Page 13 of Dance of Deception

The knock comes again, harder this time.

My stomach knots. A knock on the door at five minutes to midnight is never a good thing.

Vera sets her drink down on the coffee table, rubbing her face. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “Who the hell is banging like that at?—”

The next knock isn’t a knock. It’s a fist, slamming heavy and impatient against the door.

Mom tightens the belt of her robe and crosses the room slowly, stepping barefoot over the scuffed wood floor, leaning in, pressing an ear to the door. “Who is it?”

There’s silence.

But then suddenly, the door shudders violently when someone slams into it.

I jolt back instinctively. Vera stumbles away from the door, her face twisting in shock as the lock bends inward with a crack.

A second later the wood splinters when the door is kicked in.

I scream as two men in dark tracksuits burst inside like they own the place. Everything in the room seems to get smaller as their presence fills the space.

Mom stumbles back a step, her hand clutching the front of her robe. “What do you want!” she barks, trying to sound angry, but there’s a tremor in her tone.

The taller of the two men reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and dangles it in front of her face.

“Arkadi owed a debt that was never paid back,” he rumbles in a deep, Russian-accented voice. “That debt needs to be settled. Now.”

He drops the paper to the ground and shifts back on his heels, folding his arms over his chest. The other guy glances aroundthe apartment disdainfully before his eyes settle on me, my skin crawling and my stomach souring when he grins a toothy, leering grin at me.

Vera stoops down and plucks the paper from the ground, scowling. She stands, opening it and staring at it with barely focused eyes before she barks out a laugh.

“One hundred thousand dollars?” she crows, her voice slurred. “Are you fucking serious?”

The first man, with his arms still crossed over his chest, merely shrugs. “With interest, that’s what you two owe Mr. Popov now.”

My blood runs cold.

Vera lets out a short, humorless laugh, like this is some kind of mistake. “What? No. That’s—” She shakes her head. “That’s not our problem.”

The man’s expression doesn’t change.

The other one, the one who hasn’t spoken yet but has been looking at me like he’s removing my clothes with his eyes, steps closer.

Vera swallows, trying again. “Arkadi’s fuckingdead,” she says, quieter now. “He died four months ago.”

The taller man leans against the counter, his fingers drumming on the crumpled paper. “Yes, and he left behind unfinished business.” His voice is calm, casual, but there’s a razor-sharp edge beneath it.

Vera opens her mouth, but he lifts a finger, silencing her.

“Five thousand a week,” he continues. “Until the debt is paid off.”

I suck in a breath.

Fivethousand?

That’s impossible. It might as well be a million a week. A gazillion. It could be fivehundredand still be as unattainable as a ticket to Mars right now.

Vera shakes her head, frantic. “We don’t have that kind of money!”

His lips curl slightly with the barest hint of amusement. “Then you’d better figure it out.”

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