Page 54 of Porcelain Lies

“Gianni?” The name hits hard, even though I’d told myself I’d put that behind me. “What do you mean he helped set it up?”

“He knew I needed cash. Said it was foolproof — just move some merchandise, take a cut.” Nick’s laugh comes out hollow. “Didn’t mention who it belonged to.”

“Who?”

Nick’s voice drops to a whisper. “Aleksei Tarasov.”

The name sends a chill down my spine, though I’ve never heard it before. Something in the way Nick says it, like speaking it might summon death itself.

“He runs everything, Stels. The whole LA underground.Bratva.And I…” Nick swallows hard.

“What the hell did you do, Nick?” I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my belly.

He licks his lips. “I… I cooked the books.”

“You what???”

His throat works. “I found a way to skim from the deals by adjusting the figures.”

My heart almost stops. “Oh, my God, Nick!” I rub my eyes, trying to process this. Without realizing it, I’m on my feet, stumbling to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

“Need something to clear my head…”

This can’t be real. Maybe I’m still asleep on the couch, dreaming that my estranged fucking brother just returned from God only knows where to tell me he’s a criminal.

“He deserves everything he gets,”says Boyana.

“Let’s hear him out,” I mutter under my breath. My hands shake as I measure coffee grounds into the filter, trying to process Nick’s words. Bratva. Russian mob. My little brother got mixed up with the actual Russian mob.

“It was supposed to be simple.” Nick’s voice drifts from the living room. “Move the merchandise, take a cut. But then I saw how much cash was involved…”

I focus on the familiar motions — filter, grounds, water. The coffee maker’s gentle gurgle provides a surreal soundtrack to this nightmare.

“Gianni said the payment would be in cash. Old school, you know?” Nick continues. “When I saw all those stacks just sitting there…”

The rich scent of brewing coffee fills the kitchen as I grab two mugs from the cabinet. One still has a chip from when Hannah dropped it last week. Such a normal, mundane detail in this insane situation.

“How much?” I pour the coffee with unsteady hands, not sure I want to hear the answer.

“Three hundred thousand.”

The mug slips from my grip, shattering on the tile floor. Hot coffee splashes my bare feet, but I barely feel it.

“Three hundred…” My voice fails. “Nick, tell me you didn’t…”

“I couldn’t help it, Stels!” He jumps up from the couch, pacing like a caged animal. “Do you know what I could do with that kind of money? Get clean, start fresh somewhere else…”

I stare at the broken ceramic scattered across my kitchen floor. Three hundred thousand dollars. From the Russian fucking mob. The kind of people you see in movies or newspaper headlines.

“Where’s the money now?”

Nick’s silence tells me everything.

“You spent it already.” It’s not a question. I know my brother too well.

The broken mug forgotten, I grab Nick’s arm and yank up his sleeve. Track marks pepper his skin like angry constellations.

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