Chapter 2

I’ve learned not to show fear around these guys, though. Assholes like Tony will feed off it like a rabid coyote until there’s nothing left of me but bones. “It’s late. Drop me at home and I’ll go talk to him tomorrow.” Korsakov’s temper is scalding, but it cools quickly. It’s best not to be around him until it does.

“Nah.” Tony’s grin is wide and obnoxious. “He called before you came out. Said to bring you in tonight.”

“Fine. Whatever.” I feign indifference but my stomach roils. That doesn’t bode well for me. He couldn’t have known I’d failed by that point. But maybe he’d made a decision about my fate in case I did.

I focus on my breathing as our SUV meanders along the city streets, the hazy glow of brake lights and relentless blast of taxi horns oddly therapeutic. My target left before I could make my move, but it would’ve been too risky, anyway. I have to assume Sofie is somehow tied to the feds, and if those cuff links went missing tonight, my studio apartment door would be the first they kicked down.

“What’s with the souvenir?” Tony asks.

He means Sofie’s glass that I swiped off the bar before the bartender could come by to collect, smuggling it out beneath my wrap, careful not to smudge her fingerprints. “You use it to drink wine.”

“You know, one of these days, that smart mouth of yours is gonna get you into real trouble. Why’d you lift it?”

“Because I needed a new one.”

He snorts. “Idiot.”

I took it thinking I’d give it to Korsakov when I told him about her, as a way of buying myself a pass for tonight’s failure. But the more I consider that plan, the more I realize it’s likely that he’ll decide I’ve been compromised. Last year, when Rolo was caught having a cozy chat with the DEA, Korsakov set him free with a bullet to the back of the skull. At least that’s the rumor—Korsakov is not dumb enough to murder with an audience. But no one, including Rolo’s wife and kids, have seen him since.

Tony is right. I am an idiot, for not slipping out the back of the venue while I still could.

My insides are churning when I spot the familiar vendor cart up ahead. “Stop here for a minute?”

“Seriously?” Tony twists his massive frame around to scowl at me.

“I’m starving,” I lie. I doubt I could manage a bite.

“You just left a penguin-suit party full of food!” He groans loudly—he always complains when I ask to stop—but then he nods at Pidge. “Fuck, yeah, whatever.” He adds under his breath, “Considering it’s probably your last meal.”

“I’ll even eat it outside,” I offer, my voice dripping with phony sweetness. The only thing Tony despises more than me is the smell of hotdogs and sauerkraut.

“Yeah, you will. You’re not stinking up this leather for the next week.” He shakes his head. “Can take the girl out of the street, but can’t take the street rat out of the girl.”

“There’s an umbrella under my seat,” Pidge offers as I gingerly set Sofie’s glass down.

“Thanks.” He’s quiet and the nicest of the bunch, but he’d still sell his own sister for the right price. I hop out, my clutch tucked under my arm. The dress I’m wearing is a sleek black satin halter style that pools around my feet—the least flashy of the designer lot the guys procured in their latest heist. Neither it nor my wrap offer any protection against the bone-chilling November air, but in my present state of mind, I barely notice.

I want to believe Korsakov wouldn’t end me, not over this. Ironically, the man has shown me more kindness than he does to most, albeit in his own way. Once, one of his goons took the “do not touch my pretty little thief” law as mere guidance and tried to force himself on me. Korsakov had the skin flayed off his back with a whip. I know because Korsakov made me watch the spectacle, smiling as proudly as a cat presenting a massacred bird at its master’s feet. Only Korsakov isn’t an ordinary cat. He’s a tiger who occasionally lunges at those who feed him.

But the phone call, the demand to see me with or without the cuff links …

Does he already know about the red-haired woman sniffing around me?

Or has he somehow learned about the discreet inquiries I’ve been making into securing a passport? About the cash I’ve been squirreling away in my vent and the apartment in London that I’ve looked at renting? If he has, would he see that as anything other than what it is—an escape plan?

My instincts are telling me to run.

I pick my way along the sidewalk, trying to avoid the puddles as I scramble to devise my strategy. Do I just kick off my heels and bolt? Do I wait until I’m a safe distance away to give myself a head start? I could cut through the park and jump into a taxi on the other side. Going back to my apartment to grab my stash bag would be a risk, but there’s no point going to the train station without it. It has money, clothes, a fresh ID—everything I need to disappear.

