Page 1

Prologue

Tau

Rich men's wars had made travel an inconvenience. The Istanbul connection was familiar, but I missed the simplicity of direct flights. The gate smelled of burnt coffee and jet fuel, and the air was recycled to the point of tasting of nothing. I switched passports for the second boarding, the second one lighter in my palm, its spine still stiff. It was simpler not to carry a Russian stamp from the one I had used to leave Chernograd. Freedom of movement and anonymity were crucial to my work.

When Zero contacted me about the job, I jumped at it. My growing attachment to the Pakhan's wife was not wise. The Bratva had made me a wealthy man, but one did not betray Vadim and live to tell the tale.

Trust was fragile, and once broken, little could mend it. My gut told me Iskra would never reveal to Vadim that I had helped her escape. Perhaps that was not the danger at all.

I flexed my hand against my knee. It had been doing that lately, closing on nothing, as if it remembered a weight I had set down.

Perhaps it was watching a callous man fall in love with his wife and daughter. Seeing a house grow quiet in a way that was not empty. A natural-born killer, allowing warmth into his life. Stability I had never known.

The Tannoy crackled.

Chicago O'Hare. First class boarding.

I stood and reached for my carry-on. A woman opposite me lowered her voice, though not enough, and murmured to her husband that first class was being called, not general. Her eyes travelled from my shoes to my face and stayed there a beat too long, waiting for me to sit back down.

I smiled to myself and strode to the gate.

The carpet swallowed my footsteps. Those days were gone, when my grandfather worked in the mines and my mother scrubbed another woman's floors. My father worked the land of his ancestors and was paid a pittance. They had worked long and hard, yet I was the lone survivor.

Apartheid had created a strength to survive.

I handed my passport and boarding pass to the young woman at the desk. She checked the details briskly, her nails tapping the counter, before plastering on a wide, fake smile as she handed them back. The paper was warm from her fingers.

“Have a great flight, Mr Aduke.”

Behind me, the whispering woman had gone silent.

I nodded and turned to board.

Zero's offer had come at the right time. I needed to be far from Moscow.

Far from her.

Chapter 1

Zuri

The excitement simmered beneath my controlled facade while Auntie finished setting my hair.

The back room of Nairobi Corner smelled the way it always did at this hour: shea butter, warm steam from the dryer, and the green sharpness of the edge control she kept beside the mirror. A gospel station murmured from the radio on the shelf, turned low for the evening.

She had parted the sides into two neat flat twists, laid my edges with a soft brush until they lay smooth as ink, and gathered the rest into a high, full puff that sat on my head like a crown. Every coil had been moisturised and fluffed out until it shone.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, stepping back to study the mirror. “All this for a study group?”

“Auntie, you have outdone yourself,” I said, touching one springy curl that gleamed under whatever she had worked through it, and hoping the compliment would deflect her.

“Zuri wangu, I raised three daughters. Do not try that face on me.” Her dark brow arched high.

“You know how the girls are. Everyone has to look perfect,” I said, glancing at my short, bare nails. Pre-dental left no room for colours or length. Imani had promised press-ons for tonight, and I was already counting on them.

I looked at our reflection and smiled so wide that my dimples popped. Auntie was an older version of my mother. If you ignored the years between them, they could have passed as twins. Mom was the mischievous one, the sister who laughed first. Auntie frowned first and fed you after. Looking at her made missing Mom a little easier, though never by much.

My cousins loved telling the story of how Auntie and Uncle had landed in America with a green card won in a lottery and almost nothing else. Years of hard work later, they had carved out Nairobi Corner, a small grocery with a hair supply shop and braiding salon through the archway. The back room could seat only two clients at a time, but Auntie’s reputation kept the chairs full.