Fractured Souls: An Age Gap Forced Proximity Mafia Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 6)
Fractured Souls: Chapter 2

The door on the opposite wall is huge and is made of the darkest wood I’ve ever seen. An hour must have passed since I woke up. I can’t be sure, though. There’s a clock on the wall, ticking, but it doesn’t help because I can’t see the details of the face or hands. Based on the sliver of light visible between the drapes, it must be midday.

I desperately need to pee, but I’m afraid to move from my spot in this bed. The last thing I remember is following the yellow hallway lines after I ran out of Mr. Miller’s room and replaceing the door with the exit sign. I don’t have a clue where I am. I don’t know how I got here. And I have no idea what they are going to do with me. My body is shaking. The pain between my legs is still there but not as strong, and my head hurts as if it’s going to explode. Other than that, I feel fine. Physically, at least. Mentally? Mentally, I feel fine, too. In fact, I feel great.

That can’t be good.

The door opens and someone walks in, then stops abruptly. It’s a man, that much I can discern even from this distance. He’s tall and very muscular, wearing a black T-shirt and baggy black pants. His hair is either dark blond or light brown. That summarizes everything I can make out. I had a week left until my scheduled second eye surgery, but then . . . everything happened. The doctor said he expected to correct my nearsightedness almost entirely.

The man just stands there, and I wonder how long he plans on just staring at me.

“Good morning,” he says finally, and a pleasant shiver passes down my body. I’ve never in my life met a man with a voice so deep. “How are you feeling?”

I squint my eyes, trying to see him better, but he’s still just a blurred shape.

The man takes a tentative step forward. “Can you tell me your name?”

I can, but I don’t feel like talking right now. I don’t know why. I just don’t. Another step. He’s in the middle of the room now.

“Your family is probably worried about you. Can you give me their number to call them? So they can come to take you home?”

Yes, my brother and sister are probably going out of their minds. I’ve been missing for two months. Arturo must be feeling crazy with no information on me. He’s been both a father and a mother to me and my sister since we were five. And Sienna, oh my God, I can’t even think about it. I need to call them to let them know I’m okay.

Nausea claws its way into my throat. I don’t want to call Arturo, because I’ll have to tell him what happened. What I did. I don’t want my family to know that their sister is a prostitute and an addict. They’ll probably tell me everything will be okay. My body starts shaking. It’s not going to be okay.

Nothing will ever be okay again.

“What’s wrong?” the man asks and takes another step toward me.

They probably think I’m dead. Good. It’s better that way. I’m not worth their worry. I’d never be able to look them in the eyes. The sister they knew doesn’t exist anymore. She’s gone. And in her place is this disgusting, filthy creature who lets people violate her and sell her body while she does nothing to stop it. Nothing! My teeth chatter and I can’t breathe.

“Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

His voice is so calming. I should be scared shitless, having an unknown man here, considering what I’ve gone through. I’m not. The thing is, I had so many nasty things done to me that there is nothing he can do to hurt me. I’m more scared of Arturo and Sienna replaceing out than being violated again. I try breathing deeper but can’t. I can only manage small gasps.

A hand enters my field of vision and I flinch, expecting him to hit me. Instead, the man takes the blanket that has fallen off my shoulders and wraps it around me. His palm rests on my back and slowly moves up and down. He did the same thing last night. I remember waking up and being freezing cold when a hand started comforting my back. It made me feel safe, something I thought I would never feel again. I did last night.

My eyes focus on the blanket wrapped around me because I can’t look at him right now, but I can finally fill my lungs. I close my eyes, and a faint melody plays somewhere deep inside my mind. The notes are soft, barely recognizable, but still, my heart skips a beat. I thought I had lost my music. As the hand on my back continues its path, up then down and up again, the music gets a little louder. Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” Deep. Soothing. Just like his voice.

“I’m going to get you some water,” the man says, and his hand vanishes off my back as he moves away.

I scream.

Pavel

I freeze. Did I accidentally touch her skin or do something to trigger her?

Careful not to touch her, I step away from the bed, but the girl suddenly leaps toward me. Her arms come around my neck, squeezing it in a vice-like grip, while her legs wrap around my waist. I stand next to the bed, stunned, with the girl clinging to me like a baby koala. She tucks her face into the crook of my neck and is humming something. Now what? Should I try putting her back on the bed? Or should I just wait until she decides to get down?

