Submit To Me: Chapters 1–5

"These numbers are not adding up," I say quietly to myself as I punch the computer keys in the dimly-lit store room we own. Mother turns the OPEN sign to CLOSE, and now perches on the edge of a table, munching on Cheerios. "A $450 shortage in just five days?" I turn to her now. "Where is Sebastian?"

Mom shrugs. "Your brother hasn't come home since Sunday."

"This is insane."

I close my eyes and try, really try to control my anger as it courses through my veins. My hands shake, and beads of sweat coat my temples. Heat prickles my back as I punch in the numbers again, and my heart falls at the sight of the same result. Again and again.

"This cannot be happening," I say, aghast.

I hit the clear button over and over until finally, the calculator slips sideways, clattering to the smooth floor of the tiny office. The room is made smaller by the boxes of paperwork I'm trying to swim my way through. I've never touched any of them before now, and I'm starting to wonder if my mother ever did either.

"Katerina?" Mother asks nervously as she rises and comes around the desk to stand beside me, peering at the computer screen. She locks her hands with mine and I notice how think they are. She's not been feeding well, which isn't too much of a surprise these days. "Oh, no."

"How did this happen?" I ask, my voice cracking. "We're broke as hell. You assured me that the records were all up to date, and there are no shortages."

"There were no shortages when I last balanced the accounts," she says carefully.

"So how are we $450 short? Haven't you been the only one who has access to these records?"

"Yes, but Sebastian..."

My eyes go wide as I press her hands tightly. "You let Sebastian balance these accounts? Again?"

She draws her hand away, wrapping her hands around her body. Her chin-length hair, the same charcoal shade as mine, hides her face. "It was only one time."

"And let me guess. Thursday, right? Which explains why he's nowhere to be found right now. Goodness, Mom. You know how much of a kleptomaniac Seb is, yet you still let him get away with this over and over again."

"We'll find a way out. We always do," she says solemnly. I try to keep my emotions steady, but deep down I feel like crying. It hasn't even been up to three weeks when we'd forgiven Sebastian for making away with a $2500 check that was meant to be used in procuring new supplies for the store. And now, this.

"Katerina?" Mom tilts her head to the side, worry brimming in her eyes. "Everything is going to be okay, right? We're... we're not done for, or are we?"

"Mom..." I sigh. "I don't even know what to say to you right now. This is...this is..."

I'm so close to tearing up, and Mom hugs me, patting my hair. I hide my face in her chest, inhaling her rose-scented perfume. This store is our livelihood. It's what we've been using to keep afloat ever since Dad's passing. With $450 missing, we have nothing left to hold onto.

We're definitely going under. There's no question about that.

"I'm so sorry I failed, mother," I whisper.

"No my child," Mom says firmly, holding my shoulders, and staring into my eyes, her expression serious. "You didn't fail us. This isn't your fault, but mine. And I'll fix this."

"How? You don't have any job apart from this. The dance studio isn't bringing in anything."

"True, but I've found a buyer for that."

My jaw drops. I don't even want to think about it. "No, Mom. No."

"We have no choice anymore, Katerina. Sebastian took that away from us. We did what we could. It's time to move on. To seek a new career path."

"The studio was Dad's gift to us, Mom! You can't just sell it off like that. We can salvage what's left, trust me. Call the buyer and tell him we're keeping it."

"I will do no such thing, Katerina," her lips press into a thin line, and I know she means every word. "Get ready. He comes tomorrow to see the place. It's done. I'm so sorry."

When she reaches for me, I recoil. "I'll never forgive you for this. Dad must be turning in his grave right now!"

"The bills, Katerina... You saw them yourself. How on earth are we going to handle that? We don't even know where our meals next week will come from. We need a quick solution, and selling the studio is all the option we have left. We can rent the store or something. It won't bring in much."

"Yeah! But still. To just throw away all the work Dad put into it? How can you do that?"

She jerks away, her hair hiding her severe cheekbones. She always does that when she's overwhelmed, like a turtle tucking into its shell. She hates being reminded of Dad. All the sacrifices he did for us. It makes her cry. "Mom..."

"You're right." She wipes at her eyes. Mom never cries, not in front of anyone. "Selling the studio is shameful. Please understand that I'd do anything else if I could. But there's no other choice, Katerina."

A wretched, jagged sensation yanks through my guts. I can't stand to see her looking so miserable. I don't agree with her plans, but I care more about taking away her pain.

"It's okay, Mom." Reaching for her, I pull her to my chest. We're nearly the same height, her chin grazing my brow bone. Her arms circle me instantly, and the smell of her lemon-scented soap fills my nose. "Don't worry about it. Let's drop it for now."

