Page 28 of 10 Days to Ruin

Two guards block the stairwell, carbon copy versions of the meatheads who used to lurk in our Brighton Beach kitchen, playingxeriand burning through one cigarette after the next until the dawn broke. One cracks his knuckles; the other smirks.

“Lost, princess?”

“Tell him I’m here.”

The smirker taps his earpiece, muttering in Greek. A pause. Then he jerks his chin toward the freight elevator. “You know where to go.”

The ride to the sixth floor takes a century. Scuffed mirrors line the elevator walls, reflecting a girl in a beat-up leather jacket and dirty boots, her hair a mess of curls she didn’t bother to brush. I look like a feral cat. My mouth still tastes like last night’s tequila. My thighs still ache from last night’s sins.

Baba’s office hasn’t changed. Same mahogany desk, same floor-to-ceiling windows smudged with fingerprints. The godawful oil painting he commissioned of himself still hangs crooked behind him. He’s bent over paperwork, gold pen in hand, but freezes when the elevator dings and spits me out.

When he looks up, his face does something I haven’t seen in years: softens. Just for a heartbeat. Then it’s gone.

“Ariana.” He stands too quickly, knocking a file to the floor. “You’re here.”

“Ariel,” I correct, lingering by the door. “I told you that.”

He starts to round the desk, hesitates, then sinks back into his chair. His hands tremble as he straightens a stack of papers. I frown at the tremor—is it new, or have I just never noticed before? A bottle of pills peeks out from his top drawer. Beta-blockers, if the label’s faded blue script is any clue.

“Sit,” he says. Then he adds, “Please.”

I stay rooted. “I’m not marrying Sasha.”

He doesn’t seem surprised. Just nods, slow. “I see.”

“He’s not a good man, Baba.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—guilt? Annoyance?—before he masks it. “He’s… direct. But he’ll keep you safe.”

“Safe?” I bark a laugh. “From who? You?”

He rubs his temple, the gesture so familiar it stings. I used to watch him do that at the kitchen table, late at night, while Mama slammed cabinets and muttered aboutmen and their wars.

“You think I want this?” he asks quietly.

“You arranged it, so, yeah, if the shoe fits.”

“Because I can’t protect you forever!” The words burst out raw, startling us both. He clears his throat, stares at his hands. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, but still shot through with that old, familiar steel. “Your shit job, your little apartment, your fake name—you think I don’t know? That I haven’tletyou play house?”

The air leaves my lungs.

He leans forward, voice fraying as he continues. “My enemies want everything that’s mine, darling. You’re my daughter—that means you’re included. You think they won’t come for you? For her?”

I freeze. “‘Her’?”

“The redhead. Your… friend.” He says it like a dirty word. “Gina.”

I’m across the room before I realize I’ve moved, palms slamming on his desk. “If you touch her?—”

“Iwon’t.” He meets my glare, steady. “But others will. Unless you’re untouchable.”

“And marrying a Bratva psycho makes me untouchable?”

“Yes.” He says it simply, like he’s explaining rain. “Sasha’s name is a shield. His people are wolves. They’ll gut anyone who looks at you sideways.”

I want to scream. To flip his desk, rip up his stupid painting, burn down this whole rusted morgue he calls his empire.

“I don’t even know him,” I say, my voice cracking. “Does that matter to you at all? Does… does love?” I hate myself for even saying it, for how pathetic it sounds. It’s even worse out loud than it was in my head.

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