02
5 Years Later
I should be sitting next to her, holding her hand and telling her that her makeup looks perfect. Instead, I’m hidden away in the opposite corner of the house. In the garage. Fixing up a car. I leave the garage door slightly open, so I don’t boil alive.
Papa wanted to send me away to one of his safe houses along the East Coast. After much reluctance, I’m castigated to the garage instead, and told by my lovely Mama to “stay far away from the engagement or so help me God.”
That seems to be her favourite phrase.
It was supposed to be a storage room, but after I realised how much I actually enjoyed fixing up cars – and how much it distracted me from Ana’s stupid lessons on Surviving the Costas 101 – Papa redid the place and gifted it to me for my eighteenth birthday.
Along with a brand new Birkin. But the garage means more to me.
It’s my sanctuary on most days. On most days, I love the smell of car grease—the leather and fresh wax.
But as much as I love the garage, I wanted to be there for Ana today. I wanted to be the soft, loving younger sister instead of the wild one always causing trouble.
She is giving her life away, after all.
Being married away to the Costa family like some brood mare. And thanks to her Russian blood, she’ll always be cast as an outsider, never truly accepted as part of the Cosa Nostra. Just existing to bear children with the Costa name.
I’m not angry anymore. We all knew the day would come. Ana’s twenty-three. We held them off for two years. They wanted her when he was twenty-one — my age, now.
I scoff to myself, annoyance brimming as I wash the engine of the ’89 Corniche.
Metallica roars through my earphones while I slave away.
It’s a gargantuan, messy task — washing out engines, and you can’t really do it with most of the newer models nowadays.
I lower my head, trying to get a closer look the engine, when I feel someone’s gaze lingering on me.
A tall figure stands at the entrance of the garage.
He ducks his head under the partially open garage door.
With light brown curls and soft brown eyes, he smiles softly at me as he gazes at the state of my clothes.
Mine is stained with oil and grime, while he’s wearing the cleanest plain white shirt paired with black shorts.
I pull out my earphones slowly, eyes wide. “Ben?”
He passes me a genial look. “Thought you’d be back here.”
I’ve known Benjamin since high school. He used to help me out with some homework and skate with me for hours in the rink.
I hardly brought over friends, considering the nature of my family’s business, but Ben came around a handful of times, mostly because I snuck out to the rink and needed a ride back.
I made sure Papa never saw him, afraid of what would’ve happened to him.
He seems to have acquired a tan and filled out his usually lanky figure with some muscle over the summer. But I don’t have time to admire his form before panic sets in, leaking into my voice. “How did you get in here?”
He frowns at my expression. “They let me in?”
They would never do that.
Ben sometimes uses his father’s food catering van, which the security guards must have thought was here for the engagement. This is bad. He’s in Morozov territory.
I promised not to stir any trouble, and if anyone were to find Ben in here, there’s no telling what they’d do to him. That’s excluding how incriminating it would be to find us both cooped up alone in this garage. Papa would shoot Ben himself. A shiver runs down my spine despite the sweltering heat.
I press my stained hands to his chest, like the stain on my conscience if anything were to happen to him.
“No. You — why are you here? You can’t be here, I told you to never come here no matter what. You need to leave.”
He takes a step back, confusion lacing his features. “Are you coming to the rink tomorrow?”
I’ve been in a bad mood because of the engagement. If it weren’t for Ana forcing me to get out of bed two days ago, I’d still be in a depressive mood. But that’s not the problem now. No, the problem is in front of me. Ben is still here, patiently waiting for an answer.
“I don’t know,” I say, “All I know is that you need to leave, Ben. Now. You need to go.”
He doesn’t seem in a rush to leave at all. Of course he doesn’t. He just thinks I’m another preppy Staten Island girl with petty family issues.
Except I’m not, and he’s two seconds away from having his brains blown out by one of Papa’s men. I’d never be able to live with myself if Ben were to get hurt because of me.
He sighs, gaze softening. “Because you haven’t been to the rink in a while, and I — I miss you.”
I swallow.
“It’s just . . .” I need to stay under the radar until my sister’s engaged. “I need to spend some time at home.”
