Camila
I’m a pile of needles. Each time I move, I feel my thoughts prickling me—not hard enough to draw blood, but still enough to remind me of my discomfort. I can’t believe Mom is coming here. Settling on the cushion of my vanity, I run my brush through my hair. There are no tangles; I’m brushing it just to stay busy.
Will she like it here? What should I say to her?
What can I even say to her?
Hi, Mom, you remember Asher? Turns out he’s a Bratva pakhan who killed a man the night before he showed up to buy our studio.
Oh, and he’s my husband now. But don’t worry, it’s just a temporary thing.
God, she’ll never forgive me if she hears any of that.
My phone on the vanity begins to buzz, and I snatch it up, answering without looking. “Hello?”
“Camila!” Adriana shouts in my ear, and I