"I'm really sorry, my love. I am."

"I know, Mom. And I love you. Okay?"

Her arms squeeze until my breath wheezes. "I love you too." She releases me, flapping her hands at her cheeks like she's hot. "I'm going to get some fresh air."

"I'm going downtown to meet up with Fabiola."

She turns to look up at the old, worn-out clock on the wall, and shakes her head. "I don't think that's a good idea. It's almost 8 P.M."

"I'll be back before you know it."

"Katerina..."

"I promise," I say desperately. "She mentioned something about having business prospects for us. Now that we're losing the studio, we need any new opportunities that come by."

That does the trick. She nods. "Okay. But be back by 9, okay? I don't trust these little street boys. I don't want them touching you."

My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my high-waisted jeans. Checking it, I read the message from my friend, Fabiola.

Hey, babes. Still coming out? - F.

Hesitating, I glance again at the bills that fill the room. It's not financially wise to go out and spend money on overpriced drinks, not at this time. This city in particular loves to overcharge for watered-down, sugary excuses for cocktails.

But at the same time, I know I can't put a dent in the store's debt with fifty bucks. And if I'm going to blow the money on something, I might as well use it to cheer myself up.

Yeah. See you in a bit - K.

"See you soon, Mother," I say as I grab my coat and head for the door. Just as I'm about to go out, Mom speaks up. "Oh, and Katerina?"

"Yes?"

"Be safe. Bad things happen downtown, Katerina. Very bad things happen to stupid people who put their noses where they shouldn't."

"I'm not stupid, mother."

"I know, but try all you can to mind your business. It's not our duty to save other people from the choices they make."

I roll my eyes. "Alright, mother. I'll keep that in mind."

With a final wave, I jog toward my light blue Prius. Once inside, I connect my phone to my current favorite playlist. Something extra loud and extra bouncy, the kind of sweet pop music that can give you cavities just from listening. It's a stark contrast to the gritty streets I'm driving on. Chucky's Lounge is near the docks, so close that you can't help smelling the ocean.

My mom is right. It is a rough area, but I've never had any issues. Sometimes guys hit on me, but what girl doesn't deal with that? It's never gone too far.

Now, Fabiola, she once smashed a glass on a guy's head because he grabbed her ass when her engagement ring was on full display. No one pressed charges on either side. Partly because her now-husband Josh is a lawyer specializing in witness protection cases, but mostly because it would have been a waste of energy.

The cops around here don't pay attention unless they're being bribed to do so. And that night, nobody wanted to cough up the extra cash to make them care.

I park my car along the curb. The last belted-out lyrics about dancing the night away are cut off abruptly when I open my door. Chucky's Lounge is squat, like a hulking gargoyle with its old stone. Blue lights flash through the curved windows, outlining the bodies of the people hovering outside. There's a cloud of smoke around the group. One of them whistles at me as I pass and I ignore him, not bothering to roll my eyes.

I'm not even dressed in anything revealing, just jeans, low red heels, and a white tank-top.

"Hey, baby doll!" a bald guy with gauge earrings yells. "You want some company?"

I cringe violently. It wouldn't have mattered if he was hot or ugly; I hate being flirted with.

Flirting leads to feelings, feelings lead to dating, and dating ... Well, that's just the road to disaster.

And the last thing I need in my life is more trouble.

I never would've known about Chucky's Lounge if it weren't for Fabiola. It was located at the grey part of town, where Mother never lets me go to. I don't even want to think about how she'll react if she finds out I often spend most nights here with Fabiola. It won't bode well for me.

"Katerina!" Fabiola cheers as I enter the Lounge, waving for me to join her. She's so loud that a few people glance at her with mixed expressions. Not that she doesn't draw the eye naturally, what with her long red hair, perfect hourglass figure, and freckles so cute you'd swear she drew them on.

"Hey, Fabiola." I sit in the chair across from my friend.

She leans forward, her voice hushed. "How's your mother?"

"Mom's fine." Grimacing, I shake my head, whipping myself in the cheeks with my hair. "No, that's bullshit. Before I get into it, I need one of those." I gesture at the empty glasses.

Fabiola signals for someone. One very petite waitress immediately sways our way, her tight black skirt clinging to her hips. A guy tries to grab her ass, and she immediately elbows him with a smooth, well-practiced motion without bothering to look back at him. I can't help but start laughing. She sees my reaction, winking as she gets close. "What can I get you girls?"

"Some liquor to loosen us up."