I wait for a couple of moments to see if she’ll let me go, but she clings to me relentlessly. It looks like I’m stuck with her like this for now. Carefully, I wrap one arm around her back and lean to take the package of painkillers the doc gave me from the nightstand. I put the medicine in the pocket of my pajama bottoms and place my hand under her thigh. Since she is still completely naked, I pull the blanket off the bed and cover her body, tucking the ends under her chin.

“Let’s go get you some water,” I say and head out of the bedroom.

I carry the girl into the kitchen. She doesn’t let go while I get a bottle of water from the fridge and walk toward the cupboard to take a glass. I do it with one hand since I’m still holding her with the other one, afraid she might slip and fall.

“Want to come down and drink your water?” I ask.

She squeezes her arms tighter around my neck. I look at the glass I placed on the counter, then at the bottle standing next to it. Okay. I have no fucking idea what to do.

“Listen, mishka, the doctor said you need to drink something. Please don’t make me force you.”

The arms around my neck tighten, then loosen, and I carefully put her down. The girl stands in front of me, clutching the blanket with her hands. Her head is bent down, hair has fallen on either side of her face, hiding it from view.

“Here.” I pass her the glass of water and take the medicine out of my pocket.

The second I place the pills on the counter, the girl abruptly steps back.

“They’re painkillers. Look.” I take two pills from the bottle, throw them into my mouth, and offer one to her.

She stares at the pill on my palm, steps backward again, and bumps into the kitchen island.

“Okay.” I put the pill and the bottle on the counter and hold the glass of water out to her. “Just water. All of it, please.”

When she drinks the water and hands the glass back to me, I nod and take it. “Good. Do you want to take a shower?”

The girl doesn’t reply.

There isn’t much light in the kitchen. I usually keep all the blinds down during the day because that’s when I sleep. I tilt my head to the side, trying to gauge the look on her face. She seems confused. I know she can speak, so I don’t understand why she’s not answering any of my questions.

“Do you want to shower?” I try again.

She bites her lower lip and something close to frustration passes across her face, but she doesn’t reply. Not even a nod. What am I going to do with her? There is mud on her right shoulder and arm, and some in her hair. Probably from when she fell on the street.

“All right, I’ll take you to get a shower. Nod, mishka.”

An exhale leaves the girl’s lips, and she nods. I turn toward my bedroom, but immediately feel a tug on my T-shirt and throw a look over my shoulder. The girl is right behind me, holding the blanket with one hand and clutching the hem of my T-shirt in the other.

She follows me across the living room and into my bedroom, hanging on to my shirt all the way. When we reach the bathroom, I nod toward the cabinet on the right. “You’ll replace towels and some basic toiletries there.”

The girl remains behind me, still gripping my shirt. I turn to leave, but a low whimper stops me in my tracks. When I look over my shoulder, I replace the girl with her lips pressed tightly together and her eyes wide and searching my face.

“Want me to stay?” I ask.

She doesn’t reply. Not that I expected her to. But her eyes peeking between the tangled dark strands and boring into mine say enough. Without thinking, I reach out to sweep the hair off her face, but abruptly pull my hand away when I realize what I’m doing.

“All right. I’ll wait here.” I face the door. “Let me know when you’re done.”

Nothing happens at first, but a couple of moments later she releases my T-shirt. I hear her pee and flush the toilet. The shower turns on shortly after.

I stare at the door in front of me, thinking. I’m no expert on mental health, but I know that her behavior is way off. It seems the total opposite of what I would expect from a woman who’s experienced sexual assault. I assumed she wouldn’t want to go within a ten-foot radius of an unknown man. I didn’t expect this, and I’m not sure how to behave.

A sound of rapid breathing, like she’s hyperventilating, reaches me. “Is everything okay?” I ask over my shoulder without looking toward the shower.

There is a sniff and more heavy breathing. I finally look inside the stall and see the girl sitting on the floor with the blanket still wrapped around her. She is frantically scrubbing the washcloth over the inside of her legs. The skin there is so red, it looks raw.

“Fuck.” I dash across the bathroom, get into the shower, and crouch in front of her. “That’s enough. You’re clean.” I take her hand and untangle her fingers from the washcloth. Almost reluctantly she lets it go, loosening her hold on the blanket at the same time. The wet mass falls off her shoulders. “It’s okay.”

