Chapter 15

When we return, Mikhail says he and Dimitri must go into the city. There's something they need to take care of. There's a moment after he leaves when I'm just waiting for every guard in this place to turn against me, charge into my bedroom, and tell me Dad's always going to find a way.

Yet nothing happens. I lie in bed, sunlight filtering through the thin curtains, staring at the ceiling. Despite how badly my body needs sleep, I feel too wired to let it happen. I'm overtired, and my body is still pulsing from the steaminess in the cave. The best part was how obsessed and shocked he looked when I swallowed his release.

It wasn't like I planned it. It felt so right, and the reward was Mikhail's attention crashing into me like nothing and nobody else existed. Standing, I enter the en suite, shower, and head for the front door.

A guard on the door steps aside and says, "Miss."

Three guards saw Mikhail and I enter via the secret entrance, but the second the mechanism started, they turned away and pretended to ignore us. I'm familiar with that sort of thing. Bratva men know how to mind their business.

I don't even have to knock when I reach the other house. Yuri, the butler, opens the door. "Miss Petrov."

"I was wondering if Lia was awake?"

"Yes, miss. She's painting in the library."

"Could you ask if she wants to see me?"

He nods, leaving me to wait. When we returned to the compound, it was like we had never left, like this place had its own atmosphere. I even felt guilty for what we did—letting ourselves forget when my brother needs us.

Yuri returns and then leads me into the library. Lia sits in front of a canvas. She's sketched the outline of a woman holding a baby. She turns to me in her chair. I can tell she's had as little sleep as I have. I wonder if that lack of sleep includes Dimitri.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

"Not bad, actually," she replies, seeming shocked. "You must be worried sick."

I didn't expect her to come right out and say it. Is it that obvious? "I have to get him out of there. Poor Drake …"

"I hope you don't mind me saying, but that's an interesting and surprising name for a Russian."

A memory touches me of Anatoly running into my room with a secret sort of smile. Call me Drake now, okay? D-R-A-K-E. It means dragon, and it's better than my other name, okay? My old name.

"It's not his real name. Drake is ten, and already he can see through Dad's crap." So many memories touch me, but one hits me hard: the first time Drake saw Dad completely lose it, the love draining in real-time from his small features. "He wants nothing to do with him."

"How can you get him? Without me … I mean."

"I don't know." I rub my face, suppressing a groan of frustration and regret. "I don't even know if he would've given Drake up if I brought you. He scares me so much. It's like I can't think. I don't even know who I am. He can twist me up so easily."

"Not anymore," she says fiercely with a genuine determination. "You're here now. You're safe. You're protected."

"Maybe I am, yeah."

"I want to help, but it's like you said. Your dad might not have given Drake up.

"Maybe …" I pause, annoyed when I realize I'm chewing the inside of my cheek. "Could you ask Dimitri? He might listen to you."

I hate asking her this, mainly because Mikhail has promised his help, but the Bratva is an old system with a clear hierarchy.

"If they go to war with your dad, even more people will suffer?—"

I cut her off. "Is this you speaking or Dimitri?" Talking about Bratva wars seems petty when my brother is out there, terrified, waiting for me. Maybe that's just the fierce big sister screaming out in me. There's nothing petty about bloodshed.

"It makes sense."

"Please," I say. "Can you try?"

"Okay."

She pauses, looking at her sketch. I wonder if she means it to be her or somebody else, somebody she knows, or perhaps a future version of her, with Dimitri's baby in her belly. A silly idea comes to me. One day, we'll both have Sokolov children.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, looking at me.

"Just … the future, if there is one."

"I should call Dimitri," she murmurs, then pauses. "What about the future? I try not to think about it. I've always found that's the best way."

"Me too," I reply. "If I ever let myself think about the future, I might let myself hope, leading to more disappointment. Sometimes, Lia, I hate thinking like that. I hate not letting myself think about marriage, kids, a future, and a family."

"Do you want that?" she asks, her tone making it almost a forbidden question.

"I don't know," I whisper. "I always thought no, hell no, but now …" I see Mikhail, hair combed back, glasses perched on his nose as he looks down at our child. I can see our baby's perfect face in the reflection of his glasses.

"It's better not to think about it," she says, standing up. "I'll call Dimitri."

Even in her tone, I can tell she's not hopeful. Realistically—I'm starting to hate that word—what can Dimitri do, anyway? Declare war against my father? Send dozens of men into LA to scour the city, shoot up stores and barbershops and everyday places, and hurt civilians? All for my brother? Would I be able to live with that?

Lia leaves. I go to the library window, looking out at the basketball court. Ania is wearing a bright orange sweatsuit. She shoots, misses, jogs quickly over to the ball, then shoots again and repeats the process. I find something about her erratic and eccentric behavior endearing, almost like she's my sister-in-law already.

I need to chill.

Lia returns, face bright red, breathing hard, and hurrying into the room. "Whoa. What's up? What happened?"

"I just …" She looks around the library as though it's a cage. "Look at all this!" She kicks at the newspaper she's put under her easel to catch the paint. "Look at me. I should be able to handle myself, and now I have to beg to make something happen. I'm supposed to …"

She sits down at her easel, shoulders slumped. "The world's not fair. We should be able to help your brother. We should be able to do some good."

I go to her and gently lay my hand on her shoulder. She's so consumed with her sadness that I don't think she even realizes it.

"Maybe we can," I say, but it sounds weak. "Maybe we'll have our chance."

"I always said I was going to be on my own," she says bitterly, almost as though she misses those days, as though she wishes life could be simple again, even if it were colder. "… to myself because I didn't speak to anybody else. I always promised myself that."

"Why would you want to be alone?"

