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chapter 3

Chapter 3: Wedding Night

The Volkov penthouse smelled like cedar and money. My wedding dress was pooled on the marble floor where I'd stepped out of it. Underneath, the scars from Rome caught the lamplight.

Ryan poured two glasses of vodka and set one down in front of me. He hadn't touched me since the altar. He hadn't kissed me for the cameras either. Just a hand at the small of my back, firm enough to bruise.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Andrea," he said.

I laughed before I could stop it. "Non ho paura di te." [I'm not afraid of you.]

His eyes flicked up. "Say that in English."

"No."

He studied me over the rim of his glass. "You flinch when doors close too fast. You count exits. You looked at that steak knife at dinner like you knew exactly where to put it."

"Maybe your bride is just interesting."

"My bride," he said quietly, "plays piano and hates red wine and has never held a gun in her life."

The air went thin.

He set his glass down untouched. "Sleep in the bed. I will take the couch."

He didn't. He left. The front door clicked, soft and final, and I was alone in a stranger's penthouse wearing my sister's ring.

I didn't sleep in the bed. Beds get you soft. Elena taught me that. I slept on the floor by the balcony doors with the steak knife from dinner tucked under the rug, and I woke up when the sun hit the glass.

There was a white box on the foyer table. No card. No note. Just my name in Victoria's handwriting. Alexis.

My real name.

Inside was Elena's head.

Her eyes were open. Her mouth was sewn shut with black thread. Tucked between her teeth was a folded photograph, blood at the edges. Andrea, thinner, older, holding today's newspaper. Alive.

My hands started shaking so hard I dropped the photo.

The penthouse door opened behind me. Ryan, back from wherever he'd gone, in yesterday's suit. He saw the box. Saw me on my knees. Saw her.

He didn't ask who she was. He just crossed the room, kicked the box shut with his boot, and pulled me up off the floor.

"Chi ti ha fatto questo?" [Who did this to you?] I choked out, before I could catch it. Italian slipping when I'm scared, always.

Ryan's hands tightened on my arms. "Start talking," he said. "Now. Who the hell are you really?"