Stolen Names (Blood Debt #4)

CHAPTER 1

Pink Lights and False Names

The bass pulses through my bones like a second heartbeat, slower and steadier than the one racing behind my ribs. Pink light washes over my skin, turning the sweat on my collarbone into something that catches eyes, holds them, makes men reach for their wallets before their brains catch up.

I roll my hips in a figure eight, letting the music move through me rather than fighting it.

Seven years of this, and my body knows the choreography better than it knows how to sleep through the night.

The pole is cold against my palm as I grip it, using the momentum to spin, to arch, to become whatever fantasy the man in the front row needs me to be tonight.

He's easy. Mid-forties, wedding ring he keeps twisting like it burns, eyes that can't decide whether to worship or hate me for making him feel this way. I give him a slow smile, the one that says *I see you* without promising anything I won't deliver. A twenty appears in his hand. Then another.

Control. That's all this is. That's all any of it has ever been.

The song shifts, something with a heavier beat, and I transition into the next sequence of movements.

Around me, Club Velvet breathes with its usual Friday night energy—the clink of overpriced drinks, the murmur of men pretending they're here for the atmosphere, the sharp laugh of Destiny at the bar as she fleeces some tech bro out of his bonus.

I count the bills mentally as they accumulate at the edge of the stage.

Four hundred, maybe four-fifty by the time this set ends.

Another six months of this and I'll have enough.

Prague, maybe. Or Berlin. Somewhere the Morozov name is just another collection of consonants instead of a death sentence.

The thought of leaving makes my chest tight in a way I can't afford to examine. Not here. Not now. I push it down, let the music fill the space where fear wants to live, and finish my set with a move that leaves me inverted on the pole, thighs burning, smile fixed in place.

Applause. Scattered, distracted, but enough. I gather my tips with practiced efficiency, making eye contact with no one and everyone at once, then slip backstage before anyone can try to negotiate something I don't sell.

---

The dressing room smells like hairspray and desperation, but it's mine. Or at least, the corner with the cracked mirror and the lockbox bolted under the vanity is mine. I sink onto the stool and let my shoulders drop for exactly thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds. That's what I allow myself between sets.

Enough time to check my phone for the alerts I've set up—news feeds, social media scrapes, anything that mentions Petrova or the old organization.

Enough time to reapply lipstick and adjust the wig that turns my natural dark hair into something blonde and forgettable.

Katya Volkov. That's who I am here. Twenty-six, from nowhere interesting, dancing to pay for nursing school. The story is boring enough that no one asks follow-up questions. Boring is safe. Boring is alive.

My phone shows nothing new. No red flags, no whispered rumors, no indication that anyone is looking for the daughter of Sergei Petrova seven years after his spectacular fall from power. I should feel relieved. Instead, the absence of threat has started to feel like its own kind of warning.

"You're up again in twenty," calls Margo from across the room, her reflection catching mine in the mirror. She's counting her own tips, fingers quick and practiced. "Corner booth requested you specifically."

My hands still on the lipstick tube. "Which corner booth?"

"The one with the money." She shrugs, already losing interest. "Manager said he's been here before, always tips well, never causes problems. You know the type."

I don't know the type. That's the problem. In my experience, men who tip well and never cause problems are either hiding something or building toward something. Neither option ends well for girls like me.

"Did you see him?"

Margo's eyes meet mine in the mirror, and for a moment something like concern flickers there. "Tall. Expensive suit. Looks like he could buy the club and everyone in it." A pause. "Why? You know him?"

"No." The lie comes easily because it has to. "Just careful."

"Careful keeps you breathing," she agrees, and goes back to her counting.

I finish my makeup with hands that don't shake because I won't let them. The corner booth is visible from the main stage, which means I can assess the threat before I'm close enough to be trapped by it. I can work the room, keep moving, make sure there's always a path to the back exit.

I can survive this like I've survived everything else.

---

The moment I step back onto the floor, I see him.

He's in the corner booth, exactly where Margo said he'd be, and my blood turns to ice water in my veins.

Ilya Morozov.

I know his face the way I know the exits in every room I enter—obsessively, necessarily, because my life depends on it.

I've memorized every branch of the Morozov family tree, every lieutenant and cousin and enforcer who might recognize the ghost of Sergei Petrova in my cheekbones.

Ilya is the second son, the quiet one, the one who handles the things his brother is too visible to touch.

The one who, according to the rumors I've collected like insurance policies, has never failed to find someone he's been sent to find.

He's watching me. Not the way the other men watch—not with hunger or fantasy or the desperate need to possess something beautiful for a few minutes. He's watching me the way a predator watches prey that doesn't know it's been spotted yet.

Except I do know. I've always known this moment would come.

