Terrible Beauty

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

11 YEARS AND 3 MONTHS EARLIER, MOSCOW

A tentative knock falls on my bedroom door. “Alina, are you in there? Come on, it’s time for our lesson.”

Yeah, f**k that. I pause the game I’m playing on the Wii and thumb up the volume on my iPod until “Get Low” by Lil’ Jon & The East Side Boyz is blasting in my ears, drowning out the annoying voice of my tutor.

Muting the sound on the TV, I unpause the game and guide Mario down the road, ignoring further knocking. I don’t know why I have to take English lessons all summer long when I’ve been studying at a boarding school in New Hampshire for the past three years. By now, my English is as good as any of my American classmates’, my Russian accent nonexistent. Sure, my spelling and grammar could be better, but I’m just heading into ninth grade. I’ll learn all the stupid rules eventually.

The knocking goes away, and I blow out a relieved breath. With any luck, Dan—God, I hate that name—will spend our allocated hour looking for me in all the nooks and crannies of our two-story Moscow penthouse before calling it quits for the day. He might complain to my father too, but whatever. I’d rather Papa yell at me than deal with Dan always looking at me that way.

I shudder as I recall that look. I see it on male faces all the time now that I’ve sprouted boobs. They’re not big or anything—some of the girls in my class are already a D-cup and above—but boys don’t seem to care. Neither do grown men, especially when Mama makes me wear makeup. Speaking of which—

Another knock falls on my door, this one much more insistent. I recognize its cadence even through the music blaring in my headphones. Reluctantly, I pause the game and turn down the volume on the iPod. “Yeah?”

“Alinochka, it’s me. Are you all dressed and ready?”

Ugh, I was hoping she’d forget. Pulling out my earbuds, I shut off the TV and jump up. “One sec, Mama!”

Ignoring that, she pushes open the door and steps into my room. Instantly, her eyes widen. “What are you wearing?”

Busted. I glance down at my sweatpants and oversized T-shirt with as much nonchalance as I can muster. “Clothes.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what I’m asking.”

“Fine.” I heave an exasperated sigh. “Just give me a minute.”

“You have thirty seconds,” she calls as I run into my closet and throw on the first dress my mom is likely to deem appropriate—a red evening gown that’s as sparkly as it is uncomfortable.

I don’t know why I have to wear this crap every time Papa has guests over, but Mama insists. Something about putting our best foot forward. Except in this dress, it’s more like my best boob forward. Seriously, did they grow more since last week? Grimacing, I try to shove the swells of flesh deeper into the corset-like bodice, but the built-in pushup bra does its job too well.

“What are you doing? Stop that. It’s supposed to look like that,” Mama says, entering the closet to swat my hands away. “Now put on some shoes, and we’ll do your hair and makeup.”

Shoot me now. I put on a pair of high-heeled platforms that match the dress and let her shepherd me to the mirror, where she begins brushing my long hair with all the speed and enthusiasm of someone determined to rip it out by the roots.

“Ouch,” I exclaim, wincing as the brush catches on a particularly brutal knot, but she ignores me. I guess that’s what I get for leaving this for the last minute.

Finally, my hair is smooth and straight. I wish I could pull it into a ponytail, but Mama likes it hanging down my back in a jet-black curtain. I’m not a fan of the color and dream of the day when I’ll be allowed to add some highlights. Next year, hopefully.

Makeup is next. Glumly, I watch as my pale face is brightened with a blush, my lips are transformed into a shiny red pout, and the catlike tilt of my green eyes is emphasized with a skillful application of liner and mascara. The only part that’s left in any way imperfect is my smile, with the little gap between my front teeth that Mama says makes me look “distinctive.”

“There, much better,” she says with satisfaction when she’s done, and it’s all I can do not to grimace.

The girl looking back at me from the mirror isn’t a stranger so much as someone I don’t like. All glossy and fake and adult. With my above-average height and the dress clinging to my newly sprouted curves, I look at least seventeen this way, maybe even eighteen. If Dan sees me like this, he’ll choke on his drool. So will some of Papa’s guests, those old men with their smarmy compliments that he likes to parade me in front of.

I hate it. I hate being this shiny, pretty object that Mama and Papa trot out like a prize pony. If I had my way, I’d live in my sweatpants and T-shirts, playing Mario and Zelda and listening to Kanye all day long. But that’s not the life of a Molotov. We’re the cream of the crop, or at least the oil scum floating in a pot of soup. High society, as Mama likes to call it—or top of the mafia hierarchy, as I think of it.