"Oh no." Giving the waitress an apologetic smile, I point at the blackboard over the back of the bar. "I'll have a pint of the Stockwood Nitro."

"Beer?" Fabiola looks at me incredulously. "You're drinking beer? Who even are you?"

"Someone who doesn't want to wake up in a stranger's bed."

She rolls her eyes at my retort before she orders herself another martini. Once the waitress walks away to leave us waiting for the drinks, Fabiola lifts her eyebrows at me sympathetically. "All right, spill. What's wrong with your mom?"

I really wanted some alcohol in me before going down this road. Watching anxiously for the waitress, I pick at my fingernails. "Mom's not bugging me. It's Sebastian."

Fabiola's eyes widen. "Wait, don't tell me he stole..."

"Again." I blow out a breath. "I don't know what to do. It's way worse than last time, and we might be forced to close down the store soon. And Mom wants to sell the dance studio too."

Fabiola shakes her head sadly. "That's too bad. How is your mother handling it?"

"She's overwhelmed and keeps apologizing. I swear to God if I catch Sebastian anywhere near that store, I'll knock out a tooth." Gritting my teeth, I notice I've cut the skin by my thumbnail in anger. My rage simmers when I look up, relieved to see the waitress with our drinks.

I take the beer, enjoying how cold it feels in my grip, and make sure to tip the waitress well. She gives me an appreciative smile before she walks away. "You need anything, you just yell," she says before slipping into the chaotic crowd.

Arching my neck, I take a huge pull of my drink. It burns perfectly, like I'm swallowing fire. But it's what I want.

"Katerina," Fabiola presses me. "What are you going to do?"

Sighing, I put the glass on the table, turning it slowly in a circle. "I'm out of ideas at the moment. Mom really wants us to sell the studio. In fact, she said she already has someone coming to make an offer, but I told her none of that is happening. Dad worked so hard to keep that dance studio in good shape before his passing. I can't let his sacrifice go to waste."

"Holy shit." She leans back in her chair to take this all in. Tipping her drink to her lips, she leaves a smudge of bright pink lipstick. One more swallow and the martini is gone. "Okay. Wow. That's ... I'm so sorry, Katerina. This on top of everything else—you must be overwhelmed."

"Everything else?" I ask.

"Yeah." Fabiola cocks her head the way a dog might if it heard something strange. "You know," she prods. "Isn't it the anniversary⁠—"

Right ... The bitter memory suddenly rises in my throat like bile.

"Don't." I bite the word in half; she recoils like I dug my teeth into her.

My hand creeps around to my stomach and I hug myself, drawing my knees upward slightly. Searching for my beer, I frown when I discover it's empty. Somehow, I drank it all without realizing.

"I'm not going to think about that," I tell her, my tone icier than I would like. "And you shouldn't either."

"Of course, whatever you say." She puts on her best fake grin, waving for the waitress to begin our round two. My plan to stay sober goes out the window. Who can blame me? The stress I'm under isn't normal. I pride myself on being strong, like my father taught me to be, but this is too much.

Two rounds become three. My plan to stick with beer shifts because Fabiola gives me a taste of her martini, hooking me with its bitter kick. And by the time Fabiola starts pulling me toward the exit, I've got a strong buzz going.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Home. I think we've both had enough, and Josh is never going to let me hear the end of it if I come home blackout drunk."

"Boring," I tease. She's right; any more alcohol and I'll go from dizzy joy to stumbling in the street. The air outside is crisp, a welcome change from the humidity inside Tsar's.

Fabiola gives me a firm hug as we balance in our heels on the curb. "Thanks for coming out, Katerina."

"No, no, no, thank you. You're a great friend, Fabiola. We need to do this more."

She holds me at arm's length. Her lipstick is smeared from rubbing her mouth on too many martinis. Even while slightly drunk, the concern swimming in her pretty blue eyes is legit. "If you need help, let me know. Got it?"

"I'll figure it out. Really." Hugging her one final time, I point at the taxi pulling up behind her. "Get some sleep. Tell Josh I said hi and that I'm sorry I got you this drunk."

"You better be calling an Uber. You can't drive right now."

"I won't," I promise, hand to my heart. "My car is down that way. I just want to get my jacket from it, and then I'll call a car."

Screwing her face up, she silently warns me not to lie before she turns, half-stumbling into the back seat of her taxi. I wait a moment, watching the red taillights fade into the quiet night. It's starting to feel pretty dead out here. This area gets almost no foot traffic after midnight.

Mom is going to lecture me for hours if she finds out. Shaking my head, I walk on stiff legs toward my car. I'm not as drunk as Fabiola, yet walking on the uneven concrete is a challenge.

