My phone vibrates. It’s business. I ignore it anyway. Right now, I can’t stop staring at that picture of the little black girl. I need to be sure it’s her in that basement. I can’t make a move until I’m certain it’s her. Most important, I need to do it without my father knowing I was ever there.
The brothel is his territory. Belova answers directly to him. I can't walk in and start asking questions. Sending Levor anyone else is too risky and word would travel too fast. I also know without a doubt, if my father finds out I was anywhere near his little secret, I’m a dead man. He'll put a bullet in my head himself. I have to be smart about this. If this girl is real and locked inside that basement, I’m taking her. I don’t give a fuck how risky it is. Her days of being my father’s canary are over.
She’s mine.
I try to picture her now. Older. I have one message for her: I’m coming for you, Nala Spencer. And when I do, you’re going to help me destroy the Pakhan.
CHAPTER 3
NALA
I lied to the Pakhan.
I’m terrified he’s going to find out. I lie awake in the dark, wondering if Roman will do something that makes Grigori suspicious. I’m scared he will. Even though most days Iwant to die, I don’t want it to be like this. Sometimes I beg God if he exists to not let me wake up again in this basement. I want to die peacefully, not be murdered by the Pakhan or his men.
It wouldn’t just be me who’d pay the price. If Grigori knows where my sister is, as he says he does, he might hurt her too. I curl into a ball, grazing my teeth against my fingernail. Maybe I shouldn’t have been brave. I don’t know. I had to protect Roman. At least, I felt like I had to protect him because I want him to have a chance to hurt Grigori.
I need to suck it up, I tell myself. I made that choice. If that means I die, then so be it. If heaven is real, then maybe I’ll get to watch Grigori suffer from above.
I sigh, rolling onto my side. Today the brothel isn’t as loud as it was two days ago. That means it’s Monday. I pressmy fingers to my ribs, to the spot that still hurts. I don’t know how I’m going to handle it if he kicks me again tomorrow. I can’t even bother asking Madam Belova for a pain reliever. I’m too scared to trust what she’d give me.
Time moves slowly here. It always does. So, I do what I always do when the weight of everything presses down on me. This basement. The people I miss and the guilt I can’t escape, knowing my parents are dead because of me. It crushes me, threatening to bury me alive sometimes.
I close my eyes and try to leave this place. I try to imagine myself somewhere else. Somewhere safe. It’s hard though because I’ve never been to a lot of places. I’ve been to Disney World once, in Florida. And of course, my school trip to London. I curl tighter into myself, stifling a cry. I hate thinking about that trip. I hate how excited I was to leave my parents and go somewhere far. I thought I was so grown up, didn’t need my mom and dad around telling me what to do.
I was such an idiot.
A stupid little girl who didn’t notice the men listening to my friend blab about some of the things I’d ‘seen’ by touching people. The other kids had been impressed by her stories, and I’d felt good about myself. I got bad grades a lot and wasn’t used to this type of attention over something I did, so like the idiot I was, still am, I soaked it up. I loved the attention so much that when the waitress came up, asking me to read her, I didn’t think twice.
The stuff I told her freaked her out, but she was nice about it. She even gave my friends and I free ice cream. After I left, I didn’t notice my bookbag was missing until we got back to our rooms. That was my last full day in London. My last day of freedom. I curl my legs tighter, pretending my mom is beside me. I’m good at this game. I’m back in our house in New York. She’s making breakfast. I can smell herpancakes. I reach for the maple syrup, not the fake one my sister Kayla likes. I pour it until my pancakes are soaked, just the way I love them. My mom gives methat look,the one that says she’s going to stop buying syrup if I keep doing this. My dad reaches over, steals a bite of my pancake and winks at me.
Me with my family. Safe at home. Speaking English. Laughing. Absolutely no one here to threaten me in a thick Russian accent.
My mind drifts again, playing this game of another life. This time I’m older. I make it past the sixth grade. I go to high school with my friends, and I end up in college. I walk across campus, cutting through the trees to stand in the sunshine. It’s warm on my face and my legs. I’m never cold.
I have nice clothes and I have shoes. I’m never barefoot on cold concrete in winter. I have friends who like me. We hang out. We sit in restaurants, laughing and talking about our week.
In this version of my life, I have a future. Sometimes it’s a different future. Sometimes someone finds me down here and rescues me. It won’t ever be the police. They ignore too much of what the Bratva does.
In this fantasy, a faceless person bursts through the door at the top of the stairs. They fight past Madam Belova or anyone who tries to stop them. They come down here. When they see me, they don’t look away, they simply say, “I’m taking you out of here.”
And they do.
After that I get to be outside again. I feel the sun. I see the sky and the stars. I eat regularly and I sleep in a bed, not a hard mattress on the floor. I’ll be free to live. Maybe fall in love. Even better, have someone love me back.
I sigh, opening my eyes. It’s a stupid fantasy. No one iscoming for me. It won’t ever happen. The girls who glimpse me probably think I’m a ghost. Even if someone knew about me and wanted to help, Grigori would kill them before they got close enough to do anything.
I'm going to die in this basement and it’s not fair. I wasn't a perfect kid, but whatever I did, it wasn’t bad enough to deserve this.
I feel myself spiraling, so I force myself to sit up. Breathing is hard when I let my thoughts get too far. If Madam Belova comes down and sees me like that, crying and depressed, she won’t care. She’ll just slap me until I stop.
I do stretches instead, careful, trying not to hurt my ribs. I only get a minute in before the door opens at the top of the stairs. I scramble back to sit on the mattress. It’s the madam. She’s earlier than usual today.
She sets a tray with bread and a piece of meat this time at the bottom of the stairs.
"Eat,” she says, already turning to leave.
"Water. Please?" I keep my English simple. I was so thirsty last night I drank the last of the water she’d given me yesterday. Her brows lift. Her mouth does that curling thing again. I don’t care. I’m too thirsty to care.