The overhead spray is scorching hot as it rains down on us, but her body is shaking. I scoop her into my arms and step toward the bathroom vanity, carefully setting her down on the counter. The towel I used earlier is hanging on the wall next to me. I grab it and wrap it around her shoulders.

“Mishka, look at me,” I say and grasp her chin between my fingers to tilt her head up. “I need to take off my T-shirt or I’ll get you wet again.”

My clothes are completely soaked, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave her here alone while I go to change.

“Is that okay?” I ask.

Her red-rimmed eyes regard me, and they’re darting back and forth as if she wants to say something, but her lips remain sealed. Then, she parts them and sucks in a small breath, followed by the sound of her chattering teeth. The harsh LED light above the sink is shining directly onto her. I look over her small body wrapped in my towel and the dark brown hair hanging down around her face. I haven’t had the opportunity to see her that well until now, and it strikes me how young she looks.

“Christ, baby. How old are you?” I whisper.

And, of course, there is no answer.

I grab a handful of the material of my T-shirt at my back and pull it over my head, dropping it to the floor. “Don’t be scared. They’re just tattoos,” I say.

The girl’s gaze moves to my torso as she takes in the multitude of grotesque scenes covering my skin. She squints and leans forward, examining the black shapes. Her gaze travels upward until her face is right in front of mine, two brown eyes staring me down.

“Can you please say something?” I ask. “Your name?”

Nothing.

“I’m Pavel. But people usually call me Pasha. It’s a Russian nickname.”

Her eyes widen at that, but she doesn’t utter a word.

“Okay. Let’s take you to bed and get you warm.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, she clings to me again, wrapping her arms and legs as before. I pick up the towel that fell next to the sink, put it around her shoulders, and carry her to my bed.

“I need to change,” I say as I cover the girl with a blanket. “I’ll get you something to wear, too. Is a T-shirt okay?”

I don’t know why I keep asking her questions when she never replies. After I have her tucked into bed, I cross the room and enter my walk-in closet. I change into dry pajama pants and put on another T-shirt, then I rummage around trying to replace a smaller T-shirt. I know I have one that Kostya gave me a couple of years ago which was several sizes too small. He had it custom ordered with “Classy but Anal” printed on the front. Idiot.

There’s a shuffling sound, and I look over my shoulder to replace the girl standing in the doorway, with the blanket wrapped around her. She takes a step inside and looks at the shelf where I keep my T-shirts. There aren’t that many, maybe ten in total. I only wear them when I work out. The rest of my wardrobe consists of underwear, pajama bottoms, dress shirts, and suits. I don’t own any jeans, sweatshirts, or other casual clothes. I swore to myself years ago that I would never wear jeans again.

Her gaze falls to the bottom shelf where I keep my shoes, then shifts to the right where a rack runs the length of the space. There are at least thirty suits and twice that number of shirts hanging off it. The moment she sees this, she stiffens, takes two steps back, and dashes away.

I grab the first T-shirt off the shelf and exit the closet, replaceing the girl curled up on the bed with her back toward me.

“I’ll leave this for you here,” I say and put the folded shirt at the foot of the bed. She doesn’t react.

I should get her something to eat, but it can wait. She needs sleep more. I take a seat on the edge of the bed, watching her small form. The edge of the blanket is pulled up all the way to her forehead. I reach out to place my hand on her back, over the blanket, and stroke it. She releases a small sigh and relaxes slightly under my palm. She’s all the way on the other side of the bed, so I climb up and lie down a safe distance from her, and resume soothing her back.

* * *

Something warm presses into my side. I open my eyes and replace the girl snuggled into me with her arm thrown over my chest and her face pressed to my upper arm. Seems like we both fell asleep. The clock on the wall across the room shows four p.m. Shit.

As carefully as possible, I untangle myself from the sleeping girl and head into the bathroom to get myself ready for work. When I emerge fifteen minutes later, she is still asleep. I consider waking her to let her know I have to leave but decide not to disturb her.

There isn’t much in the kitchen or fridge because I usually order food or eat at work. I replace some eggs, a loaf of bread and some marmalade, and place it all on the counter for her. With that done, I scribe a quick note saying I’ve gone to work and she should eat. Then, I leave it on the nightstand next to the bed. The blanket has slid from her body, so I cover her again, but instead of leaving right away, I watch her for several long moments.

