Page 58 of 10 Days to Ruin

“Dead people don’t watch anything.”

“Says the boy who leaves lilies on her grave every month.”

He stands abruptly, chair screeching. “I need air.”

I’m almost relieved to see him go. I might need some air, too. Seeing Sasha interact with someone who clearly loves him, someone loud and fun and kind, has my brain scrambled. I don’t know what to make of it.

But because Zoya is all of those things, she won’t stand for Sasha being upset on his own. Without looking at me, she nudges me off my stool and towards the back door. I open my mouth to argue, but she shakes her head and winks.

Whatever she thinks I’m going to do out there, it won’t make Sasha feel better. It’ll probably make it worse. But I shuffle down the hallway and through the back door anyway.

The alley reeks of brine and garbage, but Sasha’s leaning against the brick wall like it doesn’t bother him. I hover by the dumpster, unsure whether to offer comforting words or a restraining order.

“Yourbabushka’s a chatty old bat,” I say after an uncomfortable stretch. “I like her a lot.”

“Not mybabushka.” He doesn’t look at me. “She was my nanny. Mother hired her when I was four.”

“That’s basically family.”

“I wouldn’t do Zoya the dishonor.” His laugh is bitter. “Family is a knife you don’t see coming.”

The air shifts. This isn’t mob philosophy anymore—this is personal. I step closer, drawn to him against my will. “What happened to her? Your mom, I mean.”

Cold gray eyes meet mine. “You’re a reporter. You tell me.”

“I’m asking. Not interrogating. I’m off the clock, and anyway, I didn’t bring my notepad.” I make a show of patting my bathrobe’s nonexistent pockets. It’s a weak joke, though, and neither of us laugh.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. The scar along his throat pulses faintly under the flickering street lamp. I’m sure he’s going to tell me to mind my own fucking business. And then?—

“She jumped,” Sasha says flatly. “From our apartment building. They said she left a note—Forgive me—sprayed with her favorite perfume. Not that I ever saw it.”

My stomach curdles. “So you don’t believe it.”

He stares at something over my shoulder—a memory, a ghost. “When I found her, her hands… They were bruised. Broken fingers. Like she’d tried to…”

He lets it hang in the night air, unfinished.

“He killed her,” I whisper. “Your father.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “I don’t want your pity, Ariel.”

“I wasn’t— I mean, I… I was just going to say that I can relate. I know how?—”

“Bullshit.” Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. He pushes off the wall, caging me against the damp bricks. “Your father sells daughters. Mine sold souls. Which is worse?”

The vodka on his breath mixes with his cologne. Cold as I am with only a bathrobe to keep me safe from the winter, my body arches into his heat. “Why are you telling me this?”

His thumb brushes my collarbone. “You want to play psychiatrist? Fine. Here’s your diagnosis: I’m broken. Violent.Unfit.” His lips ghost my earlobe. For the span of a breath, I let him pull me closer. Let his fingers skate up my arm, his gaze drop to my mouth. Let myself imagine how it would feel to help put Sasha Ozerov back together, one broken piece at a time…

Then I remember who I am. Who he is. Why we’re here. I remember why I can’t let myself keep falling into these daydreams, these nightmares, these twisted fantasies that he’s anything but a monster pushing me to the ledge.

How come Mama never warned me the devil would look so good?

I twist free before Sasha’s darkness swallows me whole. “We should go back inside,” I murmur. “Zoya is making dessert.”

Zoya doesn’t say anything when we come back inside, just serves us honey cake drowned in sour cream. Sasha picks at his, the picture of brooding menace. But now, I see past the armor.

There’s a boy in there somewhere. One who kneaded dough until his arms ached. Who leaves lilies on a grave. Who became exactly what his father made him.

---