Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
I RINA
Mexico, six months later…
The humidity in Cancun doesn't just stay stagnant, it clings to you like a desperate lover you’ve been trying to dump for months.
I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, the salt stinging a tiny scratch on my knuckle.
Outside the tinted glass of Oasis del Sol , the Caribbean is a flat, mocking sheet of turquoise.
Tourists are out there drinking watered-down margaritas and getting sunburns they’ll regret by dinner, but inside, the air conditioning is cranked high enough to preserve a corpse.
It’s been six months. Six months of being Elena Sokolov.
Six months of kneading the knots out of the shoulders of middle-aged men from Ohio who have no idea that the woman touching them was once destined to be the Queen of the New York underworld.
I’m not the best at being a masseuse. Honestly, my technique is mostly just aggressive poking fueled by ten years of suppressed rage, but the pay is in cash and the location is a goldmine for the kind of information that doesn't end up on Google. In this world, the powerful talk when they think the help is invisible. And I’ve become very good at being invisible.
I’d like to say I’m enjoying this life, but at least I’m not married to a mad man.
"Elena? Stop staring at the ocean and get the lavender oils ready," Sofia, my boss, calls out as she bustles past the reception desk.
She’s a sharp-eyed woman who knows I’m lying about where I came from, but she likes my "firm hands" and the fact that I don't gossip with the other girls. In this town, a woman who can keep her mouth shut is worth her weight in gold.
"I’m on it, Sofia!" I call back, my voice smooth, the Russian accent I hide softened into something unidentifiable.
"Don't give me that look," she adds, pointing a manicured finger at me. "You look like you're plotting a murder again. Smile. It’s good for business."
"I am smiling," I mutter, though the muscles in my face feel like they’re made of lead. "On the inside."
I head toward the staff breakroom, my heart picking up speed. It’s Thursday. Mateo should be here.
I slip into the dim room, the scent of stale coffee and cheap floor cleaner replacing the hibiscus-scented air of the lobby.
Mateo is leaning against the vending machine, looking perpetually confused with that scar through his eyebrow.
He’s my only link to the world I left behind, a low-level runner who knows how to navigate the murky waters of international private records.
"Mateo," I whisper, my eyes darting to the door. "Please tell me you have something."
He sighs, a heavy, defeated sound, and taps a cigarette against his palm, though he knows he can't light it in here.
"Elena, I told you. The leads you gave me, they lead to a dead end.
I checked the registries in Mexico City.
I checked the private hospitals. There is no record of anyone being transferred under that name ten years ago. "
Not again, I’ve been searching for so long…
I feel like someone just tipped a bucket of ice water down my spine.
"The record exists, Mateo. My father doesn't lose things.
He doesn't make mistakes. If he said there was a transfer, he meant he buried the paper trail so deep the devil couldn't find it.
Search the Jersey files. Look for anything that looks too clean. "
"Do you know how dangerous it is to even say that name out loud?
" Mateo hisses, finally looking at me, his eyes wide with genuine fear.
"The Russians in this territory... they don't play, chica . They don't have a sense of humor. If they think I’m digging into Petrov business, I’m dead before the sun sets. And you? You'll be right next to me."
I step closer, my stubbornness bubbling up, hot and sharp. "I’ve been dead for six months, Mateo. I’m living in a one-bedroom shack that smells like damp wood and rubbing oil on strangers until my wrists ache. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve earned this. You’ve got to help me find them."
"I will try," he mutters, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. "But don’t count on it, it’s like this person doesn’t exist at all.”
He slips out the back door without another word. I stay there for a moment, my forehead pressed against the cool glass of a soda machine. Six months. I’ve spent every spare peso, every waking hour of my "freedom," looking for any trace of what I lost.
I will find what I am looking for. I must.
The grief is a dull ache in my stomach, competing with the physical reminder of the scar hidden beneath my white tunic. My father’s gift to me.
A sharp rap on the doorframe makes me jump. Sofia is standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, a look on her face I don't like.
"Elena? I thought I sent you in here for lavender oil five minutes ago."
I scramble, my face heating up as I reach for a blue bottle on the shelf. "I know, I was just... I was checking the inventory on the eucalyptus too. We're running low."
