Page 28 of Brutal Secrets

I’d know him anywhere. I always knew I would. Cheekbones so sharp they cast shadows on the planes of his face, wide shoulders, and a body that moves through air like a knife cutting through flesh. His whole being is a study in perfect geometry, and his eyes are a pale blue that makes me think of ice flows.

His stare is just as cold.

It’s galling to admit to myself that the pity on Stevie’s face was justified when Vadim repeats the phrase I didn’t quite catch the first time.

“This is all I fucking need.” His eyes roll to the ceiling, and he clenches his fists.

The force of his words pushes me backward, and I trip over my feet in my haste to recover my pride. I suppose I’d never really admitted to myself just how much I still hoped Vadim had been waiting for us, hoping to find me the way I’d been dreaming of finding him.

Stevie steps closer behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I think we should get out of here.”

I remain frozen like an animal in front of a predator, watching to see if the hands that Vadim has balled into fists at his sides will unfurl and reach out to me.

“Come on, Sera. It’s time to go,” Stevie begs, tugging me, but I’m rooted to the spot, as if a few more moments will change the reality in front of me.

Hope is the cruelest drug.I should know. I’ve been mainlining the stuff for years.

Vadim leans down to the redheaded girl. She’s a few years older than my daughter, but she’s not too old to wear the same convent-school uniform. I’d ground Nadia for life if I found her in a place like this in six years’ time. The kid is curled up between him and his friend on the sofa, and Vadim leans down and strokes the hair away from her forehead, looking concerned. She nods, gazing up at him with a dazed expression.

That small act of tenderness stabs at a raw place under my breastbone. I didn’t publicly admit to dreams of a happily ever after, but Stevie knows.

“Poor, poor Sera,” he says, rubbing my shoulder.

I don’t need to turn around to see the expression on his face. My band knew the album I wrote must have been about the man I met in Moscow, but Stevie was the only one who knew how many gigs I’d booked at private parties in mafia nightclubs until Nadia was three. I finally had to concede that spending nights away from my daughter so I could chase a shadow was stupid. She needed stability, and that had meant getting a grip on myself and only touring when it was absolutely necessary.

No more private gigs for Russian billionaires, which did nothing to burnish my reputation. No more chasing shadows.

“I’m fine, Stevie. It’s just us. We’re all the family we need,” I lie, swallowing down the stone of hope that’s lodged in my throat. My eyes sting so I turn to the side, hoping Stevie can’t see me as I drag my sleeve across my face.

I watch Vadim as he pats the girl’s red hair absentmindedly and turns back to me with an empty stare. I don’t know if he’s sleeping with her or just watching out for her, but he’s not giving me a fraction of the care he’s doling out to the younger woman. The gesture makes me nauseous enough to admit I’ve spent ten years in love with a man who doesn’t exist. A phantom I’d conjured out of one part wishes and two parts desperation and stupidity.

Vadim turns to a younger man standing in the shadows and tilts his chin at me. The skinny boy with a neck tattoo, sunken cheeks, and a mess of dark blond curls walks over.

“Andrei, take her out back to the Night Governor’s office. I’ll deal with this situation later,” Vadim says.

I keep my eyes on the boy’s bony hands as he pushes a security bar on a fire exit next to the bar and beckons me over. My back straightens and I don’t turn back toward Stevie as I hear him tell Vadim, “I’ll come with her.”

But I hear Vadim’s response. “I know exactly who you are. You’re the guy who’s always wanted to fuck her, and you can stay right here.”

I let the door slam behind me on the knowledge that if he knows who Stevie is, then he’s known who I am for a long time. And he didn’t come to find me.

Chapter Nineteen

My anxiety is a physical thing. It’s stupid to wear tracks in the carpet as I pace the room, but I’ve got to move. Walking, even if it’s in tight squares around the desk and in front of the bookshelves lining the walls, is a welcome change from sitting in the chair and trying not to crawl out of my skin.

I’ll give Vadim credit. If this is his office, it’s a cut above most of the nightclub back rooms I’ve been in over the years, which are usually a symphony of plywood and chipboard, with torn and faded posters on the walls.

Books in Cyrillic script line the bookshelves. Tracing my fingers over the curves of the letters, I make out Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Pelevin. Names, stories, histories that I only half grasp.

I taught myself to read the Russian alphabet after I had Nadia, and I read a lot in translation when I was pregnant with her, but I don’t spot my favorite novel on the shelves. Of course, Anna Karenina was a silly woman in love with the wrong man, so it’s no wonder the book spoke to me. I don’t suppose Russian gangsters spend a lot of time worrying about lost love.

I kick the table leg, but all I achieve is a stubbed toe. I hop up and down on one leg, sucking in my breath for a minute before collapsing in a heap in the chair opposite the bookshelf. I’m bent over my sore toe with one boot off and my head bowed—consoling myself that at least I didn’t throw myself under a train with a broken heart like poor Anna—when the door opens.

The air changes as Vadim steps into the room. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, regarding me warily. His eyes are drawn to where I’m cradling my foot, and I keep rubbing circles on my toe. I’d rather stare at a hole in my sock like it holds the secrets of the universe than look up at him again. One quick glance was enough to see that he’s not delighted to see me.

“Zolotaya, time has treated you kindly, I see.”

He still uses the pet name he gave me the weekend I met him. Zolotaya. Golden one.

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