01
Just across the office, there was a slat between the furniture, wide enough for a single small person to be concealed, shrouded by darkness. I was still five, with enough space to move around in the slat, when I saw something that would haunt me from that day forward.
Pop.
A heavy thud echoed behind the closed door, hostage to the rapid pounding of my heart. The oak doors were opened to reveal a crumpled heap on the floor — a man — crimson blood pooling around his head and soaking into the plush Persian carpets.
They replaced the carpets the next day.
Later, I curled up into my sister, on her bed, her hand softly weaving through my fox-brown hair as she wove it in a single French braid.
“Did you know,” I mumbled, “that there was a dead man in Papa’s office?”
Ana’s hands stilled. I felt her shake her head slowly, and turned to find her soft green eyes wide. But as quick as her shock came, it was gone. Her hands started lacing through my hair again. And all she said was, “Mama warned you to stop watching scary movies, Freya.”
I didn’t stop. Watching scary movies or listening in on my father’s meetings.
“One of our informants has been missing for a month.” One of Papa’s men spoke. From my hiding spot, I kept my breathing silent. “Lennon Blanca.”
“Lucky?” Papa said. He was quiet for a long time, then. I don’t know if he was angry. I wouldn’t even consider that he was scared. I’d never seen him scared. “He won’t speak.”
The informant was silent.
“I trained that boy myself,” Papa insisted. “He won’t speak.”
I heard things. Terrible, horrible things. But by far, the most fascinating of his stories was of a sixteen-year-old boy with his own men. The first time I heard of him, Papa’s voice was tinged with something unrecognisable. Something like dread. “You say Salvatore no longer runs Costa operations?”
“The boy has been running it since he turned sixteen,” Sergei, my father’s most trusted advisor followed, stoically. “He was still a child when he was Made — eleven. He’s stronger than his father. Smarter.”
“I heard he can sniff out fear,” Dimitri, another one of Papa’s men, said. “Like a real hellhound.”
I relayed this story to Ana, too, but she only said, “People can’t smell fear, Frey.”
At night, I often dreamed of waking up on a blood-soaked carpet only to be chased by a hound. No matter what I did, how many times the dream replayed, the hound never shook off my scent.
Soon, Ana had begun to believe me. Because there were more men, and many more carpet replacements. Maybe my father got less and less discreet at the hiding. Or maybe we just got older. Either way, I soon learned the truth about the family business.
And I was about to find out just how unfair it all was.
I’m sixteen now, and Ana is still braiding my hair. I never learned to do it as well as she could. In fact, there are many things she’s infinitely better than me at — art, fashion, and cooking, to name a few.
In the world we live in, asking for Prada is less indulgent than asking for love. That doesn’t stop my sister. We’re upstairs again, in her room, watching another one of her rom coms. Today, it’s How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.
“Come on, Ana,” I mumble, butter popcorn flying everywhere as I dive my hand into the bowl before unceremoniously shoving it into my mouth. “There’s no way you actually believe in this stuff.”
She makes a face at my obnoxious chewing, waving a hand. “Shhh. It’s starting.”
I chip at my black nail polish absently, not paying attention to the screen.
Ana had made me watch this movie about thirty times.
It’s her favorite, along with The Princess Bride.
With long, wavy blonde hair and the biggest green eyes, Ana is a real-life Rapunzel.
If people could be things, then she was sunshine.
Maybe it’s her blind optimism that’s the most beautiful. She lives with her heart on her sleeve and her eyes on the screen. She never curses, always folds her legs when she sits, wears bright colors, and flashes that pearly white smile like it’s currency.
We’re polar opposites.
It’s the day of Ana’s eighteenth birthday, and I’m high on pink-iced birthday cake when Papa storms into the house after missing most of the celebrations. His rough voice booms up the stairway. “Anastasia!”
I should’ve known better than to ignore the shiver running down my spine. Or the crazed look Papa had in his eyes. Instinctively, my hand goes to the heart locket around my neck, as I draw a thumb over the polished silver.
Ana’s perfectly plucked brows furrow as she glances my way, chewing on her inner cheek. I reach for her hand, not missing the way her pulse hammers in her wrist.
Born as a girl into the Russian sect of one of New York’s crime syndicates, our fate was dictated for us the moment we were out of the womb. We both knew that we might be forced into decisions. We could only hope the day wouldn’t come.
But come it did. Knocking on the door dressed in a well-fitted Armani suit. And the more I think about it, it was less a polite knock and more a violent rupture through solid oak, burning down everything in its wake.
