Page 3 of Beautiful Scar

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’tseemright. 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 aLittle House on the Prairiefreak, 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 thepakhan’smost 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 thepakhanof 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.”

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