Page 7 of Unforgiving Sinner (Starukhin Bratva)

“I … I just … I should get going.” I say it, but my feet don’t move.

“Where are you headed?” His green eyes—lit up by the million lights of Times Square like a pair of perfectly cut emeralds—compel me to look back at him, and I can’t help staring.

I bite my lip, unsure if I should accept his help. But not wanting to be accosted by another crazed weirdo, what choice do I have? I show him the card with Mercy’s address, and his brow furrows for a moment as he looks at it.

“It’s not too far from here,” he says. “But are you sure it’s the right address?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, I happen to be familiar with that place,” he replies. “It’s a bar.”

“Well, my cousin says she lives there.” I blink stupidly. “Can you point me in the right direction?”

He looks at me, and for a moment, I imagine him telling me that he’ll walk me there. But instead, he disappoints me and simply points to our right.

“Go north two blocks,” he says. “And make a left.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “What’s your name?”

“Nikolai,” he replies. “Nikolai Starukhin.”

“Eden,” I reply and extend my hand to him. “Eden Clark.”

“Nice meeting you, Eden Clark,” Nikolai smiles. “Perhaps I’ll see you soon.”

Without another word, he turns and walks away. I resist the urge to call out to his retreating figure.

“Come on, Eden,” I whisper to myself. “Get ahold of yourself.”

I begin walking north like he told me to, still trying to wrangle my book into place. And as the lights of Times Square dance all around me, I notice something poking up from the pages of my book. Stopping at a crosswalk, I pull it out.

It’s a card that says “Chrysanthea” on it. When I turn it over, there’s an address and Nikolai’s name. But it’s neither of those things that send my heart skipping a beat.

It’s the words on the other side.

Owner. Contemporary Art Gallery.

4

EDEN

It doesn’t take longfor me to get to the address on Mercy’s card, and true to Nikolai’s words, it’s a bar. The name “Somewhere Bar”is lit up by neon lights, and even though it’s not too far from Times Square, it looks surprisingly empty.

I wonder if I’ve made a mistake when I spot her red hair—same as mine—before she sees me. I wave at her like a fool, and her dark eyes narrow on me for a moment before they light up with recognition. She coughs and tosses her cigarette to the ground.

“Eden!” she calls out. “What the hell! What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Mercy!” I shout back, dodging a pedestrian to reach her.

Mercy wraps me in a tight hug. Her welcome is the reassurance I need right now. She steps back and looks me hard in the eyes. “Where’s your dad?”

I swallow hard. “I ran away.”

“Ran away?” She laughs loudly, verging on a coughing fit. “You’re eighteen, for Chrissake. Call it what it is: you left home.” She gives me another bear hug before pulling back, smiling.“Well, you just gave Michael Clark a huge dose of his own goddamn medicine.”

Mercy rarely calls Dad anything but his proper name. “The dictator just got dicked over. Gotta love it.”

I frown, and Mercy takes it down a notch.

---