Mrs. Novak's face when I asked was perfectly polite and completely immovable. "I'll have to check with Mr. Kashkin," she said, and I understood: I'm not a guest here. I'm property.
Again.
My hands clench at my sides. The black dress is wrinkled beyond saving, and I smell like sweat and fear and the lingering smoke of the auction house. I should shower. Change into whatever clothes they've provided. Make myself presentable.
I can't make myself move.
I never stopped, Misha said.Not for a single day.
The words keep ambushing me, catching me off guard between the fear and the fury. Two years. Two years of silence, of unanswered questions, of lying awake at night wondering what I did wrong. And he was watching the whole time. Tracking my movements, monitoring my life, treating me like a—
Like an asset. Like something to be managed.
Just like my father.
The knock on the door makes me flinch.
I know it's him before I cross the room. I can feel his presence through the wood, heavy and inevitable. My hand trembles as I reach for the handle.
You can do this, I tell myself.You've dissected cadavers. You've watched hearts stop and restart. You can face one man.
I open the door.
He looks as wrecked as I feel—shadows under his eyes, tension in his jaw, his shirt from last night rumpled and untucked. For a moment, the sight of him steals my breath. Two years, and my body still responds to him like a reflex, like muscle memory.
I hate it. I hate him. I hate myself for not hating him enough.
"Bianca," he says.
"Misha." I keep my voice flat. Controlled. I won't give him my pain.
"It's time." His eyes meet mine, and I see something raw in them, something he's not quite managing to hide. "Ask me anything."
I step back to let him in, then change my mind. This room feels too intimate—the bed looming in my peripheral vision, the memory of his jacket draped over me in the car.
"Not here," I say. "Somewhere else."
He nods, unsurprised. "Follow me."
He takes me to a study on the ground floor. Dark wood paneling, leather chairs, shelves lined with books that look like they've actually been read. A massive desk dominates one corner, but he doesn't sit behind it. Instead, he gestures to two armchairs by the window, positioned to face each other.
Equal footing. Or the appearance of it, at least.
I sit. The leather is cold through my thin dress, and I suppress a shiver. Misha takes the chair across from me, close enough that our knees almost touch.
"Where do you want me to start?" he asks.
The question is almost laughable. Where do I want him to start? At the beginning of time? At the moment he first lied to me? At the part where my father decided I was worth less than his debts?
"Who are you?" I say. "Really. Not the investor. Not the man who brought me coffee and danced with me in my kitchen. Who are you?"
He doesn't flinch. "My name is Misha Kashkin. I'm the younger brother of Dmitri Kashkin, who runs the Kashkin Bratva. We operate out of San Francisco. Have for two generations."
Bratva. Russian mafia. The word settles into my chest like a stone.
"What do you do for them? For your brother?"
"I'm an enforcer." He says it simply, without pride or shame. "I handle problems. Security. Negotiations that require a certain kind of persuasion."
