Page 205 of Broken Lines

Lyra and I were junior year roommates for all of two weeks before the accident—before I had to come home and bury my second parent, and then try and process what comes next. But she’s been checking in on me every few days since I left to make sure I’m okay.

Friends are a luxury I’m still getting used to. Or,wasgetting used to, before I was sucked back into this world, and this version of myself.

Not Tatiana Fairist the poli-sci major at Harvard University, lover of quirky indie rock, collector of vintage leather jackets, and drinker of strong black coffee.

No, this version—the version I’ve tried to bury in two years of college, is a darker version. Here, I’m Tatiana Fairist the Bratva princess. Tatiana who is about to get a deep-end lesson in mafia politics, because as of a month ago, with the death of my father, I am now officially the next in line for Balagula Bratva that was once helmed by my maternal grandfather. Much to the bitterness of my stepmother.

It’s not official yet, of course. But it will be, and that’s been hanging over me like a prison sentence since I watched them lower my father into the ground. The strict and very old-fashioned “high council” of advisors originally set up by my grandfather is hard at work with what comes next. Technically, pursuant with the laws of the Balagula family, I have to bemarriedin order to helm the organization. Or rather, I have to be married so that my—chosen for me—husbandcan helm things.

It’s why Peter Fairist, my father, was in charge after my grandfather passed, not Casmir’s own daughter, Lisana.

“Bratva” and “old-school sexist patriarchy” are the same word in the Balagula organization. Not that I actually care in this case, since having anything to do with my family’s criminal organization, or being forced to marry, oranyof the current realities of my life are at the very bottom of my list.

I exhale, fully awake now as I smile at the birthday text from Lyra. I’m officially twenty. Though, I won’t be celebrating with anyone but myself and maybe some of the household staff, since Jana’s been in Paris for the last month on a shopping spree.

Grief works in mysterious ways.

I glance at the book I fell asleep reading last night; a gift from Lyra when I was packing up in a rush to get back home. It’s a slightly embellished story of Harriet Quimby, the first female pilot to fly across the Thames river, and honestly, it’s not bad.

I open to where I left off, where Harriet is faced with the choice between her aspirations of flying and the advances of the swoony and handsome Lord Buckmiller—that would be the wildly embellished part of the actual history of Harriet Quimby. But as the room grows lighter with morning, I close the book again.

I might as well get up.

In my closet, I pick out something fun to wear. It’s fifty-fifty if anyone else in this house even remembers the day but screw it: it’s my birthday and I’ll wear what I want. So, my favorite ripped jeans and vintage The Clash t-shirt it is.

I drape them over the back of a chair and sit at the vanity. My eyes drop to the silver ring that sits on a small silver chain necklace—a gift from my father years ago for my sixteenth birthday right after my accident and right after my mom died. There’s a little charm of a puzzle piece on it, and my father, in arareblip of sentimentality, told me it was because I was the “final piece of his heart.”

I smile wryly as I put it on, clasping it behind my neck and letting it fall across my chest. I exhale, pushing my red tangles back into a messy ponytail as I stand and turn for my clothes.

And that’s when I hear the screaming.

I freeze, my pulse jangling as my heart lurches into my throat. A shot rings out, making me flinch as my eyes wrench to the door to my room. More gunshots pound out—a back and forth, closer this time—and I can hear more screaming from the staff.

I drop the clothes I’ve picked out and bolt for the bathroom door. Inside, my hands shaking and my pulse thudding in my ears, I lock the door behind and move to crank open the window. Barefoot in just sleep shorts and a baggie t-shirt, and ignoring the sounds of gunfire coming closer to my bedroom, I swing a leg over the sill. I find footing it the rose-covered lattice on the outside of the sprawling Tudor brick mansion and swing the other leg over.

Trembling, swallowing back the fear, I climb down as fast as I can, wincing at the sting of thorns and brambles. My feet touch grass, and I whirl to run. It’s still barely light out as I bolt for the rose gardens at the back of the house.

There’s no more gunshots.

No more screaming.

The only sound is my ragged breathing and my roaring pulse as I run. Just like the dream.

There’s a gate at the far end of the property—a service driveway for staff and deliveries. If I can make it there, I can alert the guard on duty. Even if there’s no one there, I can escape. I realize I’ve left my phone back in my room, but if I can get to the gate, I can run the three kilometers into town and—

The scream strangles in my throat as the hard, muscled arm wraps like iron around my neck. Another wraps around my torso, and my entire body spasms with fear. My lungs scream for air and my pulse spikes as I’m yanked back against a man’s rock-hard body, his breath hot on my neck.

I’m caught; trapped. Just like my dream.

But I’m not going to wake up from this nightmare.

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