I know the cause. I know it all too well. The name hadn’t left Papa’s office since the day it was first mentioned. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, acid running through my veins.
Torren Costa.
Our father is a powerful man, but somehow, he’d made debt big enough that it could only be paid with a life. And not his own — his eldest daughter’s.
Mama is quick to tug a dazed Ana aside, pulling her out of my hold and up to her room.
The lines on Papa’s forehead are more prominent than ever, and his dress shirt is wrinkled, tie askew. I can make out the cigarette box in his suit pants. He promised he’d never smoke again, he was never really good at keeping promises.
The birthday cake churns in my stomach, a burning reminder that Ana had only just turned eighteen. “This can’t be real.”
And I don’t have to speak the words for him to understand them. He stays silent.
“Papa.” My voice grows anxious. “Tell me this isn’t real. Tell me it’s not what I think it is.”
But he only sighs, running a tired hand over his face. “You will understand when you are older, lisenok.”
Ana might be two years older than me, but she’s na?ve. Soft. The Costas will devour her whole. The thought is a violent blow to the chest. I picture his bloody fingerprints all over my sister’s body — my worst nightmares given flesh.
No.
I swallow. “Let me take her place.”
His eyes flash with anger. “You are still a child.”
I hold back a scoff. Despite the fact that the very core of their business was rooted in crime and broke countless laws, they wanted to keep things legal.
I should’ve known he would never allow me to take Ana’s place. I’m Freya — Papa’s favorite, cherished, protected, and allowed all the freedom in the world.
Papa had gifted me a normal life. I was allowed to attend high school and college. But no one outside could know the truth. To the public, Yuri Morozov only had one daughter — Ana.
Who’s already behind Mama, gliding down the staircase in a champagne silk dress, her blonde curls pinned back into a low bun at the nape of her neck.
Some curled strands are loose, framing her face. Just a smidge of mascara, lip butter and blush, like she was instructed to retain her glowing youthfulness.
There’s no way this is happening. I have to do something to stop it — but I need time…
My sister passes me a small, reassuring smile, and the warning bubbles up my throat. “Don’t do it, Ana.”
“Freya,” Papa warns.
Mama flashes her icy eyes at me. “You will stay far away from the office. Swear it, Freya, or so help me God.”
I stay silent.
Mama rolls her eyes, turning to my sister.
“Don’t listen to her,” she whispers. “They will give you everything you want.”
“Everything except for freedom,” I spit.
“Freya!” Papa shouts, heated anger echoing off the house walls. I flinch. Apparently that was his breaking point. “Dostatochno! Komnata. Seychas.”
I would’ve fought him on it. Should’ve fought him on it. But Sergei rounds the corner, alerted from the sound of Papa’s raised voice, gun in holster to check on trouble.
Trouble is me, and I know that no matter how much I choose to fight, they will always win. Sergei might look old, but he can’t deceive me. Under that pristine suit is a cold-blooded killer, loyal to my father and my father alone.
Papa and the men who belonged to him hold the power in this house. And the men who don’t belong to him hold the rest of the power in the world.
In the end, I don’t trust my mouth, so I only nod stiffly.
Another steady knock at the front door breaks the silence in our house. I should’ve known it wasn’t him that was knocking. Most likely one of his soldiers. He would never ask before walking in. Never beg before taking.
Papa’s face pales slightly, but he tugs on his white collared dress shirt and raises his chin. He pauses to turn to me. “Room. Now.”
I stay rooted to the spot, and Ana catches my gaze, beckoning me forward. “Go, Frey.”
Frustrated, I don’t move an inch, but Ana passes me an insistent, almost desperate look. So I angle my body and take a step back.
Sighing, Ana follows Mama to the office like the obedient daughter she always is, her champagne-colored heels tapping delicately on the marble floor. She turns back to me for one fleeting moment. “Everything will be alright. I promise.”
Clenching my jaw, I nod. Then, I pretend to walk to my room, and instead turn to the place I haven’t visited in a while. And there I slip, back in the shadows. Five years old all over again, watching through the slats.
Mama and Ana are seated so I could see their backs. Papa enters with a man and I only catch a glimpse of his back. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. He’s tall and lean, black suit well-fitted over his broad shoulders. His dark hair is short, faded with a precise hand.
Torren Costa.
His gaze flickers to Ana’s frame, and he offers her a mere moment’s worth of consideration, before he looks away.
