Chapter 1: Beautiful Scar: Chapter 1

“Don’t lie to me. This is the most important question I’ve ever asked you.” I lean in close and stare at my brother like I’m about to rip off his head. “Is Dad throwing me a surprise party?”

Evan looks as baffled as I feel. “All he said was I had to put on a suit. That’s everything he told me.”

I groan and pace across my suite’s sitting room. Evan’s watching me with that smug grin he always has as I struggle to keep myself together. Excitement flits through my belly, but I’m also nervous as hell.

“When was the last time I went to a party?” I ask the room, not really expecting an answer.

Evan supplies one anyway. “It’s got to be years at this point. You’re a pathetic hermit, remember?”

“Thank you for that.” I glare at him and wonder what I was thinking when I called him here. My brother’s a good person at heart, but he’s not exactly patient with me most of the time. “You could be a little bit nicer, you know. It’s my freaking birthday.”

“And I said happy birthday already. How old are you again? Fifty-five?”

“Twenty-five. And you’re hilarious.”

“I’m just saying, based on what you’re wearing—” He gestures at my conservative forest green dress.

“What’s wrong with this?” I smooth the long skirt and tug at the long sleeves.

“It’s a little… spinsterish.”

“It’s comfortable.” I pick up a home decorating magazine and fling it at him. The pages open and flutter, giving him plenty of time to duck. “I don’t even know where we’re going, so how am I supposed to figure out what to wear?”

“Considering you’ve barely left this house for the last decade, I’d say you have basically no chance of getting it right.”

“You’re helpful. I’m really happy you’re here.”

Evan walks over to my bar cart and helps himself, which is fine since that stuff is mostly only there for him anyway. “Look, Dad wouldn’t force you to go somewhere that would mess you up, right? Whatever we’re doing, it’ll be safe and stress-free. Just try to relax.”

“That’s the thing. I can’t relax.” I throw myself down onto the couch and contemplate jumping out a window. Except that would mean leaving the house too, and we’ve already established that’s not something I do.

Evan’s wrong about one thing, though. It hasn’t been a decade—it’s been twelve long years.

I’ve gone places in that time. Mostly school, a few extracurricular activities, but the second I graduated from high school, my world narrowed down to a few rooms in a single house.

Things have been good for a while. I’m not exactly out living my best life, but I’m comfortable. Dad’s got the resources to take care of me while also making sure that I’m safe, and I try to help out around the house. It’s a total win-win situation.

For me, anyway.

Evan slumps down on the other end of the couch. He swirls his drink and takes a long sip. “It’ll be fine. Honestly, I’m sure it’s just a birthday thing. How often do you turn twenty-five?”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.” He reaches out and awkwardly pats my ankle. “And if I’m wrong, you can scream your head off and run away.”

“Good idea. As if everyone in Philly needs another reason to think I’m crazy.”

“Nah, nobody thinks you’re crazy. At least, they’re not stupid enough to say that around me.”

“What a protective older brother.”

“That’s right.” He takes another sip and stretches. “Always making sure nobody besmirches your name, aside from me.”

I pull my knees up to my chest. This shouldn’t be such a big deal. Dad’s got something special planned for tonight, and if I were even halfway normal, I’d be able to show up without having a minor meltdown.

That’s not me, though. Instead of taking the news like a regular human, my brain’s doing backflips and screaming through a thousand different worst-case scenarios.

Like what if there’s an earthquake and the building collapses? Or there’s a fire and I’m trapped in a stairwell? Or maybe the car flips twice on the way over and I have to crawl over broken glass to save my stupid grinning dickhead brother’s life?

I’d seriously consider letting him perish.

“That’s it,” I announce, shoving to my feet again. Anxiety makes me twitchy. “I’m not going.”

Evan groans and drinks. “Come on, Dash.”

“Nope, I can’t do it. Just can’t do it. Dad will just have to accept my decision.”

