Prologue #3
Benny’s quartet has shifted into a very upbeat rendition of a Bruno Mars song, and people are beginning to dance beneath the fairy lights on the terrace.
In the far corner, Mickey and Lars are laughing uproariously, surrounded by a group of equally raucous friends.
My parents are sitting on low lounges in the corner.
Their group includes Darya’s best friend, Abby, who is married to Papa’s closest friend, Dimitry; Zin and Luke; and my grandparents, Sergei and Rosa, who watch on benevolently as the others drink and laugh.
Most of the other people here are family, whether bratva or blood.
In our world, there isn’t a great deal of difference.
“When am I going to do my dance, Ofelia?” My sister appears in front of me. She’s wearing an ornate flamenco dress she had made especially for the occasion and her steel-capped velvet dancing shoes. Darya has wound her black curls into a tight, sleek dancer’s bun, which makes her eyes stand out.
Masha is only eleven, but dancing has given her an upright posture and confidence that has taken her from the mischievous child she was only a few years ago to the extremely forthright, unafraid girl who stares directly at me now.
“I think Papa wanted to make his speech first,” I say. “Are your musicians ready?”
“Si.” Masha nods imperiously.
As she’s spent most of her life in Spain, and all her spare time studying flamenco, Spanish is definitely Masha’s native tongue, unlike Mickey and me, who default to English or Russian.
“Lourdes’s father is the tocaor,” she says now, using the Spanish word for guitarist in the flamenco tradition. “His son Carlos will play cajón, and Lourdes and the other waitresses will make palmas. The drums and the clapping,” she says impatiently, when I look slightly confused.
“Of course.” I hide my smile. “Well, I’ll tell Papa to hurry up, then, shall I?”
“Si, por favor.” Masha looks around at the crowd, her brow wrinkling. “I will go find Alexei. He said he wanted to see me dance.” She gives me a slightly disapproving look. “You are not very nice to Alexei, Ofelia. You’ve hardly spoken to him all night.”
“I’m sorry, myshka.” I give her what I hope is a convincing smile. “I’ve been busy with my guests.”
“Hmph.” Masha gives me one of her increasingly penetrating frowns.
“You should be nicer. Lexi is my friend, and we hardly ever get to see him.” She turns in a disgruntled ruffle of skirts and crosses the terrace toward Alexei, calling his name over the sound of the crowd without any regard at all for decorum.
I watch her go, feeling guilt and affection warring inside me. As far as Masha is concerned, Alexei is a god who hung the moon.
She only remembers Alexei being our protector during the time the Orlovs held us captive. She was young enough to believe us when we told her that it was just a game, when Alexei held me down and took a knife to my flesh, an act we put on for the Orlovs.
She never felt the red-hot sting of the blade on her skin, the sudden rush of blood and pain.
She never knew how deadly the game really was.
Pushing the memories away, I catch my father’s eye and tilt my head toward the small stage. He barks an order, and the entire group surrounding him rises as one—attentive, as ever, to Roman Borovsky’s slightest instruction.
My father is a pakhan to the core. It’s what he has always been. What he always will be, no matter how clean his business appears these days.
The bratva is what I was born into. I don’t resent it, nor question it. I’ve seen enough to know that our world is not one that can ever be outrun, nor hidden from.
No matter how many piano solos I play, nor the international concert halls I might play them in, my family name and reputation will never be more than a simple Google search away. It’s the reason I have few friends, and a security detail no matter where I go.
It’s the reason that my sister and I were kidnapped five years ago.
And it’s the reason that contemplating any kind of future with Alexei Petrovsky is a special kind of insanity.
“So,” Papa says, coming to my side, “does this mean it’s speech time?”
“Relax, Papa.” I tweak his perfectly straight bow tie, making it crooked, but getting the satisfaction of seeing his expression soften. “It’s just a speech. And you don’t need to say much. Just thank everyone, congratulate me, and move on.”
“Ha.” He gives me a wry look. “Says the girl who spends half her life on a stage.”
“Oh, please.” I give him a sideways look. “Like you don’t spend half of yours giving speeches.”
“Ah, but my men are paid to listen to mine. And to pretend they like them.”
That makes me laugh. Papa puts his arm around me, pulling me close. “I wish Mikhail was here,” he murmurs and kisses the top of my head. “He’d be so proud of you, sweetheart.”
Emotion hits me out of the blue, a bittersweet mixture of longing and love.
Mikhail Stevanovksy, the man I grew up thinking was my father, died when I was twelve.
