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Prologue

Katya

Four Months Earlier

I’m not going back.

My coffee is halfway finished when my phone starts vibrating across the kitchen counter. I don’t even have to look at the screen to know who it is. I don’t have friends, and I’m not very close to my stepbrothers, so I know who’s calling.

“Anya,” I mutter, reaching for it with one hand while I take another sip of coffee with the other. “You really need to learn that some people enjoy sleeping past six in the morning,” I say the minute I answer.

“You’re awake, aren’t you?”

I close my eyes. “Unfortunately.”

She laughs, and despite myself, I smile. “Good morning to you, too, Katya.”

“Good morning, little sister.”

A brief silence follows, and I already know what’s coming. Anya has been asking me the same question since she came back from studying abroad, and apparently my answer hasn’t been satisfying her.

“So,” she says carefully, “have you reconsidered?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“Yes, I do. You’ll say, ‘Katya, come back to New York,’ just like you said the last time,” I point out.

Anya doesn’t disappoint when she laughs and responds, “Okay, you’ve got me.”

I take another sip of coffee and stare through the kitchen window at the pale morning light stretching over the California countryside. “My answer is the same.”

“Katya. You’ve been gone for months.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re my sister.”

“And you’re my sister too, which is why I’m going to tell you for the hundredth time that I am perfectly happy where I am,” I reply, letting frustration bleed into my tone.

She sighs dramatically. “You could be happy here, too. I know that before, you weren’t happy because of him, but things have changed.”

My fingers tighten around the mug. She doesn’t have to say our stepfather’s name. Neither of us does. Yuri Balshov has been dead for months, and somehow his absence still manages to occupy more space in my life than most living people ever have.

“Even with him gone,” I say quietly, “I don’t want to go back. I know Alexei has changed everything.” I swallow and look away from the window. “But I’m still not interested in getting anywhere near my stepbrothers.”

“They aren’t Yuri.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still afraid?”

“Because I know what family they come from.”

I don’t like talking about it. I don’t like thinking about it. I especially don’t like admitting that, no matter how far I run, the world I was born into seems determined to keep finding me. The Bratva.

Men who carry guns like other people carry wallets. Families who settle disagreements with blood. Loyalty that isn’t a promise but a requirement. I spent years learning how to stay invisible around it. I kept my head down and my mouth shut and pretended I didn’t notice the things happening around me.