“He won’t. You know that. How many times has he asked you to do anything in the last decade?”

I frown at him. “Never, but⁠—”

“And how many women in your position get to basically live the life they want to with no responsibilities to the family?”

“I mean, none, but⁠—”

“Then why can’t you just trust that Dad has your back?” He’s giving me this smug look, and it makes me want to claw his stupid eyes out.

I hate it when he has a point.

I’m a blood relative to the pakhan of the Zeitsev Bratva. It’s a distant relation, but still. Most women in the family are either married off or actively working for one of the organization’s businesses by the time they’re twenty-five. I could’ve been a doctor or a lawyer or maybe a cute PR girl with super high heels and really good hair.

Instead, I decided to be a creepy loser.

And I only get away with it because Dad’s been sheltering me.

“Fine,” I say through my teeth. “But if the earth opens up and swallows you, I’m not going to rappel down to save your life.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” he says. “Besides, I’ve seen you trip over your own feet walking down the hall. Pretty sure you’re not rappelling anywhere.”

I make a rude gesture and collapse back onto the couch.

The thing is, I want to go tonight. I want to wear cute dresses, mingle at fun parties, have a drink or two, and enjoy myself.

But the chattering anxiety screaming in the back of my head won’t let me.

I straighten my spine. I sit on the edge of the cushion at my full height—an imposing five-foot-three—and tilt up my chin.

This is my armor. All my life, I’ve been a good girl. I’ve been more than good—I’ve been stinking proper. It’s all I know these days, and if I have to leave the house for the first time in a very long time, I’m going to go into the world wearing the only protection I’ve got.

“Tell Father that I’m ready.”

“Whatever you say, weirdo.”

Evan leans across me and frowns out the window. “Why are we at a church?” he asks.

I swat him away, glaring. Dad turns from the passenger seat, and the look on his face makes my stomach lurch. He looks almost angry, and our father can be a real stubborn ass when he wants to be.

“I want you two to behave yourselves,” he says, staring right at Evan. Then he glances at me. “I know you’ll be good, Dashenka. You always are. But your brother⁠—”

“I’m a paragon of wit and poise,” he says airily.

“You’re a borderline embarrassment. Keep your mouth shut for once.”

Evan mimes locking his lips and winks at me, grinning.

None of this makes me feel better. Dad’s not acting like we’re going to a party. Instead, he’s got the attitude of a man about to walk into a life-or-death situation, and that’s setting off all my alarm bells.

Dad speaks softly to the driver in Russian. “Wait here. We won’t be long.” Then he pushes open his door and steps out onto the sidewalk.

What the hell does that mean? Is Dad already planning for me to have a full-blown panic attack? He probably thinks I won’t last more than ten minutes in a crowd.

He’s probably right, but it hurts anyway.

I stare at the big wooden doors. The steeple’s tall and pointed, crested with a bronze cross. We’re surrounded by old Philly architecture deep in Old City. Cobble streets, red brick houses. Lots of Colonial marble.

“Better move, Dash,” Evan says, his voice softer now. “The party’s probably inside, right? I bet they’ve got a big events space or something.”

“Yeah, right, you’re right.” But that doesn’t seem right. Still—I’m not going to embarrass everyone tonight. My chin’s up, my spine’s straight, and I’ve got this.

Be strong, Dasha. You’re not a mouse.

But another inconsistency bothers me. We’re Russian Orthodox—so why are we at a Catholic church?

I step out of the car and onto a sidewalk for the first time in a very long time. The buildings are so tall, bigger than I remember. The wind is cold as it breezes around my dress. I’m glad I wore sleeves, even though Evan thinks I look like a Little House on the Prairie freak, his words. Dad waits near the entrance, nervously checking his watch. He’s wearing the good one today, the expensive Piaget. The one he only puts on for special occasions.

Maybe it really is my birthday party.

