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chapter 5

Victoria called at 7:03 AM.

I was scrubbing dirt out from under my nails in the Volkov bathroom, wearing one of Ryan's shirts. It hung to my thighs. The water ran pink in the sink.

Ryan answered the phone on speaker and set it on the marble counter between us.

"Darling," Victoria said. "Did you get my wedding gift?"

My hands stilled in the water.

"She did," Ryan said. His voice was flat. Cold. "You sent her trainer's head in a box."

"Oh, good. I was worried it would get lost in the mail." Victoria laughed, light and social. "Alexis always was sentimental about Elena. I thought she'd want to keep a piece of her."

I shut the faucet off. Water dripped from my fingers onto the counter.

"Non parlare di lei." [Don't talk about her.] The Italian came out before I could stop it. Low. Shaking.

"Who is that?" Victoria asked. "Andrea, honey, is that you? Your accent sounds different."

Ryan's eyes cut to mine. He said nothing. He just watched me.

"Andrea is resting," he told Victoria. "She had a long night."

"I'm sure she did. First nights with the Volkov men always are." Another laugh. "Tell my daughter I expect her for lunch tomorrow. We have wedding gifts to discuss."

The line went dead.

Ryan picked up the phone and set it face down. The bathroom was quiet except for the drip from the faucet I hadn't turned all the way off.

"You understood that," he said. It wasn't a question.

I pulled my hands out of the sink and reached for a towel. "No."

"Liar." He stepped closer. "You just told her not to talk about someone. Elena."

I wrapped the towel around my knuckles and said nothing.

He studied my face for a long time. Then he nodded once, like he'd decided something. "Get dressed. We're going out."

"Where?"

"To buy you a new phone. And a gun." He turned for the door. "If your mother is sending heads, you'll need both."

I watched him leave. In the mirror, my reflection looked like a stranger. Wet hair. Ryan's shirt. Dirt still ringing one fingernail that I missed.

Three years at the Collar taught me how to read men. How to tell when a touch meant pain, when a command meant you were about to be used by someone you didn't know. I learned how to go somewhere else in my head when a client's hands were on me. How to count the cracks in the ceiling while they did what they paid for.

Ryan's hands were different. He hadn't used me yet. But he wanted to. I could see it in the way he looked at my mouth, at the bruise on my wrist where he'd held me yesterday.

"Sei peggio degli altri?" [Are you worse than the others?] I whispered to my reflection.