climb out on my own, instead lifting my weight and depositing my sneakers onto the gravelly walkway.

“Would you like the tour?” Dad asks.