Sofia
I’m standing in line outside a new club with Tori. I’m doing my best to look normal. I want to be a regular twenty-one-year-old waiting to get into a club with her best friend. I hate clubs.
For obvious reasons.
But I’m tired of being afraid.
No one will hurt me.
“Earth to Sofia,” Tori says, waving her hand in front of my face. “You’re doing that thing again where you zone out and look like you’re planning someone’s murder.”
I force a laugh. “Sorry. Just thinking about the midterm.”
“Liar. You’re thinking about your scary life. Which we’re not doing tonight. Tonight, we’re dancing and drinking overpriced cocktails and forgetting about everything else.”
She’s right. I need this. One night where I’m not looking over my shoulder. One night where I’m not calculating exits and threat assessments. I’m going to dance. I’m going to be normal.
Although, normal does feel overrated.
The line moves forward. We’re almost to the door when Tori launches into a story about her linguistics professor who apparently showed up to class wearing two different shoes.
And then a sound I know too well.
I grab Tori’s arm. “Get down!”
POP! POP! POP!
Everything slows and speeds up at the same time. I’m on the ground, pulling Tori down with me. More shots. People screaming. The squeal of tires. Glass shattering somewhere behind us.
My cheek is pressed against the cold concrete. I can smell urine and something metallic—blood. I don’t know if it’s mine.
The soft thud of a body hitting the concrete followed by a soft groan. I open my eyes, only then realizing I had closed them. A man is staring back at me. Blood trickles from his nose.
Tori is screaming. I feel her body shaking against mine.
The shooting stops.
The engine sound fades.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing but ringing in my ears and Tori’s screams. Not just Tori. Screams echo around us.
I’m immersed in chaos. People running. Cries. People shouting names.
I push myself up to my knees. I put my hand on Tori’s back. “Are you hit? Are you hurt?”
She’s staring at me with wide eyes, her face pale in the neon light from the club’s sign. “What the fuck, Sofia? What the actual fuck?”
“Are you hurt?” I ask again, more urgently.
“No. I don’t—I don’t think so.” She sits up. Her pretty blue dress is torn. She’s patting herself down like she can’t quite believe she’s intact. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Someone just—they were shooting at us.”
“At me,” I say quietly.
She looks at me. I see the moment understanding hits. The moment she realizes what I’ve been dealing with.
“I have to go,” she says, scrambling to her feet. “I have to—I need to go home.”
I get up and reach for her hand.
“Tori, wait. Let me get you a cab.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I can’t—" She’s backing away from me. “I can’t do this. I can’t be around you right now.”
The words hurt, but I’m not surprised. I knew this would happen eventually. That my world would bleed into hers. Being near me is dangerous. And just like that, the last normal thing in my life backs away with her.
“I understand,” I say. “Go. Be safe.”
She turns and disappears into the scattered crowd. My normal night is over.
I’m alone on the sidewalk. Well, not completely alone. There are other people who were in line, some of them still on the ground, others trying to help the injured. I see at least two people who aren’t moving.
I look for Gregor. Why isn’t he here? Why isn’t he rushing me away?
Did he get hit? I scan the area. I don’t see his large body. I look up and down the street and don’t see the SUV that usually follows me wherever I go.
Is he dead? Kidnapped? Bleeding out somewhere?
Whatever happened to him, I’m out here without him.
This can’t be random. This can’t be some gang shooting that I happened to be near. This was targeted. Professional. The third attempt in less than two weeks.
How many more attempts will I survive?
My pride doesn’t matter. My independence doesn’t matter. None of it matters if I’m dead.
I reach for the necklace tucked into my high-necked dress. I push the tiny button on the back. But I’m not relying on Gregor. My purse is on the ground. I pick it up and pull out my phone. I scroll through my contacts and find the number I saved but swore I’d never use.
I press call before I can talk myself out of it.
Sergei Sokolov.
He answers before the first ring finishes. “Sofia.”
Not a question. He knows it’s me. He’s been waiting for this call.
That's the part I can’t argue with.
I did call him.
Not my father. Not Gregor. Not any of the men who were supposed to keep me alive.
Him.
And that terrifies me.
“I need help.” The words taste like defeat. Like surrender.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Stay down. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
And then he’s gone.
I stare at my phone, my mind racing. How does he know where I am? Why did he tell me to stay down? Like he knew we’d just been fired on.
The answer hits hard.
He’s been watching me.
Which means he’s either protecting me or orchestrating this.
Creating the danger so I run straight into his hands.
I scan the area, looking for Gregor. He should have been here by now. He should have pulled me into a car and gotten me out of here the second the shooting started.
Where the hell is he?
I consider running. Just disappearing into the crowd before Sergei arrives. I could call my father’s men. Get extracted. Lock myself in the house and figure this out.
But a voice in my head—the same instinct that told me to get down at the first shot—tells me to stay.