I’m only partly surprised Tony let me out. He’s stupid and arrogant enough to assume I won’t take off. Or maybe he wants me to, so he has an excuse to give his brother when he delivers me battered and bruised.

I’m still weighing my best course of action when I reach the stand. Alton is hunched in front of the grill, turning a sausage over the flame. “Yeah?” He grunts before glancing up. Instant recognition touches his face. “Haven’t seen you around in a bit.” I’ve come a long way from the gangly kid with heavy kohl-lined eyes and bleached hair who stole a hotdog from him. But he once said that it doesn’t matter how much makeup I hide behind or what color my hair is; all he needs to know it’s me are my blue eyes. They remind him of his childhood summers by the Adriatic Sea.

It’s been a few months. “I’ve been busy.” I dare a glance over my shoulder at the waiting SUV, its blinking hazards earning angry horn blasts from vehicles coming up behind. Tony can’t climb a flight of stairs without wheezing by the time he reaches the top; I could probably outrun him, even in my heels. But Pidge is smart enough to drive around and catch me on the other side of the block.

Alton opens his mouth to say something but promptly shuts it. I already know what he’s thinking. It’s what all my street acquaintances think: that I’m thriving as a high-end prostitute. I’ve never bothered to correct them. It’s more honorable to peddle what you own than what you’ve stolen. “Glad to see you still kickin’ around,” he offers.

Not for long, possibly.

If I head for one of the benches in the park to eat, I’ll have the best shot at slipping away without immediate notice. It might give me just enough time.

“The usual?” He holds up a foot long in his metal tongs.

I smile. “Yeah.”

“One for him too?” Alton nods to his left, his eyebrows raised in question.

I follow his direction to the lump of blankets on the sidewalk fifty yards away, and surprise pushes aside my escape planning for the moment. “Is that Eddie?” Has it been six months already?

“Yup. He’s been hanging around here for a few weeks now.”

“And?”

Alton shrugs. “Hasn’t scared away my customers yet. I think his eyesight’s gotten worse, though.”

Maybe Eddie’s time in prison has helped where nothing else ever has. “Give me two dogs. Please.” I always buy an extra meal when Eddie’s around. Alton has guessed that he’s someone to me, but he’s never pressed for details.

I tuck a twenty under the napkin dispenser on the counter and wave away the change, as always. I’ve lost track of the meals the kindhearted street meat vendor has given me over the years, when I was starving and couldn’t pay for them.

Gripping both in one hand while I huddle under the umbrella’s shelter, I make my way over, ignoring the horn that blares of warning from the curb. The closer I get, the more potent the stench of stale urine and body odor becomes. “Hey, Eddie.”

The man peers up from beneath his soiled quilt, squinting against the rain. Or perhaps it’s to make out what’s in front of his failing eyes. They cut his hair and beard while he was inside, so he doesn’t look nearly as straggly as he did when I last saw him, and he’s put on a few pounds. He’s lost another tooth to decay, though. “Is that you?”

A painful lump stirs in my throat. “Yeah.” At least he’s aware tonight. “How are things?”

“They won’t let me in at St. Stephen’s anymore,” he grumbles.

“That’s because you threatened to kill a volunteer there. That’s why you went to prison.” It brought me comfort, knowing he had a warm, dry place to sleep and three meals a day, even if it was courtesy of the county jail.

“He tried to poison me. I saw him do it with my own eyes.”

I bite my tongue against the urge to remind him that it was fresh parsley that the man—a schoolteacher volunteering at the soup kitchen—sprinkled over the shepherd’s pie. Forget his weakening eyesight, Eddie’s so far gone to delusion, he won’t hear any version of the truth other than his own. “Here. I brought you something.” I hold out both hotdogs for him.

His eyes narrow as he studies them, not making a move.

I sigh heavily. “Come on, Dad, it’s me, Romy. You need to eat.”

After another long moment, he accepts them with a grimy hand. Tucking one under his quilt for later, he scrapes the toppings off the other with a swipe of his dirty thumb. Sauerkraut and mustard splatters on the sidewalk beside my heel, a few yellow drops hitting my hem.