Popping open my trunk, I fish around until I find the jean jacket that I tossed in there some months ago. I packed it in anticipation of the coming fall weather, but summer unexpectedly pressed on, taunting the city with its wretched scorch even as September bled into October.

When I stick my arms through the sleeves, adjusting the front, I feel a lump in the right-side pocket. Slipping out the wrinkled yellow Post-it note, I read the scribbled writing.

William, Margret, Rose, Brandon.

It takes me a second to make sense of it. Then I remember, and it's like being punched by a wrecking ball.

My fist shakes as I crumple the paper, throwing it into my trunk, slamming it closed. Breathing heavily, I turn away, walking without purpose as tears sting my eyes. I can't escape it. Why won't the world let me move on? Why can't I just be free?

Heated by my tangle of emotions, I don't notice I've wandered toward the docks until the whiff of salt and dead fish hits my nose. Lifting my eyes, I scan the warehouses, trying to get my bearings. Time to call an Uber and get home. Maybe sleep will make me feel better. I know it won't. It hasn't yet. Reaching for my phone, I freeze when a sound to my right catches my attention.

At first, I think it's a dog whimpering. On instinct, I head toward the noise. My heels click on the hard, splintered boardwalk around the side of a brick building not far from Tsar's. Just before I turn the corner, I hear the sound again.

"Please, no, you can't!"

Pulling up short, I lean against the damp wall beside me. That's no dog. Craning my neck, I carefully peer at the scene on the other side. There are two men there. One is massive, like a tombstone rising from the earth in human form. He's solid all around, hard edges draped in a dark suit. I can't see his face, but I can see the face of the other man in front of him. That man is pale as old milk, trembling visibly on his knees as he cranes his neck to stare up at his friend.

No, I realize with budding horror. They're not friends. Something is wrong. The fear slips through my blood in wriggling waves. A shudder passes through me, and not from the chilly air.

"Please," the man on his knees sobs. He runs his large, bony hands over his jaw. A shaky smile crosses his face, so wide I can see his gums. "Just think it through. We can work this out, can't we?"

The mountain of a man doesn't budge. He lifts his chin slightly, letting me see the square line of his jaw. Even in this dim light, I can tell that he is wickedly handsome. In a smooth motion I nearly miss, he drops his right hand deep into his suit pocket. On his wrist is something that glitters. A red Rolex watch, I realize curiously.

"No," he says, his voice pure baritone. "We can't."

The gun shines in the single nearby streetlight. The barrel is short, as thick as the massive man's finger. There's no time for the pleading man on the ground to react. He's still wearing his nervous smile when the gun goes off. The smile doesn't fade when he topples sideways, blood leaking from the hole in the front of his shirt.

A startled gasp escapes me. The killer shifts, starting to turn in my direction. I clasp my hands over my mouth, not waiting to see if he noticed me as I sprint down the dock at a speed that would snap my ankle if I made a single misstep.

It's a miracle I don't fall. Adrenaline keeps me moving, but it's the terror that drives me hardest.

He killed him!

He killed that man!

Panting, my throat on fire, I run past my car, past Tsar's, and I don't stop until I'm at least another five blocks away. Sweat saturates my chest. Tears blind me, some from the pressure of the wind from my run, some from agony. What I witnessed was a literal nightmare.

I always knew terrible things happened in this city; I'm not naive.

But I never thought they'd happen in front of me.

Mom was right. I never should've come out to see Fabiola by this time of the day.

The sound of the gunshot replays in my head. Over and over and over until I clutch my skull, crouching on the sidewalk in a manic mess. Yet, when I close my eyes, it's not the murder I remember. I don't think about the blood or the dead man's red-stained smile.

I see the handsome killer.

And the red watch around his wrist.

"You've been awfully quiet these past two days, Katerina. What is the matter? Are you feeling sick?" Mom's worried voice pulls me out of my blank staring. She eyes me suspiciously, lips pursed. "Did something happen that night you went out to go see Fabiola?"

"What? No," I lie with a yawn, stretching. My temples ache. "I'm just...I'm fine."

I don't even know what's wrong with me. My whole world came crashing out after that fateful night. Unable to find a quick, effective solution for us, I have no idea but to give into Mom's plan to sell the studio. It breaks me that I'll have to say goodbye to it soon, but I make a vow withing me to do whatever I can to get the studio back after a year or two.

It's the only thing Dad left us with. We can't lose it like that.

"Well, if you say so. Cheer up. He'll be here any minute, and acting sullen might discourage him from purchasing."