"Forget the inventory," she says, her expression shifting from annoyance to something greedier. "Your shift was over, but a client just walked in. He didn't want anyone else. He asked specifically for you."
I freeze, the air in my lungs suddenly feeling thin. "Specifically? I don't have regulars on Thursdays, Sofia. You know I like to leave on time."
"He said he heard you have the 'firmest hands' in Cancun," Sofia says, sliding a thick roll of bills onto the counter. It’s more than I make in a month, easily.
My eyes widen at the sheer volume of cash.
"He’s in Room 4. He paid for the premium package, and he told me I could keep the change if I made sure you were the one to handle him.
He didn't seem like the type of man you say no to. "
My stomach does a slow, nauseating roll. "I don't do 'special' requests, Sofia. I’ve been very clear about that since the day you hired me."
"He didn't ask for that," she says, though she looks a little worried now, her gaze flickering to the hallway. "He just... he looked like a man who gets what he wants. He’s big, Elena. And he’s rich. He’s in Room 4. Go. I’ll pay you double for the overtime.
Think of it as a bonus for being so popular. "
I stare at the money. I think of Mateo’s face, of the Jersey records, of the one I can’t find because I don't have enough leverage to make people talk. I need the cash. I need every cent if I'm going to find him.
"Fine," I say, my voice a bit too sharp, my stubbornness winning over my instinct. "But if he so much as breathes on my neck, I’m walking out. I don't care how much he paid."
"Just give him the massage, Elena. He looks like he could use the relaxation. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in a week."
I grab a bottle of neutral oil and head toward Room 4.
The hallway feels different now—longer, narrower, as if the walls are leaning in to watch me pass.
The scent of hibiscus is suddenly cloyingly sweet, like the perfume at a funeral for someone you didn't particularly like.
I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair under my cap and adjusting the collar of my tunic.
I push the door open. The room is bathed in a low, amber light from a few flickering candles. It smells of sea salt and something else—something cold, metallic, and strangely familiar that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
A man is lying face down on the table. He’s massive. Even under the white sheet draped over his waist, his shoulders are a broad expanse of hard, defined muscle. He’s a landscape of power, his skin tanned and stretched tight over a frame that looks like it was built for war.
I stop. My breath hitches in my throat.
Tattoos snake up his arms, peeking out from beneath the headrest. I can see them in the dim light—intricate, dark designs. I see serpents. I see stars. I see the brutal, geometric language of the criminal underworld.
What in the world is a man like this doing… here?
Is he Bratva? Probably. Cancun is crawling with Russian pigs looking for a place to wash their money and bury their sins.
I’ve seen dozens of them in the last six months.
They usually smell like cheap vodka and expensive cigars.
But they don’t come into the massage parlor. This one... this one is different.
Nobody found you. You’re just Elena. A girl from nowhere with nothing to hide.
I stand there, the door handle still warm in my hand. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to turn around, to walk out, to run until my lungs burn. But then he moves. It’s a slow, languid stretch of his neck, and that’s when I see them.
Scars.
Long, jagged white lines across his lats. They aren't from an accident. They’re the kind of marks left by a knife held by someone who knew exactly where to cut to cause the most pain.
Oh my goodness, what is going on??T6 I start before I immediately stop myself. Stop it, Irina. Stop overthinking.
I tell myself it's just business. Just a Russian thug who tracked down a rumor of a girl with "firm hands."
"Are you going to stand there all night, senorita ? Or are we going to begin?"
The voice is muffled by the headrest, his face buried in the hole, but the vibration of it hits me like a physical blow to the chest. It’s deep, rough, and carries a cadence that travels through the air and vibrates in my very marrow.
A jolt of electric heat zips down my spine, leaving my skin tingling in a way I haven't felt in. .. ever.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. I can't run. If he’s who I fear he is—just another Russian looking for trouble—running will just turn this into a game. And I’ve seen enough of those games to know that the predator always enjoys the chase.
"I apologize, sir," I say, my voice steady, my "Elena" mask firmly in place. I move to the counter to pour the oil. "I was just checking the lighting. Would you like the deep tissue or the Swedish?"