As if my sister isn’t one of the most beautiful girls in the city.
As if she isn’t enough.
Ana’s head sinks slightly, and Mama places a comforting hand on her lower back. Some girls get gifts and jewellery for their eighteenth birthday. Ana is getting a loveless marriage contract.
Something dark twists in the pits of my stomach, permeating every pore of my skin. And I know, with maddening certainty, one thing and one thing only: I hate Torren Costa.
I hate him.
I chant it like the men in Papa’s office whisper their blood oath.
I hate him I hate him I hate him.
Conjuring up the most foul, acrid curses I could, I aim them at him.
And as if he could read my mind from five feet away, Torren turns to frown at the closed door in front of me. I only catch his side profile, and it’s hideously perfect.
“Your men outside carry some nice ammo…” he taunts.
My heart skips a beat. Distorted by space, his voice is deep and clear, lilted with the faintest Italian accent. Self-assured and confident, it pulses through my core, an unfamiliar heat making space for itself and settling there greedily.
Papa grunts. “I have a family to protect. Unlike some.”
Mama glares at Papa for the snide comment, and Ana stares wide-eyed at Papa like she’s never seen him before. I’d be surprised too, if I hadn’t been listening in on Papa’s conversations for years.
I often wondered which version of him was true. The sugar coated one he showed us, or the blackened, soulless creature he was in his office.
Something vicious jumps in Torren’s jaw, but he huffs an amused breath. “Family. Right.”
As if he can feel my burning gaze on his shoulders, Torren’s head tilts to the side. This is the second time he senses me. And I can swear, that in the corner of his eye, he sees me. Knows I’m here. No matter how irrational the thought is.
My heart hammers in my chest, and it takes every instinct I’ve honed into not to traipse over myself. He looks forward again. Straight at Papa. “I thought we were friends.”
My father’s thick jaw is tight. “We are.”
A blatant lie. Papa hates the Costas. And they hate us. We were close to a war five years ago when the Costas mysteriously drew back.
Now, even though he’s surrounded by Morozovs, Torren doesn’t have a lick of fear in his stance. Slowly, too slowly, he says, “Are you hiding something from me, Yuri?”
My skin is lit with gasoline, and I try to slow my rocketing heartbeat. There’s no way he knows I’m here. Hidden away. Papa never even found me. Dimitri’s words flash in my head, like red lights at a crime scene. Hellhound.
Papa shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but I don’t miss the beads of sweat collecting at his forehead. “I have nothing to hide.”
I can almost hear the upward tilt of Torren’s lips. “Hm.”
He doesn’t have to say the words for them to be understood. You have everything to hide.
Wordlessly, Torren slides the manila envelope across the glass desk to Papa, who just stares at the devil across him. Torren’s voice drips with condescension. “You know how this works.”
A deep frown mars my face. He didn’t even deign to look at Ana more than once, and now he still wants to move on with the contract?
Papa takes in a deep breath, like there’s only so much disrespect he can handle before he blows up. He moves slowly, pen in hand, eyes shifting over the documents.
My heart floats up to the top of my throat as Papa’s hand hovers over the dotted line.
Mama rubs a hand over Ana’s back, a hollow smile on her face as Papa signs away her daughter’s life.
And just like that, the deal is struck.
Ana is betrothed to the devil. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
Later that night, I lay awake. A rustle at the door startles me, but it’s only Ana, illuminated by the ivory moonlight shining through my windows. Still in her silk dress, she looks like fairy.
Ana spins in her iridescent heels to face me before kicking them off, slipping into the bed. I shift over, sheets ruffling as she climbs in, and we both lay side by side in silence before she chooses to break it.
“I’ll be okay, Frey.”
A soft spoken omen in the dark. I don’t say anything for a moment. Then, “You don’t know him.”
“He’ll be good to me. You’ll see.”
And even though I’m sixteen and Ana’s eighteen, her optimism makes her years younger than me. I don’t have it in me to fight her, but the words she leaves unspoken hang like a bitter reminder in the air.
Even if she can somehow coax kindness from the devil, it will take a miracle for him to give her what she truly wants.
Tracing the heart-shaped locket on my chest, I make a promise to myself. It may be a man’s world, but I will never subject myself to its violence and lechery.
To marriage, where women go from being her father’s property to her husband’s property. Given away in exchange for resources. Alliances. Status.
I will never accept a fate like my sister’s. I will never take a man’s name, and I will never marry.