Chapter 6
Alyona
My phone buzzes just as I’m stepping off the bus, shoulder aching pleasantly from the weight of my bag and my brain already half shut down from hours of practice heads and clinical lectures and being very careful not to mess up someone else’s face.
Late morning light bleaches the sidewalk, too bright, too honest, and when I see my father’s name on the screen, I sigh before I even answer.
“Liev.”
“Alyona,” he says, warmth layered over disappointment like he’s learned how to sound casual through effort. He asked me years ago to call him Dad, I refused only once, and he hasn’t bothered asking again. “I was hoping I’d catch you.”
“I’m walking home,” I say, which is my way of signaling that I’m tired and not emotionally available for whatever this is.
“That’s fine,” he replies quickly. “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
That lands heavier than it should, and I tighten my grip on my phone as I head toward my apartment. He does that sometimes, says things that sound like closeness without quite earning it, and it makes something sore and complicated twist in my chest.
“I’m fine,” I tell him preemptively. We both know that today hurts.
“I know,” he says, too fast. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” I repeat, softer this time, but angry tears are gathering at the corners of my eyes. They fatten as I turn my head. Why can’t he just leave me alone?
There’s a pause, and in it I can hear everything he isn’t saying, all the years he missed, all the conversations we never had because he left when my mother was pregnant and decided distance was easier than accountability.
Left us in Europe while he flew here, to New York and then Savannah, with Kazimir Baranov.
I don’t bring it up. I never do. Some silences have calcified into something permanent.
“Well,” he says eventually, clearing his throat, “I was thinking we could have dinner tonight. For your birthday.”
I stop walking.
“Oh,” I say. I thought he’d already given up on this a long time ago. Memories start to flood my mind. My first year here, raw and grieving, pushing a cake to the floor, not knowing me enough to get me a proper birthday present, and the silence he gifted me instead. “You don’t have to…”
“I want to,” he insists. “Twenty-five is important.”
Important. The word makes my chest ache.
It’s sharp and sudden, because twenty-five is the age my mother bought our first little townhouse in London.
She should be here to mark this milestone with me.
There is a hollow place inside me today that I haven’t acknowledged out loud, and I won’t, not to him.
“I’m really tired,” I tell him. “I had school all morning, and I worked late last night.”
There’s another pause, heavier now. I can picture him frowning. He hates that I work at The Foundry. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him when I accepted the job, but it had been an act of defiance. How long ago that seems now even though it was only nine months.
I feel older, tired, and worn out.
“Dinner doesn’t have to be late,” he says carefully. “We could go somewhere nice.”
“I don’t need nice,” I reply, annoyance creeping in despite myself. “I just want to go home.”
“I miss you,” he says quietly.
The words knock the breath from my lungs, and I hate that they do, hate that some small, traitorous part of me wants to lean into them instead of bracing against them.
I want to be alone, I tell myself, ignoring the small sliver of my soul that wants the exact opposite.
That part wants a father I can go to and be wrapped in a hug.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, which is a compromise I’m not sure I mean.
Before he can respond, I hear another voice faintly through the phone; deep, but unmistakable. It’s low enough that it almost feels like it’s vibrating against my ear. It's rough honey and hot iron.
“Bring her to Common Soul.”
My stomach drops.
The sound of Kazimir Baranov’s voice does something to my nervous system, sharp and immediate. I have to stop myself from swearing out loud.
Even if I can’t have you, Alyona, you’ll always be mine.
The memory of The Foundry two nights ago, coupled with hearing him unexpectedly feels like a tether. It’s like a leash running through the phones which connect to a collar around my neck. That feels, as I suck a breath in, disturbingly like his hand.
“That’s Kaz,” Liev says, unnecessarily. “He thinks—”
“No,” I say automatically. “Absolutely not.”
“Alyona,” Liev starts, but Kaz says something else in the background. It’s too low for me to hear it, and there’s a brief murmur before my father speaks again. I stop on the street, people flowing around me, straining to hear more. I want more.
“He says it’s quiet during the week,” Liev continues. “And that he can arrange it.”
Of course he can. Common Soul isn’t just expensive; it’s the kind of place people whisper about, the kind of restaurant that doesn’t list prices and doesn’t take reservations unless your name carries weight.
I’ve seen it online, all candlelight and marble and impossibly elegant plates.
It’s a world so far removed from mine it might as well be fictional.
“I don’t belong there,” I say flatly.
“You belong wherever you want to be,” Liev replies stiffly. There’s an edge to his voice, the Vor v zakone coming through. Even now it’s strange to me that my father is a part of this underworld. He’s probably killed men with his bare hands or put a bullet in their heads without fret.