“So? Things are okay? No aches or lumps or anything that you should get checked out by a doctor?” He’s a forty-nine-year-old man who could easily pass for seventy, the decade of living on the street aging him far beyond his years.

“Watch out for the demons. Especially the ones with the twisty horns. They’re here, walking among us, wearing our skin.”

The foolish shred of hope I held coming over here evaporates. Nothing has changed.

“I will. Definitely.” It used to gut me to see this version of my father—perched on milk crates and park benches, ranting about monsters who lurk in the shadows and feed on human souls. That was back when the memories of our old life were still fresh in my mind.

Once, long ago, we lived in a two-bedroom apartment in East Orange, New Jersey. My dad was a line supervisor at a factory that made bolts and screws, and my mom was a grocery store clerk. I took swimming lessons and played soccer. We ate dinner at six p.m. sharp and would drive to a farm every fall where we would spend hours searching for the perfect pumpkins for jack-o’-lanterns.

I lost that version of my father the night he witnessed a woman’s brutal murder in the parking lot at work. He claimed a shadowy monster with wings and curly black horns was the culprit, tearing her apart with its talons, and that a witch channeling flames from her fingertips banished it back to Hell.

He was never the same after, spiraling down a tunnel of hallucinations and paranoia that no medications or doctors were able to treat or explain. He lost his job, we lost our apartment, and eventually, it became unsafe to be around him.

We tried to get him help, but we had no money, and the system for people with no money is made from safety nets riddled with holes. My dad slipped through every last one until he landed on the street where he’s been ever since.

I spent years angry and pretending he didn’t exist, and then years weighed down by guilt and attempts to help him—arranging doctor’s appointments he refused to go to, housing he wouldn’t stay in, buying clothes he’d lose.

Now, all I have left to give him is a hollow heart, a cheap meal, and a few kind words when I run into him on the street. I have my own problems to deal with.

“I’ve got to go.” A narrow path lies ahead, cutting into the bushes next to a trash can. If I pretend I’m disposing of the wrappers, it should buy me a small lead. Pidge and Tony will go straight to my apartment once I don’t return, but if I wait them out a few days, I should eventually be able to slip in, get my things, and run.

“Your mother came by,” my father says through a bite. “She asked about you.”

Hearing mention of her always stings, but I quickly harden my heart. I know she still looks for me occasionally. “She still with them?”

He nods.

My molars gnash against each other. “Stay far away from her.” I no longer fault my father for the illness that stole him from us, but my mother chose to abandon her own daughter for monsters. I’ll never forgive her for that. “Take care of yourself, okay?” I perch the umbrella on the hedge next to him so it will offer some protection. Running will be easier without it, anyway. “Go to St. Vincent’s and ask for Sam.”

“Sam?”

Sometimes my dad listens to me and seeks out shelter. He never stays long, but it’s something. “Yeah. Sam. Tell him you’re Tee’s friend. Okay? Tee. Not Romy. He doesn’t know Romy.” No one knows her. “He’s one of the good guys. He won’t try to poison you, so don’t threaten him, okay? I’ve got to go now—”

My father’s hand shoots out, grasping my calf with surprising strength. “Beware of the demon with the flaming hair. She hunts for you,” he hisses, bits of bun and meat spraying from his mouth.

A shiver of unease skitters down my spine. I’m used to my father’s raving, but they’ve always been anchored by the same figure—a shadowy monster with black, twisty horns. This is new, and it instantly stirs thoughts of a mysterious red-haired woman in a green dress. “What do you mean by flaming—”

“What the hell?” Tony barks, startling me. I didn’t hear him approach. “We’re sitting there waiting for you, and you’re chatting it up with this bum.” He sneers at my father.

But Eddie pays him no attention, his eyes boring into mine as if pleading with me to listen. His grip tightens. “The gilded doe has been here. She knows what you are—”

Tony’s black boot connects with my father’s jaw, sending him tumbling backward with a sickening crack.

“What the hell!” I don’t think twice; I swing wide. My fist lands squarely against Tony’s nose. The feel of bones crunching beneath my knuckles is satisfying.

