Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I hate it when he has a point.
I’m a blood relative to the pakhan of the Zeitsev Bratva. It’s a distant relation, but still. Most women in the family are either married off or actively working for one of the organization’s businesses by the time they’re twenty-five. I could’ve been a doctor or a lawyer or maybe a cute PR girl with super high heels and really good hair.
Instead, I decided to be a creepy loser.
And I only get away with it because Dad’s been sheltering me.
“Fine,” I say through my teeth. “But if the earth opens up and swallows you, I’m not going to rappel down to save your life.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” he says. “Besides, I’ve seen you trip over your own feet walking down the hall. Pretty sure you’re not rappelling anywhere.”
I make a rude gesture and collapse back onto the couch.
The thing is, I want to go tonight. I want to wear cute dresses, mingle at fun parties, have a drink or two, and enjoy myself.
But the chattering anxiety screaming in the back of my head won’t let me.
I straighten my spine. I sit on the edge of the cushion at my full height—an imposing five-foot-three—and tilt up my chin.
This is my armor. All my life, I’ve been a good girl. I’ve been more than good—I’ve been stinking proper. It’s all I know these days, and if I have to leave the house for the first time in a very long time, I’m going to go into the world wearing the only protection I’ve got.
“Tell Father that I’m ready.”
“Whatever you say, weirdo.”
Evan leans across me and frowns out the window. “Why are we at a church?” he asks.
I swat him away, glaring. Dad turns from the passenger seat, and the look on his face makes my stomach lurch. He looks almost angry, and our father can be a real stubborn ass when he wants to be.
“I want you two to behave yourselves,” he says, staring right at Evan. Then he glances at me. “I know you’ll be good, Dashenka. You always are. But your brother—”
“I’m a paragon of wit and poise,” he says airily.
“You’re a borderline embarrassment. Keep your mouth shut for once.”
Evan mimes locking his lips and winks at me, grinning.
None of this makes me feel better. Dad’s not acting like we’re going to a party. Instead, he’s got the attitude of a man about to walk into a life-or-death situation, and that’s setting off all my alarm bells.
Dad speaks softly to the driver in Russian. “Wait here. We won’t be long.” Then he pushes open his door and steps out onto the sidewalk.
What the hell does that mean? Is Dad already planning for me to have a full-blown panic attack? He probably thinks I won’t last more than ten minutes in a crowd.
He’s probably right, but it hurts anyway.
I stare at the big wooden doors. The steeple’s tall and pointed, crested with a bronze cross. We’re surrounded by old Philly architecture deep in Old City. Cobble streets, red brick houses. Lots of Colonial marble.
“Better move, Dash,” Evan says, his voice softer now. “The party’s probably inside, right? I bet they’ve got a big events space or something.”
“Yeah, right, you’re right.” But that doesn’t seem right. Still—I’m not going to embarrass everyone tonight. My chin’s up, my spine’s straight, and I’ve got this.
Be strong, Dasha. You’re not a mouse.
But another inconsistency bothers me. We’re Russian Orthodox—so why are we at a Catholic church?
I step out of the car and onto a sidewalk for the first time in a very long time. The buildings are so tall, bigger than I remember. The wind is cold as it breezes around my dress. I’m glad I wore sleeves, even though Evan thinks I look like a Little House on the Prairie freak, his words. Dad waits near the entrance, nervously checking his watch. He’s wearing the good one today, the expensive Piaget. The one he only puts on for special occasions.
Maybe it really is my birthday party.
I slip my hand into my father’s arm. He’s so big and broad. His dark hair’s graying now and going thin, but he’s still got that angry, tired look all the time. Dad works hard and dragged himself from a minor position in the Bratva to one of the pakhan’s most important advisors, running the illegal gambling wing of the business. He’s the only person I’ve ever trusted.
“Papochka,” I say, even though I haven’t called him that since I was a little girl. “What are we doing here?”
He stiffens. His face twists as though I stabbed him. “Dashenka, my love, have I ever asked you to do something you didn’t want to do?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you trust me?”
“With my life. But, Papa—”
“Then do this for me.” He leans in, voice quiet but firm. “Do this and know that there was no other way.”