"Yes, Mom."

I stand taller and smooth my palms over my hair, pulled back in an elegant bun today. Partly to look professional, and also because I didn't have the energy this morning to do anything more elaborate.

My aching joints has turned my guts into knots. But it's the sickening memory of what I witnessed two nights ago that churns my stomach the most.

Will it be on the news today? Should I have reported it to someone? Deep down, I'm sure it's dangerous to get involved. Still, the idea that someone died and their friends and family don't know what happened ... That doesn't sit well with me at all.

"Katerina, you're staring mindlessly again. Please, snap out of it." Mom shoves a roll of paper towels into my chest. "Go wipe down the front desk. I don't want Mr. Ivanovsky irritated with dust."

"We haven't been in here in months, Mom. Do you really think this person won't buy the store if someone comes in here and sees a little dust?" I chuckle. "If it was that easy, you could have informed me earlier, so I wouldn't bother cleaning it at all."

"Katerina! Behave yourself!" She's aghast, her hand touching her collarbone in her high-neck black dress. "If you're going to cause trouble, just go somewhere else."

"Relax Mom, you're acting like it's the Pope that's coming to buy from us. I'll be good." I'm not childish enough to cause havoc. I don't need to because I've made my own plans. Once I meet the buyer, I'll quiz him about his intentions. If I'm not satisfied, I'll put my foot down. In my heart, I believe my mother will listen to reason if faced with the right information.

After all, it's not the buyer's mind I have to change. It's hers.

There's a knock on the front door. It's a crisp, solid triple tap. Mom and I exchange a look at the sound. I throw the paper towels into the office and smooth down the front of my red blouse. She checks her hair in the many mirrors before motioning for me to go first. "Let him in, Katerina. And be nice."

Pfft. As if.

But when I enter the front room, I see that he has already let himself in. I'm furious at the cockiness this stranger has. Who the hell just walks into a business without waiting for permission?

Then he turns toward me.

And it's ... hard to feel angry.

He towers over me, his figure cutting a perfect triangle in his cobalt suit. The black belt around his middle gives him a taper, hugging his thick trunk to show off how fit he truly is. When he angles his chin down to gaze at me with his light blue, nearly silver eyes, my headache disappears.

In its place, heat slips through my blood and leaves me dizzy.

I've never seen someone as sexy as him. Not this close, anyway. He lifts a large hand, his long fingers scrubbing lightly over his chin as he smirks at me. "You're not Irina," he says.

"Oh, uh, no." Clearing my throat, I offer him my hand. "I'm Katerina, her daughter."

He grips my palm, the warmth and power traveling through my skin until my scalp tingles. Oh, dammit, this is bad. I'm supposed to hate this guy's guts. That's what I was ready for.

Not ... this. This confusing electricity...

"Mr. Ivanovsky!" Mom weaves between us, taking his hand, giving it a few excited shakes. "I'm so glad you made it! I hope parking was all right? These streets, sometimes people just leave their cars without any consideration. If there's trouble, tell me. I know a man who will tow⁠—"

"No, no. It's fine." He surveys the room after he withdraws his hand. "So, this is your studio. It's smaller than I thought it would be."

A flicker of annoyance dampens my attraction. "It's still bigger than any other studio in the entire area."

"Right. You had that fact on the tip of your tongue," he notes. Mr. Ivanovsky turns in place, then walks around us, exploring the main dance area. He's not waiting for us to lead him around.

Baffled, I shoot my mom a look, trying to say, What's his deal?

She ignores me and hurries after him. Sighing, I follow along, wanting to keep an eye on what he does next. Strolling along the perimeter of the mirrors, he watches himself in them before he crosses the room and stops.

"Even if it's bigger than other dance studios," he says, looking at me in the reflection. "It's small."

I tense under his hard stare. "It's big enough."

"Not for my purpose."

"And what's that?" I ask cautiously.

Instead of responding, he returns to exploring. When he reaches another wall, he runs his thumb down the mirror, squinting at the smudge. My mom hisses in my ear. "I told you to wash those."

I frown. This man clearly doesn't care about the mirrors.

"I asked what you plan to do with the building," I say.

He mumbles to himself, pulling out his phone.

Storming toward him, I grab his elbow. "Hey! Stop ignoring me!"

He stiffens at my touch. I might as well have grabbed the tire on a four-wheeler. Slowly, he turns just enough to glower at me. His face is stoic, but beneath it burns a vivid, intense energy that threatens to buckle my knees.

"If you want my attention so badly, ptichka, there are better ways to get it." Shifting backward, he forces my hand off of his body.