I force my feet to keep moving, to carry me toward the bar like nothing is wrong. My smile stays fixed. My hips still sway with the music. To anyone else, I'm just another dancer working the room, looking for the next tip.

Inside, I'm calculating distances. Twelve steps to the back hallway. Another eight to the emergency exit. My bag is in my locker with the go-bag I've kept packed for seven years—cash, passport, burner phone, everything I need to disappear again.

I can make it. I can—

His eyes meet mine across the room, and I watch recognition settle into his features like a key turning in a lock.

He knows.

---

The next two hours are the longest of my life.

I work the room because stopping would be suspicious, because running would confirm what he already suspects, because some desperate part of me still believes I can bluff my way out of this.

I dance for men who blur together, accept tips I won't live to spend, laugh at jokes that don't register past the roaring in my ears.

And through all of it, Ilya Morozov watches.

He doesn't approach. Doesn't try to get my attention. Doesn't do any of the things that would give me an excuse to have security remove him. He sits in his corner booth with a drink he barely touches, and he waits.

The patience is what terrifies me most. A man in a hurry makes mistakes. A man who can sit for hours, watching his target perform for strangers while he plans his next move—that's a man who's done this before.

By the time my shift ends, my nerves are so raw I can feel them scraping against my skin. I slip backstage, grab my bag, and head for the back exit with my heart hammering against my ribs.

The alley is empty. Dark. The fire escape two buildings down leads to a roof I've mapped in my mind a hundred times, a route that will take me to the train station where I have a locker with a second go-bag, a backup plan for my backup plan.

I'm three steps from freedom when his voice cuts through the night.

"Nadia Petrova."

My real name. Spoken in a voice like winter, like the frozen ground that swallowed my father's empire, like the death I've been running from since I was nineteen years old.

I turn.

Ilya Morozov stands at the mouth of the alley, his silhouette backlit by the street lamps. He's taller than I expected, broader, and he moves toward me with the unhurried confidence of a man who has never had to chase anything that didn't want to be caught.

"That name doesn't exist anymore," I say, and I'm proud of how steady my voice comes out. "You have the wrong person."

"No." He stops five feet away, close enough that I can see the pale gray of his eyes, the sharp angles of his face, the absolute certainty in his expression. "I don't."

"Whatever you think you know—"

"I know your father owed the Morozov family three million dollars when he died. I know you disappeared the same night, along with information that belonged to us. I know you've been running for seven years, and I know exactly how tired you must be."

The words hit like blows, each one precise and devastating. He's not guessing. He's not fishing for confirmation. He knows.

"What do you want?" The question scrapes out of me, raw and desperate.

Ilya studies me for a long moment, his gaze traveling over my face like he's cataloging every detail, every difference between the girl I was and the woman I've become. When he speaks, his voice drops to something almost soft.

"That depends entirely on you, Nadia." He takes one step closer, then another, until I can smell his cologne—something dark and expensive that cuts through the alley's stale air.

"You can keep running. I'll find you again.

Or you can come with me now, and we can discuss how you're going to repay your father's debt. "

"I don't have three million dollars."

"No," he agrees. "But you have something more valuable."

His hand comes up, and I flinch before I can stop myself. But he doesn't touch me. His fingers hover at the edge of my jaw, close enough that I can feel the heat of his skin, and his eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"You have information. Contacts. Seven years of survival skills that most people never develop.

" His voice drops lower still, intimate in a way that makes my stomach twist with something that isn't entirely fear.

"And you have my attention, which is either the most dangerous or the most valuable thing you'll ever possess. "

I should run. I should scream. I should do anything except stand here, frozen, while a Morozov enforcer tells me exactly how thoroughly he owns my future.

Instead, I lift my chin and meet his gaze with every ounce of defiance I have left.

"And if I refuse?"

Ilya's mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile. "Then I stop being patient, Nadia. And neither of us wants that."

The pink lights from the club's sign catch the edge of his face, casting him in shades of rose and shadow, and I realize with horrifying clarity that he's beautiful. Beautiful like a blade. Beautiful like the moment before everything falls apart.

"I need time to think," I say, because it's the only card I have left to play.

"You have until tomorrow night." He pulls a card from his pocket, presses it into my palm. His fingers brush mine, and the contact sends electricity sparking up my arm. "Same time. Same place. And Nadia?"

I wait, my heart in my throat.

"Don't run." His voice goes cold, all trace of softness vanishing. "I've been looking for you for three years. I will find you again. And next time, I won't be asking nicely."

He turns and walks away, disappearing into the night like he was never there at all.

I stand in the alley for a long time, his card burning against my palm, and wonder if I've just made a deal with the devil or been given a chance to survive.

Either way, Katya Volkov died tonight.

And Nadia Petrova has no idea what comes next.