Asya

Cold. So cold. I wrap the blanket tightly around myself and sit up in bed. There’s no one around. Where is he? Maybe he’s in another room. I listen for sounds, any sounds, but there is only silence. The floor lamp next to the bed is on, throwing light on a piece of paper lying on the nightstand. I take it and bring it closer to my face. I’ve been nearsighted all my life; I need to hold the note a foot in front of my eyes to be able to clearly make out the writing.

The note says he won’t be back before late tonight. I put the paper back on the nightstand. He left me alone in his apartment. I shudder and wrap the blanket tighter around me. What time is it? How long will I have to wait until he’s back? I scoot back in the bed until I’m huddled in the corner, wedged between the headboard and the wall, and close my eyes.

What the fuck is going on with me? When I woke up this morning, I felt completely fine until he mentioned my family. Just the idea of them replaceing out what happened to me made me lose it. It was as if I was suddenly thrown into a black abyss. The darkness is too familiar. It was the same void where I spent the last two months, completely detached from everything happening around me. Or to me. It felt like it would swallow me whole. Like invisible, poisonous gas, its toxic whisp encircled my mind, wanting me to let it inside. Dirty, it whispered. Filthy. No one will ever want to touch you again. But then, Pasha stroked my back. He didn’t replace me repulsive. The voices stopped, and the black hole closed.

I’m left with this strange conviction that it won’t come back while he’s nearby. But he’s not here now.

When your brother replaces out what happened, he’ll be disgusted, the voice whispers in my ear. He won’t love you anymore. No one can love such a miserable creature. Letting strangers fuck you, while you did nothing to fight back. Repulsive.

I breathe slowly in and out, trying to block it out. It doesn’t work.

It’s all your fault. You brought this onto yourself. It was your decision to go with that guy.

I drag my hands into my hair and squeeze as if pulling at the roots will rip the voice out of my head. But it continues.

You thought he was nice. He was a sexual predator who raped you and threw you into a prostitution ring, and you found him nice! You’re not capable of sound reasoning.

I reach out to grab the note Pasha left and focus on the first couple of lines.

“When you wake up, you can explore the apartment. I left some food on the counter in the kitchen. Eat.”

It’s an instruction. Not a question. I don’t have to make the decision myself. I just need to follow what he said. A sigh of relief leaves my lips. Clutching the note in my hand, I climb down off the bed and, taking the T-shirt he left, head out of the room.

Pasha’s place is very upscale. Everything—from the modern dark furniture to the soft, thick carpets and heavy curtains—looks expensive. There is no clutter, no little trinkets on the shelves, or anything like that. I found two other bedrooms, significantly smaller than the one where I slept. They don’t seem to be in use.

The living room is the largest space in the apartment, with a TV mounted on the wall and a couch and two recliners in front of it. I stand in the middle of the room and look around. One bookshelf. Several modern paintings on the walls. It’s nice, but it all seems staged as if it’s a setup for an interior design magazine or a showroom. It feels strange to be in a place like this.

At home, all our shelves and walls are covered with photos of Sienna and me, with a random one of Arturo when we managed to convince him to take a picture with us. Sienna’s fashion magazines and my music sheets are strewn around. The throw pillows on the sofa are mismatched. There are dog toys everywhere. Random hair products and body balms usually litter strange places like the kitchen counter or the TV shelf. Something squeezes in my chest when I think about home. It seems foreign, somehow, as if my home belongs to someone else.

I clench the paper in my hand tighter and head into the kitchen. The countertops are shiny and black, with a glass stove that looks like it has never been used. The size of the black fridge seems like it could store enough food to last ten people a week, but when I open it, the only contents are several bottles of water, a carton of milk, three tomatoes, and an unopened pack of cheese.

The countertop runs the entire length of the wall, but the only item on it is a coffee machine. No spice jars, no holder for cups. Nothing. Just a coffee machine. On the island, he left out some breakfast food for me. Should I cook some eggs, or just have some marmalade on the bread? An unpleasant tingling spreads through my insides. It’s either eggs or marmalade; I don’t think I can eat both. But when I think about picking one, the anxiety in my stomach intensifies.

What the fuck is wrong with me that I can’t make such an idiotically small decision? The same thing happened this morning when Pasha asked me if I wanted to take a shower. I was filthy. I needed a shower. But when he asked, I couldn’t make the decision. I grab the edge of the island and stare at the stuff left out for me. Eggs or marmalade? It’s a simple choice, damn it! Why can’t I fucking decide?!

