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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