Chapter 1 #2
I only make it two steps outside before my stomach seizes beyond my control and forces me to retch against the crumbling brick exterior of the building.
Biba’s thug mutters what can only be a string of Russian curses, judging by his disgusted tone.
As I wipe my mouth with my hand, I hear the door slam shut behind me before the lock clicks shut.
Why am I not surprised? Of course, it would be too much to ask for a napkin or a sip of water.
And on top of everything, it looks like I have to find my own way home from this shady Brooklyn neighborhood.
I want to bang my fists on the glass door, screaming and raging until Biba comes out and realizes his mistake, but that won’t happen.
For starters, my arms are too shaky to pound on anything.
Then there’s Biba. He’s a spineless, malicious virus of a man who infects everyone around him with toxic cruelty.
He won’t relent until he gets what he wants.
I hate him, and that hate is utterly meaningless because he holds all the cards.
Does he?
My mind goes silent as the suggestion sinks in. I do have at least one other option: the police. This is modern-day America. People don’t get to own other people. Law enforcement is here to protect us from men like Biba, but they can’t do their job if we don’t report a problem.
My feet intuitively take me in the direction of the nearest subway stop while I try to convince myself that the authorities can help. They’ll keep us safe if I can summon the courage to do what’s right.
With a renewed flare of hope energizing my pace, I take myself to the nearest police station.
I hardly notice anyone or anything around me until I see a flash of my reflection in the mirrored glass of the entry.
I do a double take of my splotchy cheeks, wispy tangles of strawberry-blond hair—heavy on the strawberry—flying in every direction, and a pair of wide eyes with way too much crazy staring back at me.
They’re going to think I’m a lunatic.
They’ll think you’re upset, and that’s okay. You have a right to be flustered when the head of the Russian freaking Mafia is after you.
I nod to my inner voice—a cherry on top of my cray-cray Sunday.
“Excuse me,” I say to a man at the reception desk. “I need to speak with someone to report a crime.”
He spares a glance my way, totally unimpressed with my appearance. “Take a number. You can wait over there with the others.”
I look behind me at a packed seating area.
A number? This is a police station, not a butcher’s shop.
I tear off a paper number and retreat to wait with the others for my turn.
I try not to overthink what I’m doing when I catch sight of a series of portraits of officers in uniform.
Above them is a sign saying Wall of Honor.
These are the men and women who have died in the line of duty.
A fist plows deep into my gut when I see a face with wide blue eyes. Eyes that will never see again. The man was a cop, and now he’s dead because of men like Biba who aren’t burdened by the constraints of laws or morals.
How can I expect the law to protect me when they can’t even protect themselves?
This is a mistake. A huge mistake. I have to get out of here. Now .
The numbered paper in my hand drifts to the floor as I shoot to my feet and rush to the exit.
I don’t even care that I look schizophrenic running from the building.
My urgency to disappear overrules all other thoughts, which is how I end up shoulder checking a man as I flee out the front entrance onto the sidewalk.
I may have run into him, but I’m so much smaller that I take the brunt of the collision.
I whirl nearly all the way around, and my tote bag flies off my shoulder, scattering half its contents onto the filthy concrete sidewalk.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” I say without even looking at the poor man I’ve assaulted. I’m too flustered and horribly embarrassed. Instead, I lunge forward to collect all my crap off the ground at the same moment he bends to do the same, causing our heads to knock against one another in the process.
“Fucking Christ ,” he snaps the surly curse as I blurt ouch , finally bringing my gaze to the man in front of me.
With my hand on my now throbbing head, I take in the Roman God of a man and am suddenly so overwhelmed with the absurdity of my life that a peal of hysterical laughter forces its way past my lips.
Not an infectious sort of joyful laughter.
This is a half-crazed, might-actually-be-crying sort of laughter because the man opposite me is the most stunningly beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
The angular lines of his face are carved in perfect symmetry, something the artist in me is quick to notice and recognize for its rarity.
He’s dressed in work attire—a crisp button-down shirt and slacks that fit his athletic frame as though made to his precise measurements.
