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PROLOGUE
DANI
“A little birdie told me you’re coming home today,” I buzz across the line as I search the flower shop for a suitable bouquet.
Silvia’s warm laughter bubbles through the phone. “I don’t know that I’m ready to call New Yorkhomejust yet. Everyone I know and love is back in Chicago, aside from you, Pyotr, and Isla.”
“Okay, maybe it’s not home, but you’re going to love it. I’m just excited to be spending more time with you face-to-face.” Slinging my purse higher on my shoulder, I tip my head to trap my phone to my ear so I can pull a brilliant vase of orange and yellow blossom from its chilled display shelf. It looks as welcoming and happy as Silvia always is. Perfect.
“I’m excited too. And I expect you to spend your spare weekends showing me a few of the local art exhibits.”
“Heck yes! I have a few more weeks before I start school. I’m sure we can cram a bunch in before I go back.” Confident in my decision, I head toward the counter.
“I’ll hold you to it—no, Isla, honey, don’t touch that. Remember what Momma said about it being sharp?”
I can hear the girlish little toddler voice muffled through the speaker, and I smile. The terrible twos, Isla’s been quite a handful lately, from everything Silvia’s said, and I can’t wait to see her. It’s been ages.
“Shall I let you go?” I offer, noting Silvia’s distraction as she tries to rein in her little girl.
My friend gives a breathy laugh. “Sorry. Moving day. I’ll call you later?”
“Talk to you soon.” I don’t get into the fact that I’ll be talking to her in person, not over the phone. I want to surprise them—though from the sounds of it, I hope I won’t be intruding. If it’s too hectic, I can just drop off the flowers, give them a hug, and head home.
“Beautiful selection, miss,” compliments the cashier as soon as I approach the counter. “They go perfectly with your dress.”
“Thanks.”
I flash a smile at the gray-haired woman whose leathery skin, dirt-packed nails, and gnarled hands tell me she spends most of her days in the garden.
“I put these together myself just this morning,” she adds, her eyes twinkling.
“You’re an artist,” I acknowledge.
She cackles as she passes my credit card back across the counter, then wishes me a good day.
Though I know it drives my dad crazy, I decide to walk the several blocks to the grand brownstone home where Silvia and Pyotr are moving. If it were up to Dad, I would use our driver to escort me everywhere. But it’s Brooklyn Heights, for god’s sake. It’s not like I’m walking through the slums.
I could spot their new home even if I didn’t know the address just from the giant moving truck sitting on the street out front. Countless sweaty, T-shirt-clad movers haul furniture and boxes through the front door.
Finding a gap in the flow of traffic, I scale the front steps, vase of flowers in hand and already smiling with anticipation. I’ve maybe seen Pyotr a handful of times since he moved to Chicago to attend the same college as Silvia three years ago. And after coming to consider him a brother since he andmybrother became friends in high school, I’ve missed him like crazy.
Silvia, on the other hand, is like my soul sister. I knew we’d be good friends from the moment I met her—what with our deep love of art and affinity for creating it.
Reaching the top step, I peek through the open doorway to find Val, one of Pyotr’s personal bodyguards, directing traffic. A look of utter dissatisfaction darkens his strong face. I’m sure moving director was not what he envisioned for his day’s work.
“Hi, Val,” I greet him cheerily.
“Miss Richelieu, what are you doing here?” he asks, his deep, thickly accented voice rumbling intimidatingly. That seems to be his only programmed setting—fear-inducing.
I have to say, Pyotr’s mother did a stand-up job of picking bodyguards for her son. Val’s always scared the shit out of me. Though I’m half-convinced, that’s his goal.
“Dropping off a welcome gift, obviously,” I tease, brushing my impending nerves away before they can affect my voice. I hold up the bouquet to prove my point.
“Silvia’s going to love those,” a warm voice states from the hallway.
I beam at the familiar deep baritone of Pyotr Veles. Turning, I meet his sharp gray eyes and am rewarded with a smile.
“Pyotr!” Skipping down the hall, I stop to give him a one-armed hug.