God, what a hypocritical question. She makes a slight scoffing noise. "Before, I thought it was easier that way."

"And now?"

"I don't know. It's hard to think when everything happens so fast. It feels like a fever dream."

"Yeah, tell me about it," I say, looking out the window, thinking of the brief looks in the computer room, remembering his lips pressed against my body, the protective strength I feel every time we hold each other.

We don't talk for a while, and then I see another painting beneath the baby sketch. The corner of it shows where the paper has flipped back. I fold over the rest, revealing a sketch of a serious-looking woman.

"This is nice," I say, hoping to change the subject. "Who is it?"

"Oh, just …" She gets all choked up. "… how I imagine my mom looked

before …"

She doesn't have to say anything. Like with Mikhail and me in the cave, bringing all that misery into the light is sometimes impossible. "You haven't had it easy, have you?"

She gives me a serious look. She probably doesn't realize it, but she looks exactly like her sketched mother. "Neither of us has," she says.

I force a smile onto my face. Judging how Lia looks at me—like I've lost my mind—it comes across as abrupt, but I don't care. I need to focus on what I can do right now. When working on a complex math problem, you chunk it and make it manageable.

"Shall we get some fresh air? I saw Ania shooting some hoops."

"Basketball?" Lia says doubtfully. "I'm not exactly the athletic type."

"What, and I am?"

She raises her eyebrows, then nods and stands up. "Maybe it would be good to get some sun. I wanted to get some sleep, but then …"

"Feel too wired?"

"How did you guess?" she asks sarcastically, but not in a mean way.

I smile, wondering if this might be the start of a friendship that lasts years. Maybe one day, we'll even be family. Again, I remind myself, Chill. I seriously need to relax and stop letting my thoughts skip ahead so quickly to the future.

"Come on," I say, taking her hand. "Let's do it."

"I've just never been a sports person," Lia says, bouncing the ball several times as she looks over at the hoop.

Ania stands at my side, looking small and fragile in her bright sweatsuit. She has delicate, youthful features. From how she's constantly glancing around, seeming on edge, I wonder if she's as anxious as I often get or worse.

"It's not like there are any stakes," Ania says. "Miss. Get it. It doesn't matter."

Lia throws the ball, then gasps when it bounces off the backboard, spins around the rim of the hoop, then just about topples over the edge, not going in.

"That was so close," Ania says, brightening up. "Wow, Lia, well done." Ania turns to me, making me smile immediately. There's something so magnetic about her when she looks at me like this. "Your turn."

I laugh, ignoring the little flame of guilt buried deep, trying to become an inferno. Every time I laugh or smile or sink into a steamy orgasm, I know I'm betraying Drake. Letting myself be happy and forgetting my duty as a big sister, but I have to focus on the now.

Picking up the ball, I go to the three-point bit—clearly, I'm not a hooper—and bounce it a couple of times. Ania watches me with a big grin on her face. Her gaze reminds me of Mikhail when all his attention hones in on me, and every part of him is obsessed, interested, and fixated. She has a similar way of watching me.

"Ania, maybe go wait in the city? You know, just in case I miss?"

When Ania laughs, it makes Lia and me smile. I don't even have to look at Lia to know that, somehow, it's an infectious laugh that makes me feel big-sister-ish.

I shoot. I miss, and then Ania takes the ball and swishes the net with her shot. She bows, waving her hands as if there's a crowd watching. "Thank you, thank you all so much."

Lia and I laugh, and then Ania casually swishes another hoop.

"You're fantastic," I say.

Ania shakes her head. "I'm okay at shooting. I can't dribble, pass, or actually play basketball, but …" She hesitates.

"What is it?" Lia asks.

Ania looks at me, then says quietly, "This was the only way Mikhail and I bonded when I was younger. I'd see him out here, shooting, and I'd just walk over and stand nearby, not saying anything. He wouldn't say anything, either. He'd just pass me the ball. Sometimes, we'd be out here for hours without saying a word."

"Why wouldn't he speak to you?" I say, my heart squeezing at her words. I can't imagine Mikhail being cruel to anybody, which should throw up an error message in my mind if anything should. I know who he is and what he's capable of. He tortured someone for me.

"It's not necessarily that he wouldn't," she says. "He didn't like to think about Dad cheating on his mom, which is fair enough, but what about me? I didn't even know my mom. She was a sex worker who wanted nothing to do with me. She gave away her own baby."

"Who told you that?" I ask.

"Dad," she says. She must be able to read my expression because she immediately follows it up with, "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's nothing."

Ania walks right up to me. She gets eerily intense. When she's finally ready to find a partner, I can imagine her running circles around them when she turns those brooding eyes to them. "It's not nothing, though, is it?"

"Bratva bosses lie," I say. "Maybe your dad wasn't?—"

"No." Ania shakes her head stubbornly. "If Dad lied, it means my mom wanted me in her life. It means he took me from her, or he did something to her to make her leave me behind. It means my whole life has been a lie. It means I was robbed of a chance to have a mother. No, no, I can't think that. She didn't want me. Okay? She hated me."

Ania turns, looking like she's about to storm away. I quickly walk around her and raise my hands. "Ania, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."

She softens a little. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"You're right. I don't. I'm sorry."

I hesitate for a moment, then reach forward for a hug. She throws herself into the hug with sudden reckless abandon, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing tight. Over her shoulder, I look at Lia, and I can tell she's thinking the same thing. Whatever happens, Ania deserves to be happy.

"I'm sorry for snapping," Ania says.

"You don't have to apologize for anything," I tell her.

We shoot some hoops for a few minutes longer, and then Ania says she wants to nap. I go back to the library with Lia, watching her paint for a while, wondering if this is what making friends feels like.