Unhinged

CHAPTER 2

RUTHIE

I wipe down the bar top for the hundredth time.

“You know,” Zoya says thoughtfully, tipping her head to the side. “It’s really okay to only wipe that down like fifty times. It’s a bar, Ruthie, not an operating room.”

At nineteen years old, Zoya Kopolova is easily the youngest one here. Petite with dark brown hair and warm brown eyes, she makes the room feel warmer, the crowd friendlier.

“That’s what you think.” My voice is flat but my lips quirk up. “If you knew what truly happened at a bar, you’d realize it’s not as far from an operating room as one might think.” Here, hearts are broken and mended, pasts buried and surfaced. Here, couples meet and break apart. I have seen it all, and sometimes fancy myself part therapist, part miracle worker.

The Wolf and Moon isn’t a popular bar for young adults, but an older bar with worn wood and comfortable seats saved for regulars. We’re filled to near capacity on weeknights and weekends are barely tolerable.

There are trendier places for the younger crowd to go, but Zoya chose here. She was always what my mother called “an old soul.”

“Refill, please,” Zoya asks sweetly, pushing her empty glass to me.

“Haven’t you already had two?”

Zoya is everyone’s younger sister. I can’t help it.

“I’m fine,” she says, an adorable divot forming between her brows. “Hey. Seriously. The better question is, how are you?”

“Fine,” I lie.

I’m here, aren’t I? The truth claws at my throat. We don’t need to talk about the sleepless nights, the anxiety attacks, the memories that surface like ghosts when I least expect it.

I hate working here now. Every time I set foot in the place, I remember everything that happened that night in sordid, nightmarish detail.

“How are they?” I ask Zoya quietly, not meeting her eyes. She knows exactly who I’m talking about.

I haven’t seen Vadka or my nephew in weeks. Months, even. I can’t. It’s too damn painful, and honestly, I feel like a piece of shit because of it. Who abandons their dead sister’s husband and child?

Me, that’s who.

But it kills me, every time, to look at little Luka and see my sister’s eyes. To see the raw pain in Vadka that mirrors my own.

“Luka is great,” Zoya says quietly. “He likes to play with Stefan.”

“Ooh. Perfect.”

Stefan’s sister Anya married into the Kopolov family.

“Stefan is so good with him. Honestly, they all are.”

A lump rises in my throat. I know. It was one of the things my sister Mariah loved best about the Kopolov family, the family she married into by proxy. Found family. Immediate extended family for her son. Something neither of us could ever offer him.

“And Vadka?”

Zoya looks away for a moment, not replying. I hate how sometimes no reply is a reply.

My heart aches and unbidden tears spring to my eyes.

“I don’t know about Vadka,” Zoya says softly, her face pained. She bites her lip as if she’s said too much.

“What?” I lean in closer. “What are you talking about?”

It’s been three months.

An eternity.

Yesterday.

“Well, he—he’s not doing so well after Mariah’s death is all. He took it hard.”

How could he not? He loved her since they were both still children. They grew up together, married, bought a house and had a child. And they were smitten. Madly in love. I didn’t believe in fate until those two met.

My nose tingles and my throat aches.

I can’t think of this now. I have work to do.

So I turn halfway to the side so Zoya can’t see me, even though I can’t hide the husky tone of my voice. “Yeah? What’s he doing?”

Zoya shrugs a shoulder. “He’s kind of gone… well. Rogue, I guess you’d call it? If he wasn’t Rafael’s best friend…”

Rogue?

What?

My stomach knots.

“Well, is he taking care of Luka?” I ask sharply. My pulse feels too rapid, and there’s a strange ringing in my ears.

Zoya flinches. “Yes, he said he hired a nanny or something? And Luka starts school in a few weeks, so…”

He does? How did I not know that?

My heart hurts. I have to check in on them. I have to. I turn fully away from Zoya to compose myself.

And that’s when I see her. Corner table. Too young and too pretty for her own good, wide-eyed but… brittle. Next to a man leaning in too close. His knuckles are tight, whitened around the glass, flirtation barely covering aggression and violence.

I’ve seen this type a hundred times before. Once is too many.

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Her fingers worry the napkin. Damn it.

I know that look. I’ve worn that look. And my sister did, too, though never because of Vadka.

I’m kind of grateful for the distraction.

Without breaking stride, I cross to the stack of clean glasses behind the bar. Grab a fresh one, just like I’m minding my own business. I wink at her behind his back and jerk my chin to the women’s restroom. Her eyes widen before she sits up straighter.

Inside every stall and plastered to the wall of the women’s restroom is our safety protocol: a number to text if you’re in trouble, or an order a woman could place. An “angel shot” means I need help.

I watch her excuse herself and head to the restroom. I nod to Zoya, who’s watched the whole exchange. With a smile at me, she heads to the restroom a few seconds later.

Zoya loves helping a woman in distress, and she’s good at it. Rafail, her older brother, would lose her mind that she’s anywhere near a potentially volatile situation.

I watch the man tap his fingers nervously on the table, his jaw twitching, before he glances to the side and deftly pulls something from his pocket. Bingo. Son of a bitch slides the pill into her drink so quickly, anyone would’ve missed it if they weren’t expecting this exact fucking move.

Thank fuck. You can’t save a girl who doesn’t want to be saved, and she hasn’t called foul yet. But it’s against the law to drug someone, so this asshole’s just bought himself a ticket to hell.

Pulse racing, my hands stay steady enough to type a message to security.

Table six. Drugged the drink. Pull him

The response is almost instant. Seconds later, four of our bouncers close in. I watch the man stiffen, his gaze jerking up.

“Problem here?” Anton asks.