“You bitch!” He seizes me by my biceps with one hand while cupping his face with the other. Blood trickles down around his mouth.

I kick at his shins, trying to yank myself free so I can check on my father. He’s lying on the cold, wet sidewalk, moaning. His jaw is surely broken. “You’re hurting me!”

“I haven’t begun to hurt you.” Tony squeezes harder as he tugs me toward the curb where Pidge has edged the SUV forward to collect us. “My brother just called. He wants us there now,and he ain’t messin’ around.”

Years on the street have taught me how to defend myself, but none of it will help me break free of Tony’s viselike grip. He has at least two hundred pounds on me, and he’s too strong. I have no choice. I reach into the slit in my dress and slip the small knife I keep strapped to my thigh from its sheath.

“I don’t fucking think so.” Tony moves fast for a large and injured man, roping his brawny arm around my body, pinning my back against his chest. “You think I don’t know about your little butter knife? What are you gonna do with that? Huh?” He squeezes my wrist with his bloodied hand.

I cry out as pain shoots up my arm, and I lose my grip. The blade falls to the sidewalk, out of reach, leaving me defenseless as Tony hauls me toward the passenger door.

Alton rounds the side of his cart, the baseball bat he keeps tucked away for protection hanging from his grip. “Tee? You need some help?”

Tony snickers. “You’ll go back to your hotdogs if you know what’s good for you.”

Alton pauses, looks at me, conflict in his eyes, and I know what he’s thinking: he has a wife and two kids he wants to go home to. But he also can’t stand idly by while I’m dragged into the car, kicking and screaming.

Tony isn’t posturing—he will shoot him with the Glock he has under his jacket.

I go limp and shake my head, warning Alton away. “I’ll be fine.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Tony shoves me into the back seat of the SUV, climbing in beside me to keep me in place.

The last thing I hear before he slams the door shut is my father’s garbled cry: “Find the gilded doe!”

Korsakov’s main import-export operation runs out of a boxy, steel-gray warehouse at the city ports where containers loaded with cargo come and go, and the palms of the port authority are greased so well, everything slides past notice. The property is secured behind fencing, perimeter cameras, and at night, a lot of guys with guns.

I’ve always hated coming down here, but tonight feels unnervingly similar to three years ago when I was certain I wouldn’t be walking out, at least not with all my body parts still attached.

The asshole lumbering ahead of me, whistling an ominous Kill Bill tune, isn’t helping.

Tony pauses long enough to turn back and flash a vicious grin, though it ends in a grimace of pain that pleases me. His nose has stopped bleeding, but it’s red and swollen. If he were smart, he’d head to the hospital and get it set properly this time.

If he were smart.

I ignore him and the throb in my arm where he gripped me too tight, and concentrate on the explanation I crafted on the way over. It’s best I keep my story vague and simple, and focus Korsakov on why he values me in the first place. He has always praised me for my gut instincts.

There were eyes on me. It wasn’t safe. I would have gotten caught.

I’ll only play the Sofie card if I absolutely must.

“Who is that?” Pidge frowns at a white SUV parked by the door. Two stone-faced men sit in the front seats, watching us pass. The feel of their eyes on me makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

Tony shrugs, unconcerned. Whoever owns that vehicle must be inside, and they wouldn’t be there unless Korsakov allowed it. Plus, the armed guards surrounding this warehouse surely have their sights trained on them.

Tony punches in the security code that releases the door lock on the steel door.

I hold my breath, bracing myself for Korsakov’s voice. When he’s angry, he only has one volume, and you can hear him all the way from the other side of this cavernous space.

Instead, silence greets us.

“Where is everybody?” Pidge’s keys jangle from his fingertips as we march along the corridor. On either side of us are aisles of towering pallets full of product, the forklifts sitting idle.

“In the office,” Tony says, calling out louder. “We’re back, and we brought your little lizard with us!” An echo of his booming voice is the only response. He slows. Finally, the big dumb lout must sense the eeriness that climbed over my skin the second we stepped inside.

Tony juts his chin toward Pidge, and they both draw their guns. Pidge instructs me to get behind him with a nod of his head. I don’t argue. I’ll happily use him as a shield as I look for any opportunity to run.