Has Kaz? I wonder. That feeling around my throat tightening at the memory of his hands on me comes to mind. It shouldn’t turn me on that a killer made me come, but…
I close my eyes, pressing my fingers briefly to my forehead. This is turning into exactly the kind of emotional tug-of-war I don’t have the energy for today.
“Fine,” I say, exhaling. “But I’m bringing a friend.”
“Of course,” he agrees immediately, relief evident. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
We settle on a time, and when the call ends, I stand there for a moment longer than necessary.
My thoughts are now tangled and unsettled.
I don’t like that Kaz’s voice lingered with me after the line went dead.
I certainly don’t like how aware I am of him after days of trying to push him out of my head.
I call Devin as I walk quickly toward my apartment. She picks up on the second ring.
“Happy birthday to me,” I say when she answers.
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “Is it happening?” For the past three years of knowing her, I’ve resisted any kind of celebration she’s suggested.
Devin’s always down for a party, and I’m a major buzzkill.
I’m a stay-in-and-drink-whiskey kind of girl.
I’m a sucker for those real estate shows and bad reality TV.
“It’s happening,” I confirm. “You get to come to dinner with me and my dad.”
“Hard pass,” she says immediately then adds, “Unless—”
“It’s at Common Soul.”
There’s a shriek on the other end of the line. “I’m in. I don’t care if your dad is a vampire.”
Getting ready takes longer than it should.
The clothes in my closet are suddenly a minefield of things that feel wrong on my body.
Everything I try on is too tight, too shapeless, or looks like I’m trying too hard.
I don’t tell myself I’m dressing for Kazimir, but I know I am.
The awareness hums under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch.
There’s no way he’s coming anyway; he merely suggested Common Soul. Right?
Devin shows up halfway through the disaster and quickly loses her patience with me.
I changed three times before she plops onto my bed, surveying me critically. “You look hot,” she declares. “Stop spiraling.”
“I don’t,” I argue weakly. “I look… like me.”
She snorts. “Which is hot. Also, if the silver fox is there, I want you armed with confidence.”
“He won’t be,” I say quickly. “He just suggested the place.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, unconvinced.
When I toss another top to the side, Devin stands up, sighs, and stomps over to the closet. She gives me a gentle nudge to get me to move out of the way, but it’s with an encouraging effort. “Why don’t you do something with your hair? It’s so luscious, and you barely ever touch it!”
She digs through my things as I turn on my curling iron and wait, running through a Googled list of “thick blonde hair” suggestions.
Eventually I manage to curl my bangs just right and pile everything else on top of my head, leaving a few whisps to hang down; simple, but a little elegant.
Two art deco earrings later, Devin makes a sound of approval and emerges from the depths of the closet.
“This!”
“No,” I say immediately, crossing my arms. “It’s too tight—”
“Where?” she asks, eyeing me and then the dress. “Try it on first, then I’ll be the judge. Cute hair by the way.”
I roll my eyes, but know her well enough to know she won’t let it go until she sees how ridiculous this dress looks on me.
It’s a plum color, simple, an off-the-shoulder look that gathers at my waist and hugs my hips to just above my knees.
I haven’t worn it in years because one day in particular it was way too tight and a guy at a club scoffed at me. Hence, its place in the back corner.
Surprisingly, when I put it on and glance in the full-length mirror, I don’t hate it.
“Aly, this is perfect,” Devin gushes, giving the waistline a little tug to position everything. “Seriously. Your collarbones are killer, and your freckles!” Her fingers skim my shoulders, and I can’t help smiling.
“Really? I don’t know, Common is so…”
“Uncommon,” she laughs, picking through my shoes quickly until she finds a pair of strappy gold heels. “But no, really, I think this is understated and elegant. You look great. He’ll love it.”
Shooting me a wink, she ignores my gasp of incredulity and snags her purse. “We’re going to be late!”
She’s not wrong. I hurry behind her, torn between a clutch and a sling bag, landing on the clutch.
By the time we arrive at Common Soul, my nerves are shot.
The interior is exactly as intimidating as I imagined.
The dark wood and soft golden light complement the people standing around.
They look like they belong here especially when the candlelight flickers over their gorgeous faces.
Greenery that looks like the moss hanging from the branches of centuries old trees hangs from the ceiling, and ivy climbs the bricks.
I scan the room automatically, not expecting to find him.
And then I do.
Kazimir’s dark and intent eyes are already on me. His presence anchors a private table like it was built around him, and the world tilts just slightly as the reality settles in.
He’s here.