Roman, our godfather and his closest friend, has raised us ever since.
By the time we discovered that Roman is in fact my real father, I already thought of him that way.
Although I still miss Mikhail, I was never close to him in the same way I am to Roman, just as I’m closer to Darya than I ever was to Inger, my birth mother.
“Right.” Smiling at me, Papa smooths a stray hair back from my face. “Ready to face the enemy?”
We walk to the microphone, the string quartet dying down as we approach. The chatter fades, the crowd turning expectantly toward us, and Roman lifts the microphone, placing me just off to the side.
“Good evening,” he begins. “And thank you all for joining us in celebrating my eldest daughter’s twenty-first birthday.”
As the crowd gives a ripple of applause, I scan the watching faces. It takes me several passes of the crowd to find the one I’m looking for.
Alexei is standing at the very rear of the terrace, his silhouette backlit by the distant Alhambra. He’s alone, almost hidden in the shadows, his expression unreadable from here.
“I remember the day Ofelia was born,” Papa is saying. “Mikhail insisted I hold her. I’d never held a baby before, so I was terrified of dropping her. Then I looked down, and all I could think was that I’d never seen anything so utterly perfect in my life.”
I look at him in surprise. Papa is not given to emotional expression of any kind, and definitely not in public, which is probably why you could hear a pin drop in the audience.
“Of course”—he gives me a small smile—“I could never have imagined, back then, the perfect young woman standing before us tonight. Nor could I have known,” he says more dryly, turning back to the crowd, “that the terror I felt that day would only get worse as the years go by.”
There’s a soft ripple of laughter from the crowd.
“Fortunately for me,” he goes on, “Ofelia has made it easy for a very bad father to look like a half-decent one. She’s not only a wonderful daughter, but an incredible sister, loyal friend, and one of the bravest people I have the privilege to know.
And now, as she moves into the next stage of her life, Darya and I have no doubt whatsoever that she will light up stages around the world with her extraordinary talent. Ofelia, my beautiful girl.”
He turns to me, the uncharacteristically open emotion in his eyes bringing tears to my own.
“Becoming your father has been my greatest honor. Thank you for allowing me to love and protect you—something I promise to do for the rest of my life.” He pulls me close to his side.
“I love you, Papa,” I whisper, unable to stop the tears spilling down my cheeks, then redden as I realize the microphone transmitted my words to the entire audience, who give a collective sigh.
Papa gestures for Darya to join us on stage. “Please,” he says as he hugs her close, his voice not quite steady, “join Darya and me as we raise our glasses to our beautiful daughter, Ofelia.”
“To Ofelia!” the crowd repeats.
“I love you so much, darling,” Darya whispers as she hugs me, her voice catching. I clutch her hard, unable to find the words to answer.
As everyone drinks, my brother Mickey and his friends catcall from the back, making the crowd laugh.
“That,” says Papa dryly as the laughter fades, “is my godson, who had better lay off the Scotch if he’s hoping to get a party like this himself one day.” But the open affection in his voice belies his words, and Mickey calls back something that makes him grin in response.
“Now,” Papa goes on, “while we’re on the topic of lively offspring, Ofelia’s sister Masha has a performance she has been rehearsing for months. Myshka”—he gestures to the wooden stage that has been erected on the edge of the terrace—“the stage is yours, darling.”
The lights dim. As the low guitar starts, I turn toward Papa and Darya. “Thank you both so much.” I kiss them in turn. “Tonight is perfect, truly.”
“I’m glad.” Darya hugs me close again. “We’re so proud of you, sweetheart.”
Papa winks at me. “Just don’t try to ditch your security detail at the after-party.”
“As if.” I roll my eyes as I move away to stand nearer the wooden dance floor, my eyes automatically returning to where I last saw Alexei.
But he’s no longer there. In fact, I can’t see him anywhere.
A leaden feeling sinks inside me.
Has he left already?
Was it Papa’s speech, all that talk about loving and protecting me, that made him go?
Forcing a public smile, I try to ignore my gnawing tension as the musicians begin to play.
But if anything, the deep, intense strumming of flamenco only adds fuel to the fire.
After years in Spain, and long hours watching Masha practice, I’m familiar with the art form.
Juan, Lourdes’s father, is a master of the art.
His playing is rich and intricate, stirring something deep inside that makes me unable to do anything but feel the notes.
The audience falls completely silent as the guitar wends through the crowd, casting its magic over us all.