Chapter 2
ANNA
Every single nerve in my body screamed to run.
A tall, muscled man with a Russian accent tinged with a hint of British, ink visible beneath tailored suit cuffs, did not walk into a hole-in-the-wall, vintage music store in Georgetown in the middle of the afternoon.
Something was wrong.
Behind him a trio of goons stood right outside the front door, blocking the quickest way to freedom.
I could run upstairs, but then I would be trapped.
There was a back door but that wasn’t much better since it only led to a bricked-up, dank back alley.
My best option was out that front door.
“Are you interested in buying an instrument, or perhaps some vinyl?” I asked, praying my voice wasn’t shaking with fear.
“I prefer classical music, but I’ve been told I need to experience the controlled chaos of American jazz.” His words were calm and controlled. Was I overreacting to this situation? “I hear it is best experienced on vinyl.”
My mother always accused me of overreacting. Maybe she had a point.
I did have a flair for the dramatic.
“It’s best experienced live,” I responded.
He was just a customer, nothing more.
An attractive and imposing customer, but still just a customer.
I’d pick out a few albums and he’d leave.
“But if that is not an option or maybe a little too much out of your comfort zone, then vinyl is a close second. Was there a particular artist or style you were hoping to hear?”
I clasped my hands behind my back, not wanting him to see me tap the tips of each of my fingers on my thumbs to calm my nerves. A trick one of my mother’s staffers taught me when I didn’t want to stand next to her on stage while she gave a speech.
That staffer was nice. She didn’t last long. They never did, around my mother.
I couldn’t shake the feeling I was in danger, and yet he hadn’t even stepped further into the store.
He’d kept his distance. Deceptively so. As if he were trying to lull me into a false sense of security.
Dammit. Stop. Overdramatizing.
Ugh, this whole thing was made so much worse because it was my mother’s exasperated, always annoyed voice delivering those words in my head. In the same tone she used when she wanted to be sure I knew that even simply acknowledging my existence was a drain on her patience.
His dark gaze raked over me. “What would you recommend?”
My arms tightened against the sides of my ribs to keep me focused on his words rather than the frisson of unease they caused.
He was just a customer. A customer. A nicely dressed businessman asking about jazz.
Nothing more.
I stepped forward to show him a few options, then froze. He was blocking the narrow aisle.
He stepped back, his courteous smile seeming to indicate he was doing me a favor. But his eyes never changed, completely unreadable, and his body still filled the aisle. He was pretending to give me space while taking it all.
As if he were luring me into a trap.
I pressed myself as close to the rack as possible and slipped past him. Even making myself small, my hip still brushed against him.
Heat shot through me—pure adrenaline, nothing else.
Yes, he was handsome in a dangerous way: tailored charcoal suit, neatly trimmed beard touched with silver, icy blue eyes. But attraction wasn’t an option. Not to a man who made the very air bend around him.
I definitely did not notice the curve of his bottom lip, the blade-sharp line of his jaw, or the expensive cologne laced with a whisper of scotch.
Men like him—men who owned a room just by existing in it, who didn’t need to flaunt money to prove they had it—did not make my heart stutter. They did not make my knees feel like water.
And I certainly didn’t catch the edge of a tattoo peeking from beneath his collar. I didn’t wonder what the rest of it looked like or imagine tracing the lines with my fingertips…or my mouth.
No. This wasn’t attraction. It was fear.
Something about him was wrong.
He didn’t belong here.
The male customers who came in here smelled like weed and Axe body spray—or clove cigarettes and stale coffee.
They came in because they were into vinyl before it was cool or were looking for some rare collectable as a gift, or they were musicians who appreciated vinyl’s tonal difference.
This man wasn’t any of those things.
So why was he here?
I didn’t believe for a second it was because of a newfound curiosity about American jazz. Maybe if he had asked for a copy of the “Imperial March,” or something Tchaikovsky composed, I wouldn’t question it.
Hell, I’d even buy that he was looking for some Magnitizdat tapes. We didn’t have any, but there were always collectors looking to score rare Soviet bootlegs.
But American jazz? Spotify would have been faster, and this was not the kind of man who wasted time.
No, he was here for something. Something that had nothing to do with the music.
My stomach tightened.
Could it be…her?
I wasn’t na?ve about my mother or her career.
She wasn’t the humble civil servant she pretended to be.
She was an openly crooked politician available to anyone with a checkbook.
Various industries had her in their back pockets.
So did a couple of slimy manufacturing or service conglomerates.
I’d long suspected that even organized crime had a piece of her.
It wasn’t like it would be a stretch. If the devil himself made her an offer, she’d ask for cash up front.