His aristocratic brow and sharp jawline look right out of Hollywood.
And those lips—such perfectly full lips even when pursed as he glares disapprovingly at me.
My eyes rise to his dark glare as I confirm that he definitely is not seeing the humor in the situation. His scrutiny sobers me faster than dumping an icy bucket of water over my head. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. You, on the other hand, seem to be far from it.” His scathing jab sends a pink flush to my cheeks.
“I can’t help it,” I say in my defense. “Sometimes life is so absurd you just have to laugh.” I squat and pick up my makeup bag and two tampons. Of course, the tampons managed to escape.
My disgruntled victim collects my ChapStick, phone, and a few other random items before standing and studying them in his hands. “If by absurd you mean unfortunate, failing to take your problems seriously won’t improve the situation.”
Heavy drops of rain begin to splat down on my proverbial parade. I don’t like it. Not one bit. This day—no, this week —has been hard enough, and I don’t need this man’s judgment making it worse.
I take my things from his open palms with a tad more aggression than I should. “Actually, it does make things better. It lifts my mood. And sometimes perspective and outlook are the only things we can control. It’s better than wallowing.”
The words are forceful in a way that I’m proud of. I stood up for myself, which I’m not always great about doing.
He stares at me, our eyes locked in an inscrutable battle of wills. “You’re not wrong,” he finally concedes, “but you’d feel a lot better if you changed more than just your attitude.”
Okay, it’s time to get out of here before I punch this guy. Where does he get off giving me advice when he knows nothing about me?
“Some problems have no solution,” I say, desolation creeping into my voice as the weight of my troubles crashes down upon my shoulders.
“No solution, or just no easy solution?”
Why on God’s green earth am I engaging this man? This eerily gorgeous, maddeningly blunt man who somehow holds me captive in his fathomless brown stare?
Come on, Dani, let’s go home. Forget him.
I clutch my bag tighter and lift my chin before marching past him, checking his shoulder again, but this time, the attack is 100 percent intentional, and I hold his stare to make sure he knows it.
I’m not sure I’ve ever done anything so brazen in my life.
I’m feeling rather proud of myself until the man’s voice brings me to a lurching halt.
“Danika Dobrev.”
My name. How the hell does he know my name?
I look over my shoulder to see him holding my ID card. My freaking ID with my name, birthdate, and home address.
Will the delights of this day never end?
His inscrutable gaze lifts to mine as he holds out the card between two fingers in offering. When I return and try to take the card from him, he retracts his fingers, denying me.
“Is it a man?” he asks with an edge.
“Is what a man?” I have no idea what he’s talking about, so the question throws me for a loop.
“The problem with no easy answer.” His eyes take a swift glance at the 13 th Precinct sign beside us. “Were you here to report someone?” This time, his calculating stare looks me over as if trying to glean an answer from my outfit.
“No,” I snap before grabbing the card from his hand, but I don’t get far when his other hand clamps around my wrist. I gasp in disbelief that this wild confrontation is happening, and in front of the police station, no less.
My wide eyes collide with his, then follow his gaze to my hand, where I notice red paint stains on my fingers and under my nails.
I’m always covered in paint, so I don’t even notice it anymore.
But this man noticed, and he thought it might be blood.
My blood. He thinks I’m here to report an assault or abuse, and I get the sense he’s livid on my behalf.
All my indignant irritation evaporates, leaving me physically and emotionally drained.
“It’s paint,” I say softly. “My problem is a man, but not like that.” I gently tug my wrist away from him, and he lets me go. “Look, I’m sorry for everything. It’s been a rough day.”
I flash a weak smile and give him one last look before walking away for good. I’d wonder what he must be thinking, except Biba’s horrific ultimatum looms with such catastrophic potential that nothing else even registers.
An arranged marriage to a violent criminal or refuse and risk the lives of the people I love.
It’s an impossible choice. Even the mere thought breaks my heart until I can feel pieces crumbling away and trailing behind me like breadcrumbs to a past where life was worth living.