After twenty minutes of staring, I end up frying the eggs while eating a slice of bread with marmalade and feeling like an idiot the whole time.

At least the fever I had has passed.

By the time I’m finished with my meal, it’s already dark outside, and I don’t know what to do. The note said to explore and eat. Not what to do after that. I could go back to sleep or maybe read something. There is a bunch of books on the bookshelf in the living room. I can’t watch TV without my glasses unless I stand right in front of it. Read? Sleep? I need to make a decision again, but I can’t!

Grabbing the sides of my head, I pull on my hair and a frustrated whine leaves my lips. I read the last part of the note again.

“I went to work and won’t be back till 3 a.m. If you’re thinking of running away, please don’t. Wait until I’m back.”

He said to wait for him. Simple. Direct. Unquestionable. The pressure in my chest dissipates. I stand a couple of steps from the front door. And wait. Anyone looking at me now might think they are seeing a trained dog. I don’t give a fuck. The only thing I care about at this moment is not feeling this overwhelming anxiety anymore. I’ll deal with my fucked-up psyche some other day. I sit on the floor, wrap my arms around my legs, and stare at the front door.

Pavel

My phone rings as I’m parking my car at the end of the long row of vehicles pulled up in front of the pakhan’s house. The last in line is a big red bike. Something major must be up since Roman’s called the top brass, including Sergei. I grab the phone from the passenger seat and take the call.

“Doc?”

“I have the girl’s results. As far as STDs are concerned, she’s clean. Negative on the pregnancy, too. The bloodwork shows she’s a bit anemic, but that’s it.”

“What about the drugs?”

“Well, that’s the interesting part. The substance found in her system isn’t listed. It looks like it may be something new, something that hasn’t hit the mainstream, yet.”

“That’s strange.”

“Wait, there’s more. The test came back on the pills Vladimir dropped off the other day. It’s the same stuff.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell Roman?”

“I did. Just got off from the call with him.”

I stiffen. “So . . . you told him about the girl?”

“Of course. Why? Should I not have?”

“Nope, just asking,” I say and squeeze the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. The fact that he told Roman about the girl doesn’t sit well with me, and that doesn’t make sense. I’ve never felt the need to hide anything from the pakhan.

“How is she?” the doc continues. “Did her family come to get her?”

“She’s still at my place.”

“What? Why didn’t you call her parents or someone?”

“She won’t talk. In fact, she hasn’t said a word.”

“Shit. She must be scared shitless. We should have had Varya stay with her until her family is able to come. You should probably stay away while she’s there.”

“About that.” I rub my neck. “She doesn’t seem scared of me. She’s actually been glued to my side since the moment she woke up this morning. Won’t let me leave her sight. She even insisted I stay in the bathroom while she took a shower.”

“Hmm. This isn’t my specialty, but I do know that assault victims can react in multiple ways. Does she flinch when you come close?”

“When I tried to leave the room to get her a glass of water, she screamed and jumped into my arms. Naked,” I say. “Do you have any advice on what I should do? How to behave until I can reach her family?”

“No idea. I’m not a psychologist. But, I’ll make a few calls and let you know what I replace out.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

I put the phone in my jacket and look down at my watch. I shouldn’t have left her alone, but all this is new to me. I’ve never had anyone to worry about. Never had to take care of someone. And no one ever took care of me, so I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.

* * *

As I assumed, almost everyone from the Bratva’s top circle is here.

The head of security, Dimitri, is standing next to Roman’s desk, while Mikhail is sitting in the chair near the window. Mikhail oversees the transport operations involving the Bratva’s drug products, and he’s also in charge of information extraction. In other words—torture, when necessary. Sergei, the pakhan’s half brother, is leaning on the wall beside the door, flipping a knife blade in his hands. He handles the negotiations with our suppliers and buyers. And kills them occasionally.

“Fyodor’s daughter, Ruslana, has been found dead,” Maxim, the second in command, says and places a yellow folder in front of Roman. “The body was found in a dumpster in the suburbs. Some homeless man stumbled upon it.”

“Cause of death?” Roman asks.

“Suspected overdose.”

“Ruslana was a good kid. Sophomore in college. It doesn’t sound like her to get mixed up with drugs.” Roman nods toward the folder. “When did she go missing?”

