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First toll: twelve sharp peals. A sound like a death knell. A sound like shattering cages. Second toll: I feel him before I see him. A prickle across my skin. My blood remembers his hands better than my brain does. Third toll: I turn. Fourth: He’s watching me. The man from the bathroom. Sasha Ozerov. Suit pristine, hair perfect, mouth set in that same brutal slash. But the tendons in his neck stand out like tension cables. His pupils swallow the Arctic blue of his eyes whole. Fifth: My knees unlock. My stolen Valentino heels don’t wobble. Small miracles. Sixth: My father steps between us,
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“You’re a storm wearing his daughter’s face. And storms? They don’t bend. They break.” He squeezes my hand. “So break it, koukla. Break it all.”
“Stage three: the pet names. The worse, the better. Schnookums. Babycakes. My little Bratva Bear.”
“You are, in your own way. You cry with blood. You cry with spreadsheets. It’s a little depraved and disturbing, if we’re being honest, but hey, far be it from me to criticize another man’s coping mechanisms. I’m just saying that I see you, Sasha Ozerov. I see what’s in front of you. And I want you to see what I’m seeing.” He slumps back against the bench. “That’s it. Lecture over. I’m out of poetry for the night.”
A guttural noise escapes me—part growl, part sob. “She’ll shoot me on sight.” Zoya’s smile curves like her cleaver. “So be ready to duck.”
A neon sign glows through the blizzard ahead—CVS. Sanctuary.
The way I laughed when I read this is unhinged
