Yarik, my father, enters the kitchen holding Kin’s hand. When Pavel and Hope see him, they exchange a look.
“We’ll let you talk to your dad,” Hope says, standing. She blows me a kiss. “Miss you. Talk soon.”
“You know I love you, kid,” Pavel adds, then scoops Kin into his arms. “Come on,malchik. Let’s go find that fish food.”
They drift out of view, their voices fading as my father comes into view.
“Dinochka.” His voice is warm, affectionate. “Look at you. Beautiful as always, but you look tired. Are you sleeping enough?”
“Never.” I laugh. “But I’m doing fine. Eating my vegetables. You don’t have to worry.”
“That’s my job; I worry.” His tone turns gruff. “Especially with you being so far away.”
“I know, and it’s not always easy, but it’s good for me. I’m figuring out parts of myself.”
Emotion flickers in his expression. “It’s good to hear that,malyshka. I know you need independence. Your own life. I’m proud of you.”
I nod, a lump forming in my throat. He’s survived enough hell for ten lifetimes, yet he remains the softest place for me to land. I don’t know how I got so lucky.
“Thank you, Papa. Now tell me about Kin. Have you planted that garden yet?”
He lights up. “Ah, yes. We planted vegetables last weekend. Carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers. Kin wanted to plant candy, can you believe it? I had to explain that candy doesn’t grow in gardens.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “He insisted we try anyway, so we buried a piece of chocolate and he’s checking every day to see if it’s sprouted. I don’t have the heart to tell him it won’t work…”
His words fade into the background as my mind churns.
Guilt wraps around my ribs. I’m in New York under false pretenses, infiltrating a bratva and putting myself in danger, all while lying to the people who love me.
Telling my father the truth means reopening a wound that nearly destroyed him. And while Pavel would help me in a heartbeat, involving the Syndicate only makes things more dangerous.
How can I involve the people I love when all I have to go on are the hazy fragments of a dream?
CHAPTER
NINE
DINARA
Tonight's shiftpasses in a blur of drink orders and crowded tables, my face aching from the smile I've kept plastered on for hours. By the time Oksana waves me over to the bar for tip-out, every muscle in my body is protesting.
She slides an envelope across the polished wood, pinning it under her hand with an arched brow. “Well done. You made over two hundred dollars in tips.”
“Holy shit, seriously?” I blink at the cash. “I didn’t even have my own tables.”
She laughs. “The regulars were feeling generous tonight.”
Kirill wasn’t lying about the money being good. Not that I need it—the Syndicate pays me well for my hacking work. My rundown apartment is purely for show, part of the struggling student persona.
“You earned it. You busted ass tonight.” Oksana pulls her hair loose, shaking out long chestnut waves. “Want to stick around for a drink? We usually do a round after closing.”
“I’d love to, but I have an early class.” Which is true. I have Data Structures at nine. But the real reason I need to gethome is the decryption program that’s been running for two days. With any luck, it’s cracked through the archived Russian government files by now, and I can start hunting for connections between Ruslan Baronov and the Kupola Network’s trafficking operations. “Next time,” I say. “By the way, is it normal for your feet to hurt this much after a shift?”
Oksana snorts and reaches for a bottle of vodka, pouring two shots. “You’ll get used to it. The first few shifts are the hardest. I take ice baths so I’m ready for dance rehearsal the next day.”
“Ice baths. That sounds like actual torture.”
“Welcome to my glamorous life.” She slides a shot across the bar top to me. “One for the road?”
“Why not?”