His gaze is hopeful. “You’ll come tomorrow?”
“I—” Defeated, I figure the quickest way to get him out of here is to agree.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll come. Now can you go? Please.”
The sound of footsteps nearing the garage sets my heart racing.
My hands work quicker than my mind does and I shove Ben into a storage cupboard.
He shoots me a confused look before stumbling into the cramped space, hitting his head on the wooden board holding up my tools before letting out a groan.
I shut the doors closed before Sergei walks in.
He glances across the area and my frame leaning against the storage cupboard. “Who were you talking to?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Myself.”
There’s soft shuffling as Ben fumbles inside the cupboard, his lanky figure no doubt cramped. Eyes wide, I fake a cough to conceal the noise.
Sergei narrows his eyes suspiciously.
“This ole’ guy over here,” I say, gesturing to the Corniche sitting in the middle of the garage. “Dusty as hell.”
Sergei raises a brow, but decides to let it go. “Alright. Well. Your Papa left you some food in case you get hungry. Wash your hands before you eat, please.”
I deadpan. Of course I’d get hungry. And of course I’d wash my hands.
Sergei turns. “And for God’s sake, if you drop food on the floor, do not pick it up. There is no such thing as a ten second rule.”
“Okay I get it,” I say, pushing him towards the garage door.
“Behave,” Sergei warns. My hundredth warning of the day. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead smile sweetly at him.
And then he’s gone.
I wait for a few minutes before rushing towards the storage cupboard. Yanking on the handles, I open the cupboard to reveal a slightly disturbed Ben. He screws up his face. “Did you just . . . lock me in a cupboard?”
“Yes,” I quip. “Sorry. My parents are very—”
“Strict, I know. I just don’t get it.” He frowns innocently. “You’re twenty one, Freya.”
“Benjamin.” I sigh. “I really don’t have the time for this right now.”
He puts his hands up in faux surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m leaving.”
Ben rounds the corner before turning to face me. “Frey?”
I meet his worried gaze.
His cheeks flush as he blinks. “Are you . . . safe here?”
His sentiment is endearing— and it might even be valid, but I shake my head gently. “It’s my house, Ben.”
“Right.” He flushes brighter with a tight nod. “Yeah. Okay. I’m leaving now. See you tomorrow.”
As he slips out of the garage, I let out a relieved breath, the sound of my heartbeat rushing in my ears. I watch as his father’s truck exits the driveway and moves towards the path surrounded by the trees. He’ll reach the gates in a minute or so.
I notice the foreign cars parked in front of the house in the distance. For some reason, Papa’s men usually stationed outside were missing. I guess they were reallocated to the inside of the house for the engagement.
Popping my earphones back in, I focus on calming myself and the heartbeat pounding in my chest.
I can’t help but wonder about the scene inside. Whether Ana is alright. If they do anything to hurt her. . .
I’m still fuming about missing the engagement and reeling from Ben’s sudden appearance when something nudges me on my calf.
I’m half expecting it to be Ben again, and fully prepared to cuss him out, but when I turn, there’s no one.
Eyes wide, I pull out my earphones and glance down to meet the gaze of a giant dog — a bullmastiff.
The dog straightens to his full height, just a head away from being eye level with me.
I’m about to reach out to pet him, when I notice the shiny red Costa insignia on his collar.
I swallow. Mastiffs are loyal dogs. For all I know, the Costas trained him to prey on Morozov blood.
One wrong move and he could rip my throat out.
I’m not sure why or how he found his way back here, but I guess I have to deal with him now. I glance down at the dog with a hesitant smile. “Hi, big guy.”
He barks, loudly, and I startle.
The sunlight filtering through to the garage is casting a reflection off my phone, I realize quickly.
He wants to play with it. Like a toy of sorts.
And I’m tempted to throw it and yell “fetch”, but .
. . some of my best pictures are on this phone, and since Ana and I aren’t allowed to upload anything to clouds, the images aren’t backed up.
So seriously, if I were to choose between my phone being chewed on and me being chewed on, I’d choose me.
