“We could turn on the TV,” Julia suggests. “If it’s something big enough for the chief to be there, it could be breaking news.”
“No,” my mother says. “Let’s just eat. Julia, tell me more about this evil man who hit his son.”
Julia glances between us before describing the situation with the abusive father who’d been stabbed four times.
I stand up. “I’m going to pee.”
Before anyone can question me, I rush into the bathroom. As soon as the door is closed, I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the local news.
On the first website, there’s nothing notable.
On the second one, there’s the same news.
On the third one, there’s a breaking news alert.
Reports of Explosion at House of Mariya’s Revenge Owner
My heart stops beating, but I barely notice as I reread the alert over and over.
Several social media accounts have reported hearing an explosion and seeing a fire at the residence of Lev Alekseiev, owner of Mariya’s Revenge and several nightclubs.
I scroll, waiting for more words to appear, but that’s all that’s written.
I shove my phone back into my pocket. I hear my mother’s concerned voice at my prolonged absence, followed by Julia trying to reassure her. I lock the door, yank open the bathroom window, and climb out onto the fire escape. I hear the bathroom doorknob rattle, but I don’t think twice about it.
I climb down the fire escape and then hesitate as I measure the distance between the ground and the ladder, thinking of the baby I might be carrying. But Lev is that child’s father and I have to get to him. Trying to be careful, I jump down the last couple of feet. When I land, I take off running to my car.
* * *
The drive to Lev feels like it takes years. When I get there, the front of his mansion is on fire, the flames illuminating everyone standing behind the police tape. Four firetrucks have pulled onto the lawn. Even as jets of water pour onto the blaze, waves of heat billow across my face.
Groups of firemen watch the house burn. It could be some kind of ineffective tactic or maybe they don’t care because he’s associated with the Bratva.
I duck under the police tape. A policeman tries to stop me but lets his hand drop when he sees my face. I don’t know if it’s because of my desperation or if he recognizes me as the chief’s daughter.
I grab the arm of one of the firemen. His helmet is under his arm, but his face shines with sweat.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The fireman points behind me. “You should be behind the tape,” he says.
“I’m the police chief’s daughter,” I say. “Tell me what’s going on.”
He looks me over for several seconds, the light of the fire making one half of his face glow while the other half is in shadow. “There were multiple explosive devices in the house. We haven’t located any survivors, but we can’t get that far into the house without risking our men because the explosions increased the risk of structural failure. All we can do is prevent the fire from spreading.”
They haven’t found Lev.
As the firefighter turns to look back at the fire, I run. I’m within ten feet of the house by the time the firefighters start yelling. The entrance door is gone—removed or reduced to rubble—so I run straight in.
It’s like stepping into hell. I check my arms and legs to see if I’m burning as the heat cuts into me like a knife. I should be thinking about the baby, something says in the back of my mind, but Lev is uppermost right now. I have to find him. He needs me. And I need him.
Lev favored three places in his house: his office, his gym, and his den. His office and his gym are both on the second floor, so I head to the den first.
The ceiling is splintering. I can’t recall what room is above this one, but it’s ready to come crashing through. I glance around the room from the archway.
He’s not here.
I backtrack, checking the stairs. I try to step on the first two steps, but they both collapse under my weight. I grab onto the railing, but the metal sears my skin. As I jerk backward, I bump into a solid body.
I spin around, a merry-go-round of elation. It’s not Lev. It’s a firefighter. He grabs me, throwing me over his shoulder. I start to struggle, but it does no good as he jogs me out of the house.
I’m too embarrassed to even raise my head as he takes me to the firetruck farthest away from the mansion and lowers me to a seat on the metal ledge on the back.
I cover my face with my hands, trying not to scream in frustration. The grief takes hold faster than I can control it. The tears sneak down my face, clinging to my cheeks before dropping into my lap.
The firefighter holds out an oxygen mask. I take it. I doubt I need it, but I’ve heard the horror stories of people killed by smoke inhalation.
The scent in the mask is oddly sweet.
Something isn’t right.
As my head starts to wilt and my eyelids become heavy, I try to peer up at the firefighter. He looks all fuzzy but I’m certain he’s not familiar.
I take one more breath before my body lets go of consciousness.
21
Lev
My head is a coal mine, explosions with echoes of pain, clouds of dust turning my vision into blurs and darkness, and gases churning all my thoughts into disoriented fragments.
I force my eyes open.
The blurry room slowly comes into focus. I try to move my arms. Steel on my wrists. I push my hands together, finding the chain of the handcuffs. I move my hands backward, touching what’s between my hands and my back. Large circular wood. Too smooth to be a tree. Support beam.
Round support beams. Hickory floor. Two doorways come into focus. I
