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I’m on my feet, squatting in the middle of my bed, fighting invisible enemies. Sunlight shines through the open blinds and pain blasts through my temples. I drop my head in my hands shivering as shadows of the nightmare filter through my mind. Large hands drag me away. I fight against them, trying to get to him, trying to stop the bleeding as my insides collapse, as my dad lies dead on the ground.
Vodka usually stops the memories, but here I am, burning eyes, a Sousa march pounding in my skull, and my heart beating out of my chest. I need water. I need coffee.
Sitting back, my elbow collides with a shirtless, male body stretched out at my side, and like a record scratch, I recoil to see who the fuck is in my bed.
When I recognize his face, my teeth grind. “Get out!”
Planting my foot on Rick’s side, I push hard, sending him falling to the floor with a loud groan taking all the blankets with him.
“What the fuck?” His voice is muffled from inside the roll of sheets, but I don’t care.
“What the fuck is right!” I shade my eyes. “There’s not enough alcohol in Manhattan for me to sleep with you. Why are you in my bed?”
“I got in late and needed a place to crash.”
Glancing down at my body, I’m relieved my black tank top, underwear, and shorts are securely in place. I was pretty drunk last night, but I see no signs I was coerced into making an extremely bad decision with this jacked up, wannabe gangster.
“You can crash in your car. How the hell did you get a key to my apartment anyway?”
“Natasha has keys to all our shit, girl.” He sits up, lifting a gold ring with a single key dangling on it from the nightstand. “You just gotta know where to look.”
My eyes narrow. Natasha Petrovna has appointed herself leader of our small band of outlaws since her uncle Simon was killed four years ago. Still, I don’t like her having keys to my place without my knowledge.
I snatch the ring from his hand. “You do not have permission to sleep in my bed.Ever.”
He snorts a laugh as he pushes off the floor, sauntering to the kitchen in only his boxer briefs. “You’ll feel better after some coffee.”
Staggering to the bathroom, I grimace at the mascara smeared under my eyes. I didn’t wash my face before I went to bed, so I turn on the water, drowning out the noise of Rick digging in my cabinets.
He thinks he can do whatever he wants now that only four of us are left. I never believed I’d miss the days when Greg or Trip were around to keep his ass in line.
After Simon’s brother Victor was killed and Greg was killed and Trip disappeared and finally Simon was killed (I know, Jesus Christ), Natasha took over their criminal enterprise. The problem is we’re the only ones left in the city, and the big guys in Europe won’t even acknowledge her existence. Misogynist pigs.
Rick sticks around, I’m sure, because he’s looking for a way to make bank out of what’s left, perhaps to insert himself into any abandoned deals.
Marco, Simon’s driver, had nowhere to go, and me? What’s my excuse? Good question.
I was pulled into this shitshow crime-world before I was old enough to say no. I went from being the only daughter of a loving father I adored on the beautiful shores of the Black Sea to an orphan, living with my “uncle” Simon and my “cousin” Natasha.
My father’s death always felt like an inside job, but I've never been able to prove it.
Closing my eyes to wash away the cleanser, I can still see Natasha’s nine-year-old face scowling when I arrived, curling her nose like I was an ant invading her picnic. I’m still that ant, threatening what she’s hungered for since she was old enough to know what it meant—control of this corrupt empire.
At first, I played it safe, following her like a minion, but now I’m twenty-two, and everyone’s dead. And I want answers.
I want to know who killed my dad, and then I want to make him pay.
When I return, patting a towel against my face, Rick gazes at me from the kitchen in a way I don’t like.
“Say, girl, you really filled out these last few years. I remember when you were a runty little kid, but now,” he smacks his lips, smiling to reveal a gold tooth as his eyes glide lustily from my tank down to my sleep shorts. “You lookin good.”
I’m legitimately revolted. Rick Ivanov is a slippery con man who dabbles in porn and would blackmail his own mother if it would make a buck—and probably has.
Turning away from him, I go to my armoire. “I couldn’t be less interested in your opinion.”
I know how I look. With ice-blue eyes and deep, chestnut-brown hair, I’ve attracted unwanted attention since I was young, a dangerous thing in this world. So I bleached my hair and wore brown contact lenses.
Done.Invisible.