“Miss Baranova?”
I whip around, my hand automatically reaching into my purse for my lipstick.
It’s him. The man from the park. The one who helped when Anton got hit. The one who vanished before I could ask his name.
He’s standing a few feet away, hands visible, body loose like he doesn’t want to spook me.
“How do you know my name?”
“Sergei sent me,” he says.
That can’t be right. It’s been less than a minute. “Bullshit.”
“He told me to keep you safe. You just talked to him on the phone, right?”
That makes no sense.
“He’ll be here soon. We should get you inside.”
“You were already here,” I murmur, more to myself.
“I was.”
My stomach turns as realization dawns. He’s been following me. For how long? How did I never see him? How many others?
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Nelson. I work for Mr. Sokolov. You’re not safe out here.”
“I’m not safe anywhere, apparently.”
“That’s true,” he says without hesitation. “But you’re less safe standing on a sidewalk where someone just pulled out a gun and shot people. Shot at you.”
He’s right. I hate that.
“How do I know you’re not here to finish the job?”
“If I were here to kill you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’ve had plenty of opportunities.” He says it without ego or threat. Just stating truth.
That should terrify me. Instead, it’s almost reassuring. If he’s been watching me—if Sergei has had people watching me—and I’m still alive, then they’re not the threat.
Or they’re playing a very long game.
“Inside,” Nelson says again, gesturing toward the club entrance. The bouncer is still there, looking shell-shocked but functional. “We wait for Sergei inside. He’ll explain everything.”
I look around one more time. Still no sign of Gregor. No sign of any of my father’s men.
They’re not coming.
I’m alone out here with no backup. Most of the people who’d been in line are long gone. Club security is working on a young woman on the ground just ten feet away.
I watch the beefy security guard do CPR. She won’t live. She’s lying in a pool of her own blood. Her only crime was standing near me.
Her two friends are sobbing and holding each other. They’re too close. If the gunman comes back to finish the job, they’re at risk. Every person out here and the first responders that are surely on their way.
I make the decision.
“Fine. But if you try anything, I will put my knife between your ribs before you can blink.”
He almost smiles. “I believe you. I know that lipstick of yours is dangerous too.”
And that’s another clue about how much he’s been watching me.
I let him lead me inside. The club is in chaos—people crying, the manager trying to calm everyone down, staff dealing with the aftermath. Nelson guides me past all of it and down a hallway.
I stop. “No,” I whisper.
Terror washes over me.
Nelson stops. He turns to face me, looks me directly in the eyes and shakes his head. “You’re safe with me. Grab your lipstick, hold it if you need to. I’m not going to touch you. Trust me, I like all my parts exactly where they are. He’d personally fillet me if I touched you.”
“He?” I whisper.
“Sergei. Please. I don’t want you out here. I can’t see every corner.”
My heart feels lodged in my throat. I’m breathing too fast. Panic threatens to take over.
I feel the danger around me, but it’s not coming from the man in front of me. I swallow the lump and nod.
He smiles. “Come on.”
We move down the hallway. He pushes a door open, and we step into an office.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to a leather couch. “You want water? Something stronger?”
“Water.” My mouth is dry. My hands are still shaking.
He disappears and returns with a bottle of water, unopened. I check the seal before I open it. Old habit.
He leans against the desk, watching me. Not threatening, just...watching. Assessing me.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
“No.”
“Sofia, I don’t want to touch you, but I need you to check. There’s blood on your dress.”
I frown and look down. That’s when I see it. Blood on my thigh. I don’t hesitate and jerk up my dress, uncaring that I’m flashing the guy.
When I don’t see anything, I look up to find Nelson looking up at the ceiling.
“It’s not mine,” I say.
“Thank God,” he says with what sounds like genuine relief.
“You were at the park,” I say. “When Anton got hit.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been following me.”
“Yes.”
“On Sergei’s orders.”
“Yes.” He nods once.
“For how long?”
He pauses, considering how much to tell me. “A while.”
“How long is a while?”
“That’s something you should ask Mr. Sokolov.”
I take a drink of water, trying to process this. Sergei Sokolov has had people watching me for God knows how long. Watching me enough to know my routines, my favorite places, where I’d be tonight.
The question is why.
“Did you set this up?” I ask.
He smirks. “No.”
“Why are you watching me?”
“I was ordered to.”
“You followed me here tonight?”
A nod.
“Because Sergei Sokolov told you to.”
Another nod.
I sit with that for a second. “Does your boss want me dead?”
A shrug. “I don’t know.”
Honest. I suppose that’s good. I stare at him and try to think of where I’ve seen him.
“Are you in my statistics class?”
He grins. “I’ve been in the class. But I’m not in the class.”
All this time. I never knew. I’ve been thinking I was aware of my surroundings. Prided myself on spotting danger.
It’s been right beside me all along.