“Last month. Her father said she went to a store and never came back.”

“Did he file a missing person’s report?”

“Yes. Nothing came of it. It was as if she fell off the earth. But that’s not the strangest thing.” Maxim takes a piece of paper out of the folder and passes it to Roman. “Here’s the medical examiner’s report. She was high on heroin, but they also found traces of an unidentified substance. I pulled some strings and had the results cross-checked against the pills taken from the dealer at Ural. Same thing.”

After a brief scan of the contents, Roman asks. “You think the heroin is a cover-up?”

“Probably.” He nods.

“Drugs are not ice cream. You can’t just whip up a new flavor in someone’s kitchen.” Roman drums his fingers on the desk and looks at Mikhail who is sitting to my right. “Did you get anything from the dealer Pavel caught?”

“He just kept repeating what he told Pasha,” Mikhail says. “A friend gave him the pills in exchange for debt forgiveness. He didn’t know how his friend got the drugs or what they were. We have nothing, just the name of this friend. But, it seems his buddy has disappeared. Yuri has men keeping their eyes on his place. As soon as he surfaces, they will bring him in.”

I watched Mikhail work over a guy once a few years back. He made torture into an art form. If Mikhail couldn’t extract anything else from the dealer, it means there wasn’t anything left.

Roman sets the folder aside and leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk. “Now, onto the second issue. What the fuck is wrong with you all—collecting random unconscious women and taking them home with you?”

All heads turn toward Sergei who is sitting on my right.

“Oh, don’t look at me!” He laughs, “I got mine years ago and I’m done.”

“And don’t we all remember the monumental fuckup that resulted in?” Roman snaps. “The speculations are still rampant all over Mexico about what happened to the Sandoval compound. Some people don’t believe the bullshit that the government is pushing about it being an earthquake, and think it was a meteorite strike instead.”

“Well, since Pasha doesn’t know shit about explosives, I’d say we’re good.” Sergei smirks at me. “Wanna share something about the girl Roman told me you have at home?”

Everyone’s attention immediately switches to me.

“I have no idea who she is. She won’t talk,” I say. “But when I found her, she was spiked with the same crap that was being peddled at Ural.”

“I need updates on this new drug,” Roman says. “I want to know who’s making it and for what purpose. And I want them dealt with. Fyodor’s daughter was a good kid. Everyone who was in any way involved in her death will pay for it. In blood.”

He jerks his head toward the door, which means the meeting is over. Kostya and Mikhail leave the office first, and the rest of us follow.

I’m crossing the foyer toward the front door when I hear high-pitched, female screams. I turn around, spotting Kostya cowering in the corner, protectively holding his hands over his head. Olga and Valentina have him pinned, crying and hitting him with kitchen rags. Looks like they still haven’t gotten over the fact that he broke up with both of them. The poor bastard had to move out of the mansion on the same day he told them they were done to avoid bodily harm. I leave Kostya to his misery and head outside.

My phone rings as I’m getting into my car. It’s the doc.

“Where are you?”

“Just leaving the pakhan’s house, heading to Ural,” I say. “Why?”

“I just spoke with a friend who’s a psychologist. She often works with assault victims. I explained the situation to her and told her about the girl’s behavior.”

“And?” I switch the phone to hands-free and put the car in reverse. “Did she have any idea what’s going on?”

“She wasn’t surprised and surmised that the girl has developed an attachment to you,” he says. “Apparently, some assault victims tend to stay away from men. Especially strangers, but sometimes even family members. Others, however, form a strong bond to whomever has saved them. They latch onto their protector, even if it’s a male.”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“The trauma of being sexually assaulted is an experience filled with violence. It transforms a person’s sense of safety, the way they look at the world, and their relationships with other people. Looks like this girl started to associate the feeling of safety with you. She sees the rest of the world as unsafe. As her savior, you’ve become her ‘safe place.’”

“I didn’t save her. She saved herself. Ran out of that building.”

“Realistically speaking, yes. But in her eyes, you’re the one who saved her. We don’t know how long she was held captive and sexually assaulted. You taking her to your place could be the first time she’s felt safe in days. Weeks. Maybe months.”

“Jesus fuck.”

“Go home. Talk to her. She needs professional help, and she needs her family,” he says in a grave voice. “And she shouldn’t be left alone.”

