Chapter FIFTEEN
Nora
"Red would look so good on you!" I tell Nataly, who has prom in a few days and has been agonizing over dress colors for the better part of an hour.
I don't know why I ever assumed people in the underworld couldn't have something close to normal lives.
Nataly's seventeen. Graduated a year early, valedictorian of her class, has a stack of college acceptance letters that would make any parent proud.
But she also started stitching up bullet wounds for her father at sixteen.
She was born into this. Raised in it. It's the only normal she's ever known.
I had a lot of prejudice walking in here, I'll admit that now. And to be clear—I'm not excusing any of it.
It's awful.
It's immoral.
It's dangerous, every single day.
But it's growing on me anyway. I love the women here.
Even with Slava's threats hanging over every interaction they have with me, they've gone out of their way to include me anyway.
I love wandering three floors down when I'm bored out of my mind and finding an entire crew of people ready to pull up a chair for me.
I love having a chore that fills me with purpose, endless corners of this place I haven't explored yet—even though I occasionally stumble across a blood stain someone forgot to clean.
I've always had firm moral lines. But here, with him, everything gets blurry until I can't find the line anymore at all.
It's bad.
Somewhere deep down, I always assumed I'd eventually run.
Find my moment, take it, and disappear. But it feels impossible now.
Impossible to imagine leaving these women behind.
Impossible to imagine leaving men who've sworn their lives to keeping me safe.
And especially impossible to imagine leaving Slava, who I love.
Who I am, if I'm being completely honest with myself, addicted to.
I don't understand myself anymore. I still think this whole world is an abomination against everything I was raised to believe. And somehow I also can't picture my life without it now.
"Can you do my nails for prom?" Nataly asks, snapping me back into the room.
I force a smile. "Of course. What color are we thinking?"
She scrunches her nose, thinking it over. "I don't know. Surprise me?"
"How about French tips?" I offer, already reaching for the file.
"Yes! I've always wanted to try those." She bounces in her seat, and this time my smile is real.
I'm disappointed in myself, honestly, for how easily I've let my own rules go. I never even asked what happened to the man I brought home that night—Luca, I think his name was. I prefer not knowing.
I love Slava. I love him enough now that I don't know if I could survive trying to leave a second time.
The first time nearly broke me.
Leaving now, after everything he's handed me, after the community I've somehow built inside a house full of killers—that would be a thousand times harder.
Ada settles into the chair beside me while I'm still smoothing polish over Nataly's nails. She's the wisest person in this entire building, and in the two weeks I've been here, we've become very close.
She glances at Nataly with a warm smile. "Sorry, sweetheart. Can you give us a moment?"
Nataly pouts but obeys, holding her hands out in front of her, admiring the fresh polish as she heads for the door.
"What's wrong?" Ada asks the second we're alone.
"Nothing," I lie, already halfway out of my chair. "Come on, they've probably started dinner by now."
Her hand closes around my elbow and pulls me right back down, her grip surprisingly strong for a woman her age.
"I have been with this Bratva since before Slava was even Pakhan." She smiles, settling in. "I changed that man's diapers myself when he was still in them. He hates when I bring that up."
I laugh, picturing Slava's face if he walked in on this conversation right now.
"And I need you to hear something," Ada says, her smile fading. "In thirty-three years, I have never once seen that boy look at another living person the way he looks at you."
My heart soars, and I look away. "I love him too. So much it terrifies me some days. But Ada—this is too complicated for me. I'm not—I don't think killing people is okay. I don't think any of this is okay. The drugs, the guns, any of it."
Ada sighs, rubbing two fingers against her temple. "I understand you more than you think, dorogaya. But you should know now, before it goes any further—he will never let you go. If that makes any of this easier to carry, hold onto it. But please. Please do not break that man's heart. He—"
The sentence dies mid-air by the crack of gunfire.
Then more.
Then screaming—high, panicked, multiplying, women's voices, boots pounding against floors.
Ada's hand clamps down hard around my wrist. "Down," she hisses, pulling me beneath the counter. "Get down. Now."
This is my nightmare. And it’s happening.