"You're here to make an offer." Refusing to back down, I swallow the dry spot in my throat. "Talking business usually involves talking."

"Katerina, please," my mother says, rushing up beside me. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ivanovsky. My daughter can be very blunt."

"Call me Sasha." He darts his silvery eyes at me. "And it's quite all right. I'm used to dealing with overeager people who don't know their place."

Oh, he did not just say that. Making fists, I brace myself in preparation for telling him where he can shove his offer. But before I can say anything, Mom stands in front of me and claps her hands with a big smile.

"Shall we go to the office?" she says. "You can go over the paperwork."

Sasha flicks his attention from me to her, then back again. "Only if your charming daughter is okay with that."

His smirk is like a fishhook. It tugs into me with such force that I'm afraid I'll never yank it out. And when it's gone, I can still feel its presence throbbing against my flesh. I fight the instinct to roll my eyes. Ugh, why does he have to be so easy on the eyes?

"That's what I've wanted from the start." Once he sees the numbers, there's no way Sasha will want to buy the studio. It's a money pit. He won't want to fix it, not the way I do. This kind of labor involves memories ... It involves genuine love.

One look at him, and I know that's an emotion he'd never understand.

It's obvious that we all can't enter the office. Sasha would find it hard to wedge himself in the room solo.

"I'll bring the paperwork to you," my mom says, her face flushing. She hurries to gather it up, dropping sheets on the floor, kneeling to retrieve them again. Her anxiety is putting my own nerves on edge.

Sasha crosses his arms over his broad chest. The gold cufflinks on his suit jacket glint in the lights. Suddenly, I'm reminded of the gun.

"You look pale," he says. "Do I frighten you, ptichka?"

"No. And stop calling me that. I have a name."

"Forgive me," he chuckles dryly. "I forget the names of people I don't need to remember."

Fuming at his brazen comment, I bite my tongue.

"Here we are!" Mom blurts. Handing the stack to Sasha, she links her fingers at her waist like she's waiting for a compliment. I hate this whole situation. But above all, I hate the amount of hope Mom's gaze betrays when she looks at Sasha. I want to shake her, to yell at her, and to ask if this place means nothing to her.

If Dad's memories mean nothing to her. But I can't. Because for the first time in a long time, I do see something in her eyes—an emotion that she might've forgotten over the years.

Hope.

Muttering to himself, Sasha flips through the papers. He scans them one by one, scrutinizing them closely. "Not surprising," he sighs.

"What?" I ask.

"This place is burning money like a furnace. No wonder you need me."

"We don't need you⁠—"

"It doesn't matter," he cuts me off. "I don't need it to be successful as a studio. The location is what I'm buying."

"What are you saying?" I ask warily, heart hanging in my throat, terrified of what his answer is going to be.

Handing the papers to my mother, Sasha rakes his eyes over me from head to toe. "I'm turning it into a hotel. Five star."

And just like that, my heart plummets into my heels. "You can't be serious!"

"I very much am."

"But you said it was too small! A hotel, here? Impossible."

"I'll tear it all down." He shrugs. "And once everything is gone, I'll rebuild."

Tear it all down. My chest twinges painfully. There's not enough room in my ribs for how fast my lungs are expanding. My knees suddenly feel rubbery, and my hand twitches to grab something to steady myself, lest I risk collapsing to the floor at how easy and unconcerned he sounds about destroying my childhood.

"I won't sell it." The words slip out of my lips before I can stop myself.

His eyes darken at my insolence, and my mother's mouth drops open.

"Katerina!" she exclaims. But I'm beyond the point of trying to be polite to this asshole. Someone has to care about this place!

"I won't let him, or anyone, ruin what we built! What you and Dad worked so hard for!" Shaking my head violently loosens my bun. I square off with Sasha. He's far bigger than me, but I refuse to let his size intimidate me. "We won't sell to you."

He's judging me with fresh curiosity. I can't help but imagine him as a shark circling me in the open ocean. Mom's hand touches my elbow lightly.

"We will be selling," she says flatly, doing her best to keep her voice even.

"Mom! No!"

"Sasha ... Mr. Ivanovsky. If your offer is serious, the contract can be signed right now."

Deflating at her unwavering statement, I inch backward, away from both of them.

Sasha's face beams with delight as a grin curls on the handsome face that I've come to detest in such a short time. "It's regrettable that your daughter has such misgivings about my plans."

"Because you're destroying my childhood!" I shout.

My mother cringes. But Sasha just lets his grin transform into a sneer. "I'm turning something broken into something new. Rebirthed, repurposed, whatever you want to call it."

