Fastlane

Prologue

Nadia

Seventeen Years Ago…

My father taught me how to hold a knife before he taught me long division.

“Again.”

The blade slipped in my hand from the rain. Frustration burned behind my eyes, but I adjusted my grip exactly as he showed me without complaining. Complaining annoyed him, and I wanted him proud of me more than I wanted air sometimes.

We stood deep in the woods while cold rain hammered through the trees around us. Mud soaked through my sneakers. My fingers hurt from the freezing temperature, but Anton Stonyanov never seemed bothered by the weather. Or pain. Or anything human, really.

“Too loose.” He said calmly behind me.

“If someone grabs your wrist, they disarm you immediately.” I tightened my grip.

“Better.”

That single word made warmth bloom inside my chest. Pathetic. Even at ten years old, I already understood love felt a lot like earning scraps from starving hands. My father crouched beside me and adjusted my elbow with careful precision.

“You are small.” He said, making me frown.

“I know.”

“No.” His expression stayed unreadable.

“That is an advantage.” Rain poured harder while distant thunder rolled across the mountains.

“People underestimate girls.” He continued quietly.

“Especially soft-looking ones.” His eyes settled on me fully.

“That makes them careless.” I looked down at the knife in my hands. The silver blade reflected lightning briefly.

“You must never allow people to mistake softness for weakness, Nadezhda.”

The way he said my name always sounded different than everyone else’s, heavier and more important. Like he was reminding me of something I didn’t even know. I nodded once.

“Good.” He stood smoothly and offered me his hand.

“Again.”

So I did it again. And again. And again.

Until my hands blistered and my shoulders ached and rainwater soaked completely through my clothes. My father never once raised his voice. Never needed to. Everything about Anton Stonyanov carried control sharp enough to cut skin. Finally, sometime after dark, he lowered the practice knife.

“Enough.” Relief nearly knocked me over. Until his hand settled briefly against the back of my head. Gentle and rare enough to feel holy.

“You learn quickly.” He said quietly.

If I could’ve wept, I would’ve. Because that tone? That softness? That meant more to me than birthdays, toys, school, or anything else in the entire world. I looked up at him carefully.

“Are you proud of me?”

The question escaped before I could stop it. It was stupid to go looking for praise, but the words had already come out. For a second, silence stretched between us while rain rolled steadily through the trees. Then, my father smiled faintly.

“Yes.”

That single word wrapped around my ribs and stayed there for years. Back then, I thought pride looked like love. I didn’t understand yet that monsters can love their children too. Sometimes? That’s what makes them monsters in the first place.