"I'll explain later. Get me the address."
Liam is quiet for a beat. Then: "Give me ten minutes."
I pull through the gates and turn toward Ridgemont with my hands steady on the wheel and something far worse than anger settling into my bones.
He's not Bratva, which means he's not protected by anyone or anything. He's an ordinary, pathetic man who has spent three years bleeding a woman dry because he can. Because she was eighteen and in love and trusted him, and he turned that trust into a weapon.
Tonight, he finds out exactly what happens when the woman he's been destroying belongs to an Orlov.
Nadia
I close the front door behind me and stand in the hallway with my back against it, letting the sounds of my family wash over me.
The TV is on in the living room. My brother Timofey is arguing with my sister Darya about something. I can hear my mother's voice from the kitchen, telling them both to keep it down. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. The soundtrack of a house that doesn't know its eldest daughter just sat in a stranger's car and told him the ugliest truth she's ever spoken out loud.
"Nadia? Is that you?"
My mother appears in the kitchen doorway, dish towel over her shoulder, reading glasses pushed up on top of her head. She smiles when she sees me, then the smile falters.
"How was dinner, sweetheart?"
"Good." I force the word out steady. "He's nice. I'm just tired."
She studies me the way mothers do. The way that makes you feel like your skin is made of glass. "You look pale."
"Just a long day at work,” I offer. “I'm going to make some toast and head to bed."
"I can make you something proper. There's leftover—"
"Toast is fine, Mom. Really."
She watches me walk to the kitchen. I feel her eyes on my back the whole way. I keep my spine straight and my hands tucked into the pockets of my coat so she can't see the tremor.
I make toast because Rafferty told me to. Two slices. I butter them standing at the counter, and I eat them slowly, chewing and swallowing like it's a task on a list rather than something my body needs. The bread sits heavy in my stomach. My throat tries to reject it twice, but I force it down because he said to eat, and for some reason that feels like the only instruction I'm capable of following right now.
Timofey wanders into the kitchen while I'm finishing the second slice. He's twenty, loud, permanently cheerful. The opposite of me in every way that matters.
"So? Is he terrifying? Does he have neck tattoos? Did he bring a gun to dinner?"
"Go away, Timofey."
"I'm just asking. Darya and I have a bet. She thinks he's tall, dark, and brooding. I think he's short and mean."
"He's tall." I rinse my plate. "And he's not mean."
"Tall and not mean.” He nods thoughtfully. “Darya wins, then." He steals a piece of bread from the bag and shoves it in his mouth untoasted. "You okay, Nad? You look rough."
"Thanks."
"I mean it. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I'm fine. Long shifts." I kiss him on the cheek because if I don't do something normal, he'll keep asking. "Goodnight."
I make it to my room, close the door, and sit on the edge of my bed in the dark.
My phone is in my purse. I can feel it like a heartbeat. Kyle's deadline looms. Five thousand dollars I don't have. And somewhere out there, Rafferty Orlov is driving through the nightbecause I told him a name and an address, and he said this ends tonight.
Panic that I just handed my worst secret to a man I met three hours ago makes my back prickle. I just gave a Bratva enforcer the name of a man who is blackmailing me. I can’t see this ending well for anyone.