Vladimir Molotov, my father, is filthy rich. The kind of rich that only gets to be that way in Russia through less-than-savory means. Mama thinks I don’t know what kind of man he is—when kind of men he’s raised my older brothers to be—but I do. I’ve been overhearing her fights with Papa my whole life. Fights that have gotten worse in recent years, though I try not to think about that.

“We should have you model,” Mama says, stepping back to examine me approvingly, and this time, I do grimace.

I hope she’s just saying it, but knowing my mom, she’s already sent my pictures to some agency.

“Who’s coming today?” I ask, just in case she hasn’t yet sent the pictures. Maybe if I distract her, she’ll forget this terrible idea. “Is it Papa’s business partners?”

“Yes, and—”

“Vera!” Papa’s deep voice booms from downstairs. “Where are you? They’re here.”

At the sound of her name, my mom smooths her palms over her dress and touches her elaborately coiled updo to make sure not a single glossy brown hair is out of place. “Coming!” she yells back before pinning me with a laser stare. “You will come down in a half hour to greet everyone, you hear? Keep an eye on the clock and don’t go getting lost in those silly games of yours. This is important.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it, Alina. I won’t have time to come up here and drag you out.”

“Yeah, I got it. Now go.” I make shooing motions with my hands. “Papa is waiting.”

With one last narrow-eyed look at me, she departs, and I plop onto the couch and turn on my game.

I’m so caught up in beating the next boss that by the time I look at the clock, it’s been close to an hour. Oops. I run over to the mirror to make sure my makeup hasn’t smeared, and then I hurry out of the room as fast as the stupid heels allow.

As I walk down the hallway, I catch a murmur of voices and drunken laughter downstairs. I can picture the old men and their wives, all glammed up and perfumed, saying their cheesy toasts as they pound down vodka and cognac while devouring the rich spread of appetizers our chef, Pavel, has prepared. No basic salat oliv’ye here; it’s all fancy caviar and gourmet French cheese, each dish carefully curated to show off our power and wealth.

I’m passing by Papa’s study when the door swings open and a man steps out in front of me.

Startled, I jump back, and my left heel lands on the carpet the wrong way. I cry out, arms flailing as my ankle buckles painfully underneath me. Before I can fall on my ass, strong hands grab my elbows, stabilizing me, and I find myself looking up into the darkest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen.

The man holding me is muscular and tall. So tall that even in my heels, I have to crane my neck to hold his gaze. And he’s young. Young enough to be called a boy. His height and the breadth of his shoulders fooled me initially, but he can’t be much older than my brother Nikolai, who’s just turned twenty.

I swallow hard as those dark, hooded eyes rake over my face, lingering for a moment on my bright red lips. My heart is pounding and my skin feels strangely warm, especially where his fingers grip my bare arms. I’ve never been so physically close to a male who’s unrelated to me, and while this man-boy is nowhere near as ridiculously handsome as my brothers, I can’t stop staring at his face, with its rugged, potently masculine features. There’s something wild about him, something untamed in the tousled black locks falling over his forehead and the sharp, almost cruel lines of his jaw. Even his cologne, with its subtle notes of pine and leather, reminds me of dark winter forests and the dangers lurking there.

“You okay?” he asks softly. The deep timbre of his voice is that of a man, not a boy. “Did you hurt yourself?”

I manage a headshake, and he lets go of me. I immediately step back. My arms tingle where he held me, the cool air wafting over my skin forming a stark contrast to the heat of his touch.

He runs his gaze over me, the look in it distinctly male and adult. Strangely, I don’t mind. For the first time, I’m glad I look all of seventeen, maybe even eighteen. I wish I looked twenty. Pulling back my shoulders, I stand straighter, even as a trickle of nervous sweat runs down my spine underneath the tight bodice of the dress.

Does he like what he sees? Because I want him to. I want it badly.

His lips curl wickedly as his eyes return to my face. “What’s the matter, beauty? Cat got your tongue?”

Beauty? He does like what he sees! Then the meaning of his words filters into my brain, and I realize I’ve been staring at him in total silence, like an awestruck groupie. A hot flush scorches my face. “Of course not!”

His eyes narrow, the wicked smirk falling off his lips, and I want to crawl under the carpet. What a stupid, immature response. Worse yet, the words came out in a squeak, making me sound like a dumb kid instead of a young adult close to his age. Which is what I’ll be soon-ish. Like in four or five years.