I slip my hand into my father’s arm. He’s so big and broad. His dark hair’s graying now and going thin, but he’s still got that angry, tired look all the time. Dad works hard and dragged himself from a minor position in the Bratva to one of the pakhan’s most important advisors, running the illegal gambling wing of the business. He’s the only person I’ve ever trusted.

“Papochka,” I say, even though I haven’t called him that since I was a little girl. “What are we doing here?”

He stiffens. His face twists as though I stabbed him. “Dashenka, my love, have I ever asked you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life. But, Papa⁠—”

“Then do this for me.” He leans in, voice quiet but firm. “Do this and know that there was no other way.”

Butterflies scream through my stomach. I look back, and Evan is coming toward us. I don’t understand what’s going on or what Dad is asking me to do, and now it’s too late. He drags me through the doors and into the echoing tile entryway of the old church, where men are waiting ahead of us. They’re both big and wearing dark suits, and I know them.

The first is Anton Sidorov: advisor, fixer, murderer, arsonist. A terrifying man with a bleak reputation.

The other is the pakhan of the entire Zeitsev Bratva, Valentin Zeitsev.

The most powerful man in our world.

Valentin approaches while Anton hangs back. He exudes confidence and mastery. This is a man used to watching Philadelphia bow at his feet. I’ve met him twice before when he came to visit Dad at our house very briefly, and I found him kind and charming, if a little terrifying.

Now he looks like a demon straight from Hell, waltzing over with his pitchfork sharpened.

“Hello, Serge. This must be your daughter, Dasha. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

I straighten up. Everything proper. Everything in its right place. That’s how I’ll get through this.

Whatever this is.

“Very good to see you again,” I say politely.

He glances at my father, and his expression hardens. “Did you tell her yet?”

“There was no way I could get her here if she knew.” Dad looks pained. His face pales in the dim interior light. “I felt this was our best option, pakhan.”

I look around, heart pattering. What the heck is going on? Evan stands near the door, head cocked to the side as if listening for something, and more men appear at the far end of the hall.

They don’t look Russian. I’ve never seen them before in my life.

“We’re starting in five.” Valentin looks over his shoulder and makes a frustrated noise. “Make sure she understands.” He gives me a hard look, but there’s a strange sort of pity in his eyes. Like he feels bad for me.

I know that look. I’ve been getting it my whole life.

Poor, scarred Dasha. She used to be so pretty. I resist the urge to reach up and touch my cheek. The ugly knot of tissue is covered with foundation and only slightly visible right now, and I don’t want to smear the makeup.

But everyone heard about what happened to me all those years ago.

They know I’m just a broken little thing.

Valentin leaves. He intercepts the strangers and speaks with them.

One stares at me, ignoring Valentin. He’s younger than the other, tall and extremely handsome. Straight nose, hard jaw, and very muscular.

Terrifying, but in a beautiful, primal kind of way.

I can’t pull my eyes off him. Something about that man draws my attention. He’s beautiful and strong, attractive in a way I’ve never experienced, but there’s an edge to him. Tattoos poke out from under the ends of his suit. A wicked gleam catches in his gaze as he looks right back at me, unbothered by my staring. This man makes my mouth water.

Looking at him is like standing at the edge of a long drop and wondering what it would feel like to fly.

That’s how I want this man. Like the kiss of sweet death.

“Dashenka,” Dad says, pulling me to face him. He’s grim now, and I feel like I might throw up.

“This isn’t a surprise birthday party, is it?”

He shakes his head. “I tried, Dashenka. I really, really tried. But you’re Valentin’s last unmarried blood relative, and they were insistent.”

My toes go numb in my pretty shoes. I was so stinking excited to wear these dumb heels. They’re fancy with the red sole, and I’ve never worn them around anyone before.

I felt all grown up and proud slipping them on my feet.

Absolutely pathetic.

“Unmarried?” I whisper as everything drops into place.

The strange men. The pakhan’s presence.

The freaking church.