I try to edge away, but the dog is too smart. His eyes soak up my movement like a soft sponge. Taking it as a good sign that he hasn’t attacked me yet, I raise my voice a little more, lifting my phone. “You want this?”
Bad idea.
He barks again, lunging for me this time.
Actually, not just a bad idea — the worst idea ever.
I break into a run.
And he’s hot on my tail.
The hot summer wind whips wildly in my face, pulling strands of my hair out of my braid as I rush past the corridor just outside the lounge.
My heart beats madly, terror clawing its way up my chest.
There’s no logical way I can outrun this dog — but I’ve played outside this house since I was a child, so I know my way around.
The quickest way into the house is through the front door, and I know they told me to stay far, far away from any of the engagement activities, but it’s not like I have much of a choice now.
I’ll deal with the repercussions later.
The dog barks again behind me. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to play with me or trying to kill me, but I’m not going to stick around to find out.
I’m almost there, and—
Another bone-cracking bark resounds. I draw in a deep breath, barging inside the house before shutting the door behind me. Catching my breath, I breathe out a chopped, “Sorry, buddy.”
And then I realize just how little I calculated this.
Because I’m now the main spectacle of the lounge — the very place I swore and promised over and over I wouldn’t step foot in for the rest of the day. The silence is deafening.
And seated on our plush leather lounge set, my family — my mother, father and sister, stare at me.
Papa has a cordial look on his face, like he was expecting something like this to happen, but my sister’s pretty face is pinched with surprise, her bright green eyes wide.
Ana is always surprised with me, like my behaviour is inconceivable to her.
As for my mother . . . she looks like if she could kill me right here, she would.
But my family’s reactions don’t really affect me. I know them, and I know their shock and disbelief all too well. The real crutch is the Costa cohort — Salvatore, Luca and Vito Costa.
Luca and Vito are underboss and consigliere, both wearing matching bored expressions. Luca is young — around my age, with dark eyes and an endearing face. Vito is older and wearier, hair combed back to reveal a receding hairline.
I remember hearing about Salvatore from Papa’s office. They talked of how he was once the Cosa Nostra’s greatest enforcer — the only man who could kill an entire room of men with his bare hands. Now, he’s grown old and weak, muscle drawn back and kept leashed.
Caterina Costa passed away years ago. People swore she was the most beautiful woman they?d ever seen. Smart and kind, but too soft for this world. And their lovechild, a lethal combination of brain and brawn — my sister’s betrothed — Torren Costa.
The devil himself, spread across our couch like he owns the place.
I hate to admit it, but he probably does.
Indirectly. I don’t know what kind of shady sell-my-soul kind of deal my father got into with the Costas, but he owes them an obscene amount of money.
I love my father, I really do. But I’ll always hate the fact that he’s using Ana to pay off his debt.
That he never came up with a better plan in more than ten years.
Someone clears their throat, snapping me back to reality.
Torren.
Dressed in Armani, he’s beautifully sculpted.
Tall enough that his legs stretch for miles in front of him, with broad enough shoulders that his biceps strain against his white dress shirt.
Olive skin. Cruelly handsome face. Faint curls in his dark hair swept away from his forehead, like a crown on a Sicilian Prince of Death.
Heat and awareness prickles my skin as his dark eyes narrow on me; his jaw set in a tight line. My racing heart struggles to slow, thudding violently in my chest.
Speaking of hounds . . . the Costa dog somehow finds its way back into the house and trots over to me, lapping at my hand — the one that’s clutched tightly around my phone. This time, I can’t resist the urge to pet him. And surprisingly, this time, he calms my nerves instead of fraying them.
Turns out he didn’t want to kill me after all.
Exhaling, I realize that every second that ticks by is another slap to my wrist. The burn of their gazes weigh on me. I need to think quick. I’m about to play it off and act like I’m a maid, or something, but all too soon, the heat of Torren’s gaze settles on my neck.
I have two necklaces around my neck, one for the Morozov family, the other, my heart shaped locket.
Insignias are only given to members of the family, or those sworn in. It shines in the light.
He knows.