My heart pounds in my ears as we proceed to the back of the building, where the door to the office sits ajar. Pidge gives it a push, and it swings open with a moaning creak.

A soundless gasp escapes my mouth.

Korsakov’s office is a long, narrow, windowless room, lined with filing cabinets that hold decades of paperwork. Normally it smells of burnt black coffee and smoldering tobacco.

Now, it reeks of death.

Bodies are scattered, their gaping wounds weeping into the cheap blue industrial carpet. Blood splatter decorates the drab beige walls in sweeping arcs like a sinister artwork exhibit. Four men lay dead, including Korsakov himself, sprawled on his back, his neck slashed from ear to ear.

And in the center of the carnage, seated cross-legged in Korsakov’s chair, is a woman with copper-red hair, observing us with a taunting smile.

Both Tony and Pidge make to raise their guns.

Sofie moves so quickly, my mind doesn’t register the flying objects until the men drop their weapons in unison and grip their forearms, howling in agony.

My eyes widen at the twin daggers that protrude from their wrists.

“Do not,” she warns simply.

Do not fight, do not run … Just do not.

I couldn’t if I wanted to. I am frozen in place.

A feeble groan pulls my eyes to the floor. Korsakov is still alive, though barely, and I doubt for long. He always seemed an unstoppable force, beckoning people to do his bidding with a few commanding words, a threatening squint. Now, he’s nothing more than a helpless man, carved by the sword that lies atop his desk, staining stacks of paper in crimson.

People still use swords?

“Who the fuck are you?” Tony manages through gritted teeth. The dagger landed precisely in the center of his right wrist, just below his palm. Severing important nerves, I’m sure.

“Someone your employer was unwilling to negotiate with.” As with earlier at the bar, Sofie remains calm and collected, unafraid. She’s swapped her emerald gown for head-to-toe black. It amplifies the intensity of her hair color. “I hope you are more intelligent than he was.”

Both Tony and Pidge scan the office. I assume they’re looking for proof that she didn’t slaughter four armed men on her own with nothing other than a sword. Maybe the two men sitting in the SUV out front were the ones to do this. But the speed and precision with which Sofie threw those daggers suggests her fully capable of it, and more.

My insides stir as I survey the bodies more closely, their guns on the floor beside them. All had drawn their weapons, and they’re all dead.

Even that last shred of life in Korsakov’s eyes is now gone.

“What were you negotiating for?” Tony’s attention lingers on his older brother. Does he feel any sorrow for the loss?

The weight of Sofie’s eyes as they shift to me stalls my heart. “Her.”

Beware of the demon with the flaming hair. She hunts for you.

I shove my father’s mad rants from my mind.

“You want her?” There’s disbelief in Tony’s voice. “For what?”

“That is none of your concern.” A tiny, knowing smile curls her lips as she regards me. “Let’s just say it’s something only she can help me with.”

What could Sofie possibly need me to steal that would be worth all this? My mind rifles through our early conversation. Did she leave the charity event knowing she would be coming here to slaughter Korsakov? She must have. If I had accepted her offer and left with her, would she have let them be?

Who is this woman?

Tony licks his lips. “How much are you offering me for her?”

Korsakov’s Italian suede loafers aren’t even cold, and Tony is already trying to jam his sweaty feet into them. With everyone else gone, he’s likely to inherit the operation. If he makes it out of here alive, and the way Sofie is examining him, I have reason to doubt it.

“For her?” Sofie cocks her head. “She is not a mule for purchase. Clearly, you’ve misunderstood. I offered to spare your employer’s life if he released her from her debt to him, which he foolishly refused. Now he is dead, and she is no longer bound to him. I am simply giving you the choice to either allow us to leave peacefully or forfeit your lives.”

Tony glowers at her and for a moment, I think he’s going to lunge. A part of me hopes he does.

“Don’t be stupid,” Pidge pleads under his breath, cradling his injured arm.

“Fine.” Tony sneers at me. “She’s a worthless bitch, anyway.”

Sofie’s face hardens, her eyes narrowing as they drop to where dark bruises matching meaty fingers have started to form on my biceps. “Perhaps I should not be the one to choose your outcome.” She stands and rounds the desk, her delicate hand curling around the hilt of the bloodied sword. “Should we or should we not leave them breathing, Romeria?”