I curl my lip in disgust. "I call it greed."

"Do you think I'm taking advantage of the two of you?" he asks, lifting a hand to stroke over his dark hair.

That's when I see it.

The small orbs dance under the lights in the same way hundreds of ballet dancers have spun in this place over the years. There's no doubt in my mind. I know exactly what I'm looking at.

It's a Rolex watch.

The same one that I saw last night!

Blood suddenly rings in my ears; it drowns out Sasha as he continues to speak. "It's awful that you have such a low opinion of me, ptichka. Allow me to change that. After all, we're going to be seeing a lot of each other as the details of the contract come together."

He's the one.

He killed that man!

I stumble slightly. I can't breathe. Sasha narrows his eyes, and I have an awful, unreasonable fear that he's reading my mind.

Dropping his hand to his hip, my eyes follow his wrist down. He watches me do it. Shit ... Does he recognize me from last night? I ran away as fast as I could ...

He didn't see my face ... did he?

"Mr. Ivanovsky is right, Katerina," Mom says. "Let's keep the peace. This will work out for all of us, even if it doesn't seem that way now. It's a chance to have a fresh start in life. Please, sweetheart."

"Listen to your mother, ptichka," he agrees with a sideways smirk. "Don't let your own selfish wants stop you from giving your mother the chance that she deserves."

"It doesn't matter what I want," I whisper. "Mom already agreed to the deal."

"I'm aware," he notes, "but I prefer everyone to go away happy from a deal. I don't like misgivings; they complicate things. And I prefer that at the end of every deal, I walk away with the opposing party as friends. And in my experience, the road to intimate friendship begins with a drink."

Is ... is he asking me out?

The audacity of this guy!

But at the same time, his words intrigue me. He wants to convince me that the deal is good. Which means there's still a chance I can convince him that it's bad.

But can I accept this? I'm sure he's the guy who I saw kill a man last night. I turn to look at my mother, and she implores me silently with her eyes.

She has no idea who this man is ... or how dangerous he might be.

I'm being paranoid. He doesn't know I was there last night. He can't know; he'd have said something by now.

If nothing else, maybe a drink will at least get me closer to the truth of who he is. And if I manage to convince him to back out of the deal, so much the better.

So, I give a curt nod. "Fine. Drinks under the pretense of business, that's all."

"I wasn't aware that this was anything else other than business," he teases. "Or is there something else you think I want from you, ptichka?"

His smile makes him more handsome, and the sight of it causes my body to betray me. A new spark of heat drips from my belly and settles in my inner thighs. It's unfair for a man this awful to be this good-looking. It's a wicked joke; it has to be.

"Where do you want to meet?"

Sasha gently rakes his teeth against his lower lip, almost as if he's hinting at how he'd use those teeth on me. But whatever arousal he's growing in my core evaporates when he speaks.

"Chucky's Lounge." His smile shifts, and the playful glint in his eyes is replaced with something else. "But we should go before it gets too dark. Terrible things are known to happen around there after midnight near the docks, especially to people who go poking around where they shouldn't."

He extends his hand to me. Realizing that I have no other choice, I take it. And at the shocking warmth of his grip, a surge of electricity dances its way along my arm and straight into my heart. His smile locks me into place, but there's no warmth in his eyes.

Instead, there's only something predatory and dangerous. His pupils widen slightly as our hands remain locked, and I see myself reflected in their infinite dark depths—like a gazelle on the savannah trapped in the gaze of a starving lion.

And that's when I know I'm screwed.

My steering wheel is damp from my clammy palms.

Breathe, Katerina. Just breathe.

Lowering my head, I shut my eyes and listen to the air moving through my lungs. This is my third time doing this in the last ten minutes. It hasn't worked to calm me down yet, but I don't have any better ideas.

I could drive off instead of meeting Sasha face to face. That sounds nice, actually. Loosening my fingers from my steering wheel, I push my car door open. As nice as ghosting this guy would be, it's wasting my only opportunity to keep my studio.

I have to be brave.

I can do that.

Adjusting my jean jacket over my knee-length, tan sweater dress, I tuck my phone with its attached wallet into my pocket. I'm not sure it will help, but I've made sure my emergency number is set to call Fabiola and not my mom. God, no, she'd have a heart attack if I was in trouble and she found out. The police would also be a waste of time.

My best friend, though, would figure out something if I panic-called her. And then she'd make Josh move heaven and earth to help me out.

I hope it doesn't have to come to that.