The man’s face drains of color. “No, I’m fine.”

Zoya exits the bathroom, the young woman behind her.

“Wh-what’s happening?” She stammers.

“This piece of shit tried to drug you, darling,” I say to her, my voice bright and sharp. “But not tonight.” Before he can respond, Yuri hauls the man up by the collar and slams him into the side of the booth.

“You think we’re blind here?” Yuri spits out.

“Yuri.” My tone is tight. “Take him to the back before the Kopolovs hear about this.”

Rafail’s instructions are clear: anyone drugs a woman at the Wolf and Moon, we tell him and Vadka pays a visit.

My heart beats faster. I know exactly what will happen if Vadka catches wind. It isn’t the man’s life I’m worried about, but I don’t want Vadka to get into any more trouble.

Rafail wants word to get out that predators aren’t welcome in his city. Letting Vadka loose sends a loud, bloody message: This place is protected. Women here are under our watch. You try anything, you disappear. Reputation management through fear.

Rafail doesn’t do it out of kindness. He’s protecting his assets. His city. His reputation. But it makes him look like a protector, and he’ll take that image—especially when it’s Vadka's fists that do the talking.

Yuri hesitates, glowering at me. He wants to see Vadka deal with this motherfucker.

Sigh. So do I. But not tonight.

“ Go, ” I snap. I’ve got company protocol on my side, and Yuri doesn’t want to lose his job.

I turn to the girl. Her hands are shaking as she clutches her purse to her chest.

“You okay?” Zoya asks softly. She comes up to us as the rest of the bar goes back to their drinks.

She nods fast. “Y-yes. I think. I?—”

Zoya places a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. You’re not the one who owes anyone an explanation. Do you have someone you can call?”

The girl nods and swallows.

Zoya guides her to a quiet table. The bar holds its breath, watching the scene unfold, before glasses clink and voices pick up again.

I resume my work, filling orders, when my phone buzzes with a text. I expect it to be from Anton, telling me the predator’s been handled. Handled means he won’t be back. Handled means tonight, the predators don’t win.

But it isn’t Anton.

My heart thumps hard when I see Vadka.

My thumb hovers. My pulse doesn’t.

Stupid. It’s just a name. Just a man.

Just a man with hands that could crush skulls and a voice that commands attention.

Just a man who loved my sister.

I go back to pouring drinks like my hands aren’t shaking, trying to get my shit together. Like I’m not already answering him by pretending I haven’t seen it.

Finally, when there’s no one else to serve, I sigh and open the text.

Vadka

You hiding something from me, Ruthie?

I close my eyes for a beat, already tasting the fire in his words. He didn’t fuck around before Mariah was gone, and now that she is, any semblance of politeness has vanished.

My heart beats faster and my hands are immediately clammy. Which one of those bastards ratted me out?

I handled it without you needing to add another tat to the collage, Vadka.

The Bratva mark actions with ink. He doesn’t need another murder. Not on my watch.

Vadka

You deprived me from the chance of putting a predator in the ground? Why?

“Excuse me? Anyone here to take a drink order?”

“Be right there. Sorry, we had a bit of a commotion just now I had to handle.” I serve the three young women standing by the bar before I text Vadka back.

Because you have a son and I won’t let my nephew be motherless and fatherless.

Now my hands are shaking.

Son of a bitch.

I put my phone away and ignore the rest of the texts.

I ignore the real reason I don’t want him here tonight.

Four hours later when the bar’s finally closed for the night, I still have the nighttime routine to complete but I pull open my phone to check my texts.

I blow out a breath. I don’t think so. I have work to do. He can wait.

I run through tomorrow’s prep work and wipe the bar again. Clean enough for surgery now.

Vadka

You underestimate me.

Oh, no, I don’t. That’s the problem.

I grab a broom and sweep the floor, mindlessly pushing crumbs and dust into a pile. I sweep aimlessly, trying to get the job done.

I considered leaving the bar after Mariah’s death, but this is the place I call home, and I hate to think I’m such a wuss I couldn’t stand the pressure. Seriously. I’m an adult.

I turn my back to the bathroom, to the place that reminds me of Mariah. I can’t think back on that night. No, not now.

I told myself that if I kept coming to work, if I kept putting one foot in front of the other, I’d eventually erase the memory of her vacant eyes and Vodka’s screams of pain and devastation from my memory.

But I can’t.

So this time, I don’t try to. I face the vacant room and the whisper of Mariah’s ghost. I let the tears fall silently and don’t bother to wipe them.

“Why you?” I whisper into the stillness. If it had to be a random person, why did the universe have to pick my sister, the woman who was married and in love, the woman with a child? Why her? Why sunshine in human form, and not me?

I was the one who was alone, childless, and barely lovable. I was only a bartender. Single, and probably would be for life. I had no children, and even my mother, god bless her, would look at me through the haze of dementia and still call me Mariah.

Why not me?

I choke on a sob and let my shoulders sag.

Why? Why am I still here and the only person I’ve ever loved more than myself, erased from existence forever?

Why?

My phone rings. I hiccup through a sob and glance blearily at the screen.

Mom.

I let out a ragged breath and answer the phone.

I let myself hope that this time, she’ll remember.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Mom. Mom, it’s me. You called me, remember?”

“Ohhh,” she says, and I cringe at what I know is coming next. “Mariah, honey, can you please bring me some groceries?”

“It’s not Mariah, mom. It’s Ruthie,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut against the pain that chokes me. I don’t say the next sentence that’s on the tip of my tongue. I don’t have the energy to explain it again. I don’t have it in me to make anything harder again.

It’s me, mom.

Mariah’s gone.