Lucia's Lovers

Chapter One

LUCIA

I was eighteen when I was dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, still wearing my nightgown.

I remember the cold floor beneath my bare feet. The hem tangling around my legs as I struggled to keep up. Dmitri, my stepfather, standing in the hallway and watching them take me.

His hand rested on my younger half-sister’s shoulder while she sobbed beside him. Aniya clutched the sleeve of his robe with both hands, as if she believed he might still do something.

He never tried to stop them.

I haven’t spoken to either of them since.

That was nearly six years ago.

Six years of living beneath the roof of my step-uncle, Viktor Mikhailov.

Viktor’s power lies north and east of the city, in warehouses, trucking yards, and businesses that rarely carry his name.

But his Beacon Hill townhouse is the kind of house in a respectable neighborhood that tourists stop to photograph. Tall windows. Black iron fencing polished to a shine. Inside, every room is filled with marble, crystal, and furniture no one is allowed to sit on comfortably.

It’s beautiful.

It’s also a cage.

Nothing happens here without Viktor’s permission. Not a telephone call. Not a walk outside. Not even an open window.

I lie back on a lounge chair in the private courtyard, pretending to enjoy the first truly warm day of the year.

The house rises around three sides of the courtyard, its tall windows reflecting the sky and making it impossible to tell which rooms are occupied. Gray stone pavers hold the afternoon heat beneath my chair. Eight feet of red brick separate me from the narrow street beyond.

Ivy climbs one side of the wall, trimmed before it can grow thick enough to conceal anything useful. A Japanese maple shades the far corner, its leaves the deep red of drying blood.

Beyond the wall, Boston moves without me.

A truck rattles over uneven pavement. A horn sounds somewhere on Mount Vernon Street. People talk as they pass, their voices close enough that I can almost make out the words.

They have no idea I’m here.

Ivan stands several feet away, scanning the windows and neighboring rooftops while I search for a way out.

I’ve been searching for two years.

I’ll be twenty-four in less than two months, and lately I’ve begun to fear that I’m running out of time.

For most of the last six years, Viktor has kept me hidden. My world has consisted of these walls, the housekeeper who helped raise me, and whichever guard has been assigned to watch me.

Usually Ivan.

Then, three months ago, things changed.

Viktor began inviting me to dinner.

At first, the dinners took place here at the house. I sat at the end of a long table beneath Ivan’s watchful eye while Viktor’s guests studied me over their wineglasses.

Later, Viktor began taking me out in public.

Business dinners. Private rooms in expensive restaurants. Dresses selected for me and delivered without price tags, each one more revealing than the last.

I’m not stupid.

Men don’t hide a young woman for six years and then parade her in front of their associates without expecting something in return.

Whatever Viktor is planning, it isn’t for my benefit.

I study the courtyard wall again.

The brick is old but meticulously maintained. No cracks. No gaps. Nothing wide enough for my fingers or toes. The trees on the other side might hide me if I could reach them, but the wall is too smooth to climb without help.

A frustrated breath escapes me.

Ivan looks over.

“What?”

I shade my eyes with one hand and smile at him.

“Nothing. Just enjoying the weather.”

I close my eyes and turn my face toward the sun.

Heat settles against my skin. A strand of dark hair clings to the damp curve of my neck. For a moment, if I ignore the wall, the watching windows, and the armed man standing beside me, I could be anywhere.

Ivan huffs.

“You know I don’t like the heat.”

I don’t have to look at him to know he’s tugging at his collar.

“You could wear something more appropriate for the weather.”

“Warm-weather clothing doesn’t hide guns.”

Guns, not gun.

Ivan always carries at least two. Sometimes he wears a third, which he once referred to as his backup’s backup.

I open one eye.

“It’s not as though they’d arrest you for carrying. They know what you do for my uncle.”

“Don’t call him that. He doesn’t like it.”

I lift my hand higher so I can see him properly.

“So don’t tell him I said it.”

I can’t hide my smirk.

Viktor is technically my step-uncle and no blood relation to me—a fact he reminds me of whenever I displease him.

Ivan mutters something beneath his breath and returns his attention to the rooftops.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, sestrenka.”

He always calls me his little sister.

Once, I found the nickname comforting. Now it feels like another locked door.

“Maybe I like dangerous games.”

“You don’t know what you like.”

His attention remains fixed on the house across the courtyard.

The words land harder than he intends.

He might even be right.

I haven’t been allowed to make enough choices to know what I like. I know which books I prefer and how I take my coffee. I know I hate the color pink because Viktor selected an entire bedroom of it for me.

Beyond that, I’m not sure.

I gather my hair from the back of my neck and twist it over one shoulder. Then I stretch my arms above my head and smooth my white tank top over my stomach, tucking it more securely into the waistband of my yellow skirt.

I lower the back of the lounge chair and roll onto my stomach.

The movement sends my skirt higher over my thighs.

I pretend not to notice.

It’s practiced—one of the few games available to me—and I know the moment it hits its mark.

“Lucia,” Ivan hisses. “Your skirt.”

“What about it?”

I nestle my head between my folded arms and fight a smile.

“For God’s sake.” He mutters something in Russian before switching back to English. He knows I prefer it. “If your uncle sees—“

“I thought he wasn’t my uncle.”

“Please, Lucia. Don’t make me adjust it for you.”

I glance back at him.

His jaw is tight, but his eyes are fixed on the windows rather than my legs. They’re an icy blue that seems to catch everything, even when he pretends otherwise.

Ivan is a handsome man. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid with muscle. He moves with the quiet grace of something built to hunt. His dark-blond hair is short at the sides and long enough on top for him to push back with one hand. He keeps his jaw clean-shaven, exposing the sharp line of it.

Sadly, he has never looked at me the way I once wanted him to.

That’s probably why Viktor chose him.

Loyalty and honor make reliable locks.

I sigh and drag a hand over the back of my skirt, pulling it into place.

“You’re no fun.”

“Your idea of fun and mine are wildly different, sestrenka.”

Little sister.

That’s all I’ve ever been to Ivan, and all I ever will be.

I rest my cheek against my arms and watch him resume his vigilant stance. Sunlight glances off the face of his watch. A faint breeze stirs the maple leaves behind him, but the air inside the courtyard remains heavy and still.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” I ask.

The question slips out before I can stop it.

Ivan goes still.

The tension leaves his jaw. For a moment, his attention drops from the rooftops to the courtyard wall, as if he has considered climbing it himself.

Then his expression closes.

“Wishing doesn’t change reality, Lucia.” His voice is softer now. “We have to play the hand we’re dealt.”

His words sting because they sound like the truth.

But I can’t accept them.

I can’t afford to.

If I stop believing there’s a way out, Viktor has already won.

“I don’t want to be his pawn,” I admit.

My voice is so small I’m not sure he hears me.

“I know.”

When I look up, his eyes are on me.

Regret softens the hard lines of his face. Or perhaps it’s pity. I’m not sure which is worse.

I can only hold his gaze for a few seconds before my eyes begin to burn.

I turn toward the Japanese maple and blink until the red leaves stop blurring together.

I won’t spend the rest of my life inside Viktor’s cage.

I’ll find a way out.

Or I’ll die trying.