Growing up in that house meant performing—being the quiet daughter, the obedient daughter, thegooddaughter. My father’s temper made sure of that. My mother’s silence made it worse. They never cared what I wanted, only what I could provide. How useful I could be. How presentable. How controllable.
Leaving home was the first real decision I ever made for myself.
And they’ve resented me for it ever since.
I press my hands over my eyes.
I came to New York to breathe. To be someone other than the girl locked in her bedroom crying so no one would hear. Someone other than the daughter who was told she was too sensitive, too dramatic, too plain to ever make something of herself.
A life on my own was supposed to mean freedom.
But right now, all it feels like is sinking.
Of course. Of course this would happen now. When my life is a mess, when I’m dreaming about my boss touching me, when I’m trying not to get fired before the week ends.
I fall back onto the pillow, covering my face with my hands.
I can still feel Aleksei’s dream-hands on my thighs.
And now I need to magically find money I don’t have.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
17
ALEKSEI
“…weexpect the shipment to arrive by Friday,” the Moscow contact says through the grainy video feed. “But understand, Aleksei Ivanovich—if your father is interfering again, this becomesyourproblem, not ours.”
Of course it does.
I keep my expression carved from stone. “I’ll handle my father. You handle your end.”
A few murmurs, exchanged glances, then the call disconnects with a soft click, leaving the expansive boardroom abruptly silent.
I exhale once, slow and controlled.
The back-to-back calls from Moscow are the only reason I changed locations at the last minute.
Now we’re here, in a glass-walled conference room high above Manhattan, sunlight spilling across polished wood while we discuss attempted murder like it’s a budget review.
I stand and turn toward my men already waiting—Sergei, Anton, Dimitri—each of them grim-faced, alert, ready.
“Alright,” I say, rolling my shoulders once, shifting from business to blood. “Last night.”
Sergei steps forward first. Loyal. Efficient. Brutally thorough. “We traced the plates on the sedan. They were stolen.” He sets a folder on the table. “Professional job. Whoever they were, they knew your route.”
“Not well enough,” Anton mutters.
Dimitri adds, “We found shells on the road. Russian-made.”
My jaw tightens. Russian-made means two things. Either someone frominsidethe Bratva wants me dead…
Or my father is escalating.
Again.
I lean over the table, palms planted. “Tell me everything.”