My stomach drops. She knows my real name. How the hell does she know my real name?

“What will it be? Life”—Sofie presses the tip of her blade against Tony’s neck—“or death?”

He grimaces as a drop of blood swells against his skin where the sharp point nudges. His blue eyes dart to mine and mixed in with the usual medley of hatred and anger is fear.

I look away, unable to digest the latter. Tony’s a degenerate and an asshole. He hurt a helpless man tonight for no good reason. He wanted to see me suffer, even be killed. He deserves to lie in a heap next to the rest of these lifeless bodies.

My attention drifts to them. Irving has a pregnant girlfriend at home. Gavin’s twin sons giggle as they hide behind their fence and shoot unsuspecting neighborhood passersby with their water guns. Mark just closed on his first house with his wife. Korsakov leaves behind a daughter who will be devastated. They’re men who I would never label “good,” but they’ll be mourned all the same.

While I may be a thief, I’ll never be an executioner. “Let them go.”

Sofie waits a few beats but then lowers her blade with a heavy sigh. “She shows mercy where I would not. I’ll admit, that’s a quality I admire and abhor equally.”

Both men release the slowest exhales.

“If you two have an ounce of intelligence, you will remain here until we have departed.”

Tony’s bearish body shakes from rage but for once, he has the sense to keep his mouth shut.

She strolls past them without a hint of wariness. “Shall we?” It’s as if she’s inviting me out for a drink. As if she didn’t slaughter four men, and there’s no need to ask if I’d be willing to work for her now that Korsakov is dead. I guess there isn’t, because it’s obvious she’s intent on getting what she wants.

I have no more of a choice now with Sofie than I did three years ago with Korsakov. I have traded one murderer for another, and I must go along with it until I can get away from her.

We leave Pidge and Tony, daggers jutting from their wrists, standing in the office filled with corpses. My legs feel like they belong to someone else as they propel me forward, step by step. Every few seconds, I steal a glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Tony there, aiming his gun at my back. But the doorway remains empty.

Sofie doesn’t look back once. “I did warn them. I wish they had listened.” She shakes her head. “But men like them never do.”

“Tony is going to call the guys outside,” I hear myself say, my voice hollow. “They’ll shoot us the second we step out that door.”

“My guards will have taken care of them by now. They are no longer an issue.”

Right.The two scary men in the SUV. I eye the sword in her grasp and the trail of blood it leaves along the concrete. “And who took care of the guys in the office?”

She flashes me the briefest of looks. “Which answer would you prefer?”

“The truth?”

“I have yet to lie to you.”

“How would I know that?”

“You are a clever girl, Romeria. I think you know a great many truths.” Quietly, she adds, “More than you realize.”

“How do you know my real name? Did Korsakov tell you?” I didn’t think even he knew, but there isn’t much he can’t find out. Couldn’t find out.

“Malachi told me. He told me many things before he sent me for you.”

Do I know this Malachi person? Did I meet him on the street? And why has he sent Sofie for me?

I’m about to ask that question out loud when Sofie says, “I will not harm you, but do not try to run.”

There it is, the not-so-subtle threat. I can go willingly—or not—but go with her, I shall.

“Why all this effort? Why didn’t you just force me to leave with you from the hotel?”

“I considered it,” she admits. “We haven’t been given much time to dally. But I would prefer you come with me of your own volition, and it was clear that you felt trapped by that man.” She sighs, as if speaking of a daily nuisance that she has gladly put behind her. “I thought if I helped you with your problem, you might be keener to help me with mine.”

I wouldn’t call this of my own volition.

Maybe it’s because my brain is muddled with shock, but none of this makes any sense. I’m a thief. A highly skilled one, sure, but nothing more. I couldn’t even defend myself against Tony. Meanwhile, Sofie and her men wiped out a major crime syndicate within minutes, without earning a single scratch. “It’s clear you can get your hands on anything you want without my help, so what do you want with me?”

“It is not a matter of want, but of need.” Sofie turns to meet my eyes, and that confident veil she hides behind slips for a moment, long enough that I catch a glimpse of the raw desperation behind it. “I need you to save my husband.”

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