1. Prologue #2
The crowd presses around us, loud and glossy and false.
Somewhere near the bar, Patrick is shaking hands with a man I know who runs numbers through laundromats and church raffles.
Near the piano, two women compare diamonds while their husbands discuss port access in voices soft enough to be guilty.
It’s the kind of night where every smile has paperwork behind it.
Dmitri shifts closer, not touching me, but making the space between us feel claimed anyway. “You don’t like his world.”
“Patrick’s world doesn’t like anyone. It just rents them until the bill comes due.”
“And still you came.”
“He’s my brother.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the excuse I keep using.”
His eyes stay on mine, and I hate that I want to tell him more. I don’t. Telling dangerous men the truth is how women end up as lessons. But there’s something about Dmitri that makes lying feel childish. He feels like standing close to a locked gate and wanting to know what’s on the other side.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I check it because my reflexes are better than my manners. It’s a message from Kathryn.
Still alive in the shark tank?
I type back, Barely. Send snacks and a priest.
Her reply comes fast. Priest unavailable. Snacks possible. Is Patrick behaving?
I look up. Patrick is laughing too hard beside a man whose watch could pay my rent for a year.
No.
Kathryn sends three skull emojis and one eggplant because she is a menace.
Dmitri looks amused. “Good news?”
“My best friend is checking whether I need extraction.”
“Do you?”
I glance at the party. Patrick’s smile is bright. The Russians by the windows are watching the Irishmen near the bar. Everyone here wants something, and most of them would sell their grandmother for a cleaner route through customs.
Then I look at Dmitri. Bad idea, my brain says. Unfortunately, the rest of me has formed a committee and voted to ignore governance.
“Maybe,” I say.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Heat slides through me, and I hate his guts a little for managing that in public. “Cara,” he says.
I really, really like how my name sounds in his accent. This is a character flaw, and I will be addressing it never. “What?”
“You should decide soon.”
“About extraction?”
“About whether you’re leaving because of this party or because of me.”
My pulse misbehaves and does a little tap dance right under my throat. “That line work often?”
“I don’t use lines.”
“No, you just stand there looking like someone’s last mistake and wait for women to develop poor judgment.”
He laughs again, softer this time. “Is that what’s happening?”
“I haven’t ruled it out.”
His phone lights in his hand. Cyrillic flashes across the screen before he turns it over. I notice because I notice everything, and because a woman who doesn’t notice things around Patrick ends up surprised by subpoenas.
“Your freight calling?” I ask.
He doesn’t check the phone again. “Something like that.”
“You can answer.”
“I don’t want to.”
For a moment, the party fades to movement and noise around us. Dmitri is close enough now that I can smell soap, clean fabric, and something sharper underneath, metal or winter or my own imagination making poor choices. His hand rests near his glass. Big hands. Scarred knuckles. No ring.
Because I am apparently determined to speedrun my own bad decision, I say, “If I leave with you, is this going to become one of those stories where I wake up missing a kidney?”
“Not from me.”
“Comforting. Very specific.”
“If someone takes your kidney tonight, I’ll find them.”
“I didn’t realize we’d reached organ-level commitment.”
His expression changes. The humor stays, but something serious slips in beneath it. “I don’t like thieves.”
“Well, you’re at the wrong party.”
His eyes return to Patrick.
For a second, I wonder if Dmitri already knows something I don’t. Patrick has been nervous all night, but this is Patrick. Nervous is his natural habitat when important men are near his bank accounts.
Dmitri’s phone lights again. This time, he turns it fully face down.
I don’t know why that tiny choice gets me. Maybe because everyone in Patrick’s world answers when power calls. Maybe because Dmitri looks like power himself, and he’s choosing to ignore whoever wants him for one more minute standing near me.
“You’re going to get in trouble,” I say.
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I’ve been in trouble before.”
“Recently?”
“Always.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “At least you’re honest.”
His smile turns up a notch, making the corners of his blue eyes crinkle. “I’m honest when it matters.”
“Who decides when it matters?”
His gaze holds mine. “Tonight? You will.”
Oh, that’s unfair. That’s the kind of sentence that should require a permit.
Someone calls his name at this precise second, and he excuses himself. Not a moment later, Patrick is next to me, wearing the exact smile he uses when he wants witnesses to think he’s harmless. “Cara. You look pale.”
I blink at him, then press two fingers to my temple. The lie that comes is easy and useful. “Headache.”
Patrick takes my elbow. “I’ll have someone drive you.”
“I can get myself home.”
“You’re not taking a cab.”
“I’m twenty-five, Patrick. I can get home without needing a bodyguard.”
“Cara.”
“I’ll call my own car. I’ll text when I’m home. Happy?”
He studies me, looking for the trick. I make my face tired and annoyed, which isn’t hard because Patrick brings out both naturally.
“Fine,” he says at last. “Go home. And don’t wander.”
“Wouldn’t dream of developing free will at your party.”
Patrick doesn’t laugh. He looks past me once, toward Dmitri, then back at me. “Stay away from him.”
“Going home with a headache, remember?”
I head toward the guest bath, wait until Patrick turns back to his guests, then cut through the service corridor. His cameras are expensive, but I know the blind spots. I made half of them useful by accident when I fixed his system last spring.
The service elevator takes me to the garage. Dmitri is beside a black car, jacket buttoned, phone in hand. “You’re late,” he says.
“I had to fake a migraine.”
His phone lights before he can answer. He looks at the screen, and his face changes. The hard edges ease.
“My mother,” he says. “She says goodnight.”
“That’s annoyingly sweet.” I stay where I am, suddenly unsure what to do with myself.
“She would deny this.” His thumb moves fast over the screen.
“Of course. Can’t have anyone thinking Russian mothers are cute.” I glance toward the car, wondering if this is the part where he remembers he has somewhere better to be.
He flicks the phone dark and slips it into his pocket. The softness is gone, but the amusement stays in his eyes when he looks back at me.
“You should go,” I say.
“I should.” He opens the side door for me.
His eyes lift to mine.
“With you.”