“In a few minutes, you are going to marry a man named Tigran Sarkissian. He’s a powerful, important member of the Armenian Brotherhood, and he’ll treat you well. I promise, Dasha⁠—”

I start to back away. Panic slams into my chest. The overwhelming, cornered-animal need to run overwhelms everything.

This can’t be happening.

“Dad, are you fucking insane?” Evan hisses at him, appearing at my elbow. He steadies me, looking outraged. “You’re marrying her off like this?”

“What else could I have done?” Dad snaps back, trying to keep his voice down, but everything echoes in the tiled room. “Don’t be disrespectful right now. Your sister needs you to be strong.”

“She needed you to not be such a fucking bastard. My god, you’re throwing her a surprise fucking wedding?”

“I can’t,” I choke out. “No, I can’t, no, no, no, please⁠—”

“Dasha,” Dad says, tone firm. He pushes Evan aside. “There’s no other choice. Please, don’t make a scene. You have to be good.”

He’s right. He’s right. I raise my chin. I straighten my spine. But no, god, no, I can’t get married to a stranger, to a man I’ve never met.

All my life, I’ve been good, and in exchange, I’ve been protected.

But this?

He’ll hurt me. He’ll cut me.

I turn to make a run for the door, but a body blocks my way. A strong hand gently takes my arm, and Anton leans down. “Sorry, but you’re the guest of honor. We can’t have you getting away.”

My god. I’m trapped. I’m caught.

They’re going to put me in a cage again.

“Dasha.” Dad appears at my side and steers me away from Anton. All the men are staring at me now. The two strangers at the far end seem unhappy about this—and one of them is probably my future husband.

Valentin is speaking to them in urgent, quiet tones.

Probably explaining my disability.

My stupid broken brain.

“You can’t do this,” I say, choking back a sob. I have to be good. If I’m good, they’ll treat me well. Straight back. Follow the rules. Raised chin. Do everything just right. “Please, Papa.”

Except I’m crumbling to pieces.

“Be brave,” Dad whispers, cupping my cheeks with his broad hands. “Do this for the family. I promise, they’ll be kind to you. This is a sacrifice, and it’s a painful one, but you’re doing it for the greater good.”

What greater good? What good is any of this?

All I want is my living room, my podcasts, and my comfy blankets.

Maybe a nice pair of slippers and some tea.

That’s all I’ve ever needed.

I just want to be left alone.

“Dasha, it’s time.” Valentin’s voice is smooth and commanding. If he knows I’m on the edge of having a panic attack, he doesn’t let it show.

The two strangers are gone, disappeared into the main chapel.

“Fucking psychotic,” Evan mutters, looking disgusted, but he doesn’t move to stop this.

He’s as powerless as I am.

“Be strong,” Dad says, lightly nudging me toward Valentin.

I walk to him woodenly. Straight back, chin up. Be good and proper, and they won’t hurt me.

I swallow to keep myself from throwing up in my mouth.

“Do the right thing,” Dad calls as I stagger to the entrance.

Valentin looms at my side. He seems as grim as a man leading me to a noose.

“One foot in front of the other,” he mutters and pushes open the door.

The chapel is bright. The lights slam into my face like a punch to the nose. I stumble forward, knees wobbly. My dress feels so hot. What was I thinking wearing long sleeves to a wedding? I’m not even in the right color.

Green. Is that bad luck? Probably.

I should be in white right now.

My husband is standing at the altar with the priest. The handsome man with the good hair and the full lips. The man I couldn’t stop staring at. He looks bored or angry, and god, he’s so attractive. It makes my heart race. It opens a dizzying, yawning chasm, and I feel like I’m falling. My chest hammers really hard, so fast my vision is blurry and my breathing is coming in stutters.

Too fast. I don’t recognize the faces in the pews. All men. Bratva, Brotherhood, who knows. I can’t think.

Can’t breathe.

“Urrkkk,” is all I can say.

Choking on my words.

Before I pitch forward in the aisle and fall flat on my face.