As soon as I cut the connection, I call Ivan and send him to Ural. It’s an hour-long drive from Roman’s to my place, and the whole time I mull over what the doc had said. I should have stayed with the girl. What if she woke up and was scared because I was gone? No one in their right mind would have left the girl in that state alone in a strange place. I wasn’t thinking.

I hit the steering wheel with my hand and press the gas pedal harder.

* * *

When I open the front door, it’s pitch black inside. Could she still be sleeping? I reach for the switch, turn on the lights, and stop dead in my tracks. The girl is sitting on the floor a few paces from the door with her arms wrapped around her legs. Her body is shaking uncontrollably.

“Shit.” I crouch down beside her, intending to scoop her up, but as soon as I reach for her, she leaps into my arms. Wrapping herself around me like a koala bear again, she buries her face in the crook of my neck.

Holding on under her thighs, I carry the girl to my bedroom. My intention to gently lower her onto the bed doesn’t go as planned when her arms and legs squeeze me in a tight hold.

“I’m so sorry for leaving you alone,” I whisper and sit down on the edge of the bed.

There is a bundled blanket next to me, so I reach for it and wrap it around the girl’s shoulders. She doesn’t move, just clings onto me, still shaking.

“You’re safe.” I place my hand on her nape and stroke her back with my other one in what I hope is a soothing motion. “You’re safe.”

A small sigh leaves her lips, and her body relaxes in my arms. I keep up my comforting strokes for at least half an hour before she lifts her head off my shoulder. I reach for the lamp next to the nightstand, turning the dimmer switch to bring up the lights a bit more. The girl blinks a couple of times, probably adjusting to the sudden brightness, then looks right into my eyes.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

She doesn’t reply, just stares at my face for a couple of seconds. Dear God, she is so damn young. She uncoils her arms from around my neck and trails her hands over my shoulders and down my chest, stopping at the lapels of my suit jacket. Her eyes snap down to where her hands are, and her body suddenly goes rigid. I follow her gaze and see that it’s focused on my tie. She starts shaking again and a whimper leaves her lips.

“What’s wrong?”

The girl’s breathing becomes faster and shallower, and her eyes keep staring at my tie in horror.

“Look at me.” I cup her face with my palms and tilt her head up until our gazes connect. There’s panic in her dark brown eyes. “Good. Now, breathe.”

She tries, but her breath hitches. Another try. Her lower lip trembles, and I hear a soft whisper but can’t make out what she’s saying.

“I didn’t hear you, baby. Can you try again?”

She closes her eyes and leans forward. Her words are faint next to my ear, “They always . . . wore suits.”

It takes me a few seconds to understand what she’s referring to. The moment I do, a cold chill runs down my spine. She said “they.” Plural. I thought she may have been in an abusive relationship with some psycho who drugged her.

I let go of her face and quickly remove my jacket, throwing it toward the middle of the room where she won’t see it. Then, I start undoing my tie. The girl looks down, her gaze locking onto my hands as I’m pulling at the knot, and the shaking in her body intensifies.

“Look at me.” I manage to form the words, speaking evenly so I don’t frighten her. It’s difficult because the anger raging inside of me is threatening to erupt. “Look at my eyes. Good girl. I’m throwing it away, okay?” I let the tie fall to the floor.

The moment the tie is out of view, her body relaxes a bit, but she’s still shaking.

“Shirt as well?” I ask, and without waiting for the answer, I start on the buttons.

The girl bites her lower lip and nods.

“Okay, baby.” I undo the last button and yank off the shirt. “Better?”

I stare into her red-rimmed eyes, and God, she seems so lost. She looks down again and slowly places her hand on my naked chest. The tip of her finger moves across my collarbone where my tattoos start, then slowly traces downward. It’s a barely there touch, outlining the shapes inked on my skin.

“I’m afraid I can’t remove these, mishka,” I say.

Her eyes lift back to mine, and as she watches me, the corners of her lips curve upward ever so slightly.

“Is that a smile?”

She shrugs.

It was a tiny smile, but a smile nevertheless. It completely transforms her face, giving me a glimpse of the woman she was before everything that happened to her.

“What’s your name, baby?”

The need to know her name, the tiniest of details about her, has been eating me alive.

“It’s Asya,” she says in a small voice. Unusual name.

“Asya,” I try it out. It fits her. “It’s a very pretty name. And your last name?”

“DeVille,” she whispers.