Locking up my car, I take long strides in my ankle-boots, moving in a straight line toward Chucky's Lounge. Unlike last night, there's no crowd of drunks loitering outside. That's one less hurdle for me to deal with.

Shoving the heavy front door open, I sweep the lounge, looking for Sasha. I'm a few minutes late for our meeting. I wasn't going to show up early; that would make me seem desperate and pathetic.

He should be here already. Why don't I see him? It's not like he doesn't stick out. The man is a walking fridge, for crying out loud!

Chucky's Lounge keeps the lights low, but it isn't that dark. What corner could he be hiding in? Plus ... it's oddly quiet tonight. I clock maybe five patrons at the bar, another sitting alone in a booth.

"Excuse me?"

Turning, I see the waitress who served Fabiola and me last night. She's dressed exactly as she was the last time I saw her, but her hair is wound up in space buns tonight.

"Oh! Hey!" I reply.

Her smile twitches at the corner, like she's on edge. "He's waiting for you over there."

I don't have to ask who she means. I follow her gesture, spotting the VIP section. It's tucked away nicely in a section of the lounge with its own two-step roped-off entry. I've never been there before. It's reserved for people who like to show off by blowing their money.

Of course that's where he is.

"Thanks," I sigh. "How long has he—" I trail off, watching as she retreats away from me like I'm infected or something. It's extra unsettling since she was so friendly to me last night.

What changed?

The nerves from earlier grip my heart again. Forcing my head high, I walk stiff-legged into the VIP area. There's a thin curtain covering the door. Through the gap, I see a large, rounded, black leather couch. In the nexus of it is Sasha.

His legs are spread wide, muscular arms thrown over the back of the cushions. His pose screams royalty. This is a man comfortable in his control. He didn't have to sit in his car, building himself up before coming inside, like I did. He's dressed in a crisply ironed pair of ashen slacks with a matching suit jacket. His shirt, which pulls across his broad chest, is a rich sienna. If someone snapped his photo now, they could sell it to GQ magazine for a spread about cologne and make millions from the royalty rights.

He spies me peering through the curtain. "Hello, Katerina."

"Hi," I say coldly. He just chuckles, like my distaste amuses him. Dropping the curtain, I move toward him cautiously. "You didn't need to pay for the VIP. We're just talking business."

"Business requires the right setting."

"Or you just want to show off how rich you are."

Lifting a dark eyebrow, he sits forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Money is like the wind. You only feel it when it moves. Everything I do has a reason. You'd do well to learn that." His posture shifts, the friction making the prayer beads on his wrist slide into view.

If everything he does has a reason, then why did he kill that man? Forcing myself to look at his eyes, not the beads, I sit on the couch across from him. "Let's just get this started."

"So eager." He reaches toward the low table to his right. There's a silver bucket on top. He throttles the neck of the champagne bottle inside, tipping it to pour the bubbling liquid into two glasses. "Why don't we share a drink before we get to the grit?"

"If you're trying to woo me with your generosity, there are better ways."

Passing me the glass, he holds his near his lips. "Such as?"

"Tell my mom you changed your mind and that you won't be buying the studio."

"That would be the opposite of generosity."

"Not to me."

Narrowing his eyes, Sasha gives me a curious stare. "You'd let your mother end up homeless? And for what? Your pride?"

I jerk forward, spilling a few drops of champagne on my dress. "I'd never let her end up on the street. You've got a massive opinion of yourself if you think you're our only option."

"I am your only option," he says sharply. "You won't find anyone better than me to rescue you from the mess you've gotten yourselves into."

Curse you Sebastian, wherever you are. My indignation simmers into a full-blown inferno of disgust. "Anyone would be better than a murderer."

It's as if all the air has fled the room. Sasha is immobile, focusing on me with his eyes so intently that I can feel the angry heat emanating from them.

"Oh, ptichka." There's a silky danger in his voice now. "That was the wrong thing to say."

Not wanting to show any weakness, I push my jaw out defiantly. "Back out of the deal, or I'll call the cops on you."

"Is that a threat?"

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Clearly." Settling into the cushions, he takes a swallow from his glass. "But if I am, as you say, a murderer," he sets the glass down, "then agreeing to meet me in person tells me that you're either very brave, Katerina, or very stupid."

Something in his demeanor has changed. It seeps from his pores, a black, insidious cloud that fills the room until I'm struggling to breathe. Sasha isn't worried about my promise to call the cops. In fact, he's practically daring me to do it. Coldness grips my heart. I'm in over my head. Setting the champagne down, I will my legs not to tremble when I rise. "I'm leaving."

His smile is cruel. "Are you?"