She didn’t care who died from her policies—collateral damage didn’t vote and certainly didn’t donate.
That was why I kept my distance. That, and the constant reminders I was a disappointment, a failure for dropping out of college and refusing to trap a billionaire heir into marriage.
So now an imposing Russian man stood in my store, watching me with the intensity of a freaking coiled snake and I was almost certain it traced back to her.
Maybe she wanted to scare me into compliance.
Maybe she finally screwed over someone she shouldn’t have.
The world narrowed to my own heartbeat. I pressed my fingers into the record sleeves, grounded by the soft edges of the cardboard. Something solid. Something here.
Breathe. Focus.
My thumb flicked over the glossy album covers, too fast, pretending interest I didn’t feel.
He was just an incredibly hot dad visiting Georgetown, touring the campus.
Killing time.
My pulse didn’t buy it.
People had accents, even savagely sexy Russian ones. My fingers faltered over a sleeve.
People had tattoos, even businessmen. Hell, half the city was inked.
I swallowed hard, flipping the next record like it could flip my thoughts with it.
Not everyone was a threat.
Not everything was her fault.
I forced my shoulders down and pushed my ribs out, trying to pull oxygen into my lungs.
He was just a customer.
And I was just a girl pretending she wasn’t terrified.
“American jazz is actually a huge genre,” I said, focusing on my job again.
“If you usually prefer classical, I would recommend something a little more precise, something with more orchestration. Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue would be a good option.
It’s very minimalist and is structured like a symphony, so it’s a perfect bridge for classical listeners.
“Or you might like the Dave Brubeck Quartet. Their album Time Out has some weird time signatures that classical listeners either love or hate. It’s very cerebral and mathematical. If you like the logic and the rhythm of classical music, this would probably be your best option.”
I loved talking about music. How it lingered, clinging to memories, to loss, to heartbreak, to joy, to every moment that ever mattered. How one song, played at the wrong or right time, could undo you… or save you.
There were so many options, and even though jazz had never been my personal favorite, I still loved helping people discover artists. After about five or six recommendations, I realized I was rambling.
He just stood there politely, listening to what I was saying and even looking at the records occasionally, though his eyes were mostly on me…watching me…studying me.
Of course, he was studying me.
I was the purple-haired girl who was seconds from crying all over my guitar while singing a song from Waitress.
He either thought I was crazy or ridiculous…both were probably right.
“Were you thinking something clean in the composition? Or gritty? Or”—I swallowed—“something that hits you right in the chest?”
I kept my eyes glued to the crates, flipping vinyl with careful precision. If I turned around, he’d knock the breath out of me again.
I listened instead. Waiting for a footstep, a drag of leather sole, the hiss of suit fabric. Anything that indicated he was still where I left him.
“What were you singing earlier?”
His voice came from right behind my shoulder. Too near.
My fingers spasmed around a record sleeve, nearly bending it.
When had he moved? I’d been listening.
It was unnatural. To move without a hint of noise. Who needed that kind of silence? Soldiers. Spies. Criminals. People trained to get close before you even knew they were coming.
Heat radiated through the thin cotton of my dress.
His presence large enough to press against my spine without touching me.
Heat burned my cheeks as I tucked a curl behind my ear. I couldn’t believe he had listened to me sing. I only sang and played when no one else was here, which was most of the time. The small shop didn’t get the same amount of foot traffic it used to.
“It was ‘She Used To Be Mine’ by Sara Bareilles.”
“You have a beautiful voice,” he murmured.
He let the words hang between us, a velvet snare, waiting to see how I’d react.
I forced my jaw to unlock. “Thank you,” I managed, the words brittle.
His breath hovered just close enough to remind me he could close the distance whenever he wanted. “You sing like someone who doesn’t want to be heard…but can’t help being noticed.”
The sharp edge of the egg crate holding a stack of vinyls bit into my palm.
He didn’t know me.
He couldn’t know me.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” My voice came out steadier than I felt.
A pause.
The kind predators gave prey, just long enough to appreciate the way it tensed. “It will,” he said.
The three men at the entrance hadn’t budged.
A group of grungy college kids drifted up to the door, laughing, reaching for the handle—
—until one of the men leaned in.
A few quiet words.
Whatever he said, it wiped the smiles clean off their faces.
They backed away fast. Then ran.
The door stayed shut. The street moved on.
And I was still here.
Trapped with three human barricades and a silent Russian shadow pretending to browse.
Outnumbered.
Cut off.
This wasn’t me overreacting.
This was real. This was happening.
I was in danger.
And I knew just who to blame…
The problem was, my mother wouldn’t care if I vanished.
She might even prefer it.
And when this man realized I wasn’t the leverage he came for—what then?