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re Italian?”

She nods.

The last name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. “Are you from Chicago?”

“New York.”

The moment she says it, the realization comes. “Are you related to Arturo DeVille?”

“He’s my brother.” She bites her lip. “You know Arturo?”

The underboss of the New York Cosa Nostra Family. Shit. I haven’t met Arturo DeVille, but Roman always makes sure the Bratva has intel on each and every person connected to us in any way.

“I’m a member of the Russian Bratva, mishka. Your don’s wife is the sister to the wife of one of our enforcers,” I say. “We need to call your brother right away and let him know you’re here.”

Asya’s body goes stone-still. “Please . . . don’t.”

“Why?” I ask as nausea suddenly comes over me. “Does he have something to do with what happened to you?”

She shakes her head, then wraps her arms around my neck and snuggles into my chest. “He probably thinks I’m dead. I want to keep it that way.”

“But, he’s your brother. He’s probably going nuts with worry.” I pass my hand through her dark brown strands. “You need to tell him you’re okay.”

“I’m not fucking okay!” she snaps, then climbs down off my lap and pins me with her gaze. “Those people have been pumping me full of drugs and selling my body for months. And I let them! I did nothing! What kind of pitiful being just lets that happen without fighting back?”

She’s crying while yelling. And I let her. Anger is good. Any kind of reaction is good. So, I don’t make a move. Don’t try to calm her down. I just sit on the edge of the bed and watch her in silence.

“Do you know that last night, when you found me, was the first time I tried to run away?” she continues. “You want me to tell my brother that? He raised me better than to be a fucking doormat! I would rather never see him again than have him learn what I allowed them to turn me into!”

She takes a deep breath and grabs my shirt off the floor near her feet. Stepping onto the edge of it she uses both hands to pull on the material, throwing her whole weight into her task, until the shirt rips. Then, she starts shredding it. I watch her in amazement. I thought she was meek and delicate, but as I observe her glorious rage, I realize how very wrong I was. There is fire in her and fierce life. The people who hurt her, who broke her spirit—they haven’t banished it completely. And I will replace every single one of them and make them pay.

“I hate them! I hate them so much!” she roars and looks up at me. “And you? Why the fuck are you just sitting there? How can you simply be watching me have a mental breakdown and do nothing?” She throws a torn piece of material in my face and screams in frustration when I don’t make a move. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She places her hands on my chest and shoves me. “Shouldn’t you try to calm me down?”

“No,” I say.

“No? You’ll just watch me fall apart?” she shoves at me again. Then one more time.

“You’re not falling apart, Asya.” I reach out and trace the line of her chin with my thumb. “You’re pulling yourself together.”

“Pulling together?” Her eyes widen, and she bursts into a fit of hysteric laughter. “When I woke up, I couldn’t decide if I should eat the eggs or marmalade! I couldn’t make the most basic decision. I spent twenty minutes staring at the stuff you left out on the counter and had to eat both because I couldn’t choose!”

The last words get lost in a fit of crying. Her shoulders sag and she looks down at her bare feet. Placing my forefinger under her chin, I tilt her head up until our eyes meet.

“What do you want?” I ask.

She blinks at me, and two tears slide down her cheeks.

“Do you want them dead?”

There is a sharp intake of breath, but she doesn’t reply. I reformulate my question into a statement.

“You want them dead.”

Squeezing her lips tightly together, she nods.

“They will die,” I say. “What else do you want?”

No reply.

“You don’t want your family to see you like this.”

Another nod.

“I’ll never be the person I was before,” she whispers.

“No. You won’t.” I lightly pinch her chin. “And that’s okay. They’ll love you just the same. What happened to you, changed you, Asya. It would change anyone. Irrevocably. You need to accept the person you’ve become. You’re still you. Changed, yes, but that shouldn’t keep you from the people who care about you.”

She sniffs and climbs back onto my lap. Again her limbs wrap around me, and she buries her face in the crook of my neck. Barely audible murmurs escape her lips, and I tilt my head to the side to hear her better. Once she’s done, I stare at the far bedroom wall for a long time, thinking about what she just asked of me.

If Roman replaces out, it won’t end well. We’ve been maintaining a good relationship with the Cosa Nostra, but if I let her stay, it may mean war. And if Asya’s brother replaces out, he will probably kill me.

I inhale and nod. “Okay, mishka. You can stay.”