Clearing my throat, I pitch my voice deeper. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

There. That sounded like a maybe-eighteen-year-old. One with attitude. I think older boys like that.

A speculative gleam appears in his eyes, mixing with a hint of amusement. “What are you doing up here?”

I scoff. “Nice try. That’s my room back there.” I jab my thumb toward my bedroom and channel Papa at his bossiest. “Now answer my question. What are you doing in my father’s office?”

His voice goes ice cold. “Your father’s?” A hard mask drops over his face, all hints of boyishness disappearing from his features. The man looking at me now is as dark and dangerous as any of my father’s enforcers. “You’re Alina? Molotov’s thirteen-year-old daughter?”

“I’m almost fourteen!” Dammit, that came out sounding like I’m all of ten. Not to mention, I was trying to convince him I’m close to his age, whatever that is. Calling upon generations of Molotov arrogance, I ask as haughtily as I can manage, “How old are you?”

In truth, I’m not sure I want to know anymore. Or to be anywhere near him. While the boy intrigued me, the man scares me. There’s derision in his dark, almost black eyes as he stares at me now. Derision and something else… something frightening.

His voice turns lethally soft. “That’s none of your business, little girl. Run to your father and tell him his plan didn’t work. I’m not taking the bait, no matter how prettily packaged it may be.”

Bait? What is he—?

Then it dawns on me. He’s referring to me.

I’m the prettily packaged bait.

My face turns hot again, but this time with pure, undiluted anger. “f**k you. I’m no bait.”

“Aren’t you?” He rakes his gaze over me, a cruel curve appearing on his lips. “Why else would they dangle you in front of me dressed like that?”

“Nobody’s dangling me!” I want to slap him. I want to claw his eyes out. Mama likes me to look pretty, true, but it’s a status thing for her and Papa. Like the caviar and the fancy cheese. My brothers have to dress up when we have company too; that’s just how we were raised. Fuming, I pointedly drag my gaze over him, from the top of his black hair to the shiny tips of his shoes. “Are they dangling you?”

Because he’s dressed in evening attire also. I’m so used to seeing men in tuxes and suits that I didn’t register his clothes at first. But they’re nice, as fancy as anything my father and brothers wear. His black tuxedo jacket hugs his broad shoulders before tapering in to his lean waist, and his pants fit his long, athletic legs perfectly. His shirt is a crisp, gleaming white, highlighting the olive hue of his skin and the stark black of his bowtie. And above it—wait, is that a tattoo peeking out of the starched collar of his shirt?

He gives a short, sharp bark of laughter, but there’s no amusement in the sound, nothing but that cruel derision. “Clever child, aren’t you? A Molotov in the true sense of the word.”

I grit my teeth. “I’m not a child.” Then I process the second part, and a peculiar suspicion sprouts within me. I narrow my eyes. “Who are you again?”

He gives me a mocking bow. “Alexei Leonov, at your service.”

And with that bombshell, he turns on his heel and heads toward the stairs as if he has every right to be here.

I’m still in shock as Papa introduces me to the guests sitting around the long dining table while Mama casts me looks that promise retribution for my lateness. None of my brothers are here today. Nikolai is serving in the army, Konstantin flat-out refuses to come to these events, and Valery is attending summer school in Amsterdam. Good for them. I wish I were anywhere but here, with him.

Alexei Molotov.

He’s not here by himself either. His father, Boris, is also my parents’ guest tonight, which is about as insane as the Montagues hosting the Capulets. Okay, maybe that’s too dramatic—we’re not actively at war with the Leonovs, and I’m certainly no Juliet—but our families are far from friendly. The animosity goes all the way back to the time when Alexei’s grandfather framed mine for disloyalty to the Communist regime and got him sent away to a Siberian labor camp. My grandfather somehow made it out after two years and promptly turned the tables on his enemy, getting him sent away to the labor camp on a similarly trumped-up charge.

Yep, good old Soviet fun.

In any case, the Leonovs are bad news. That’s been drilled into me since I was old enough to walk. They may be almost as rich and powerful as we are, but they lack our sophistication and polish. They’re basically extremely wealthy thugs, with their wealth acquired through even more unsavory means than my family’s. In the past, a fair amount of blood had been spilled between our underlings, and in recent years, Papa would often come home in a terrible mood because of something the Leonovs had done, like undercutting him on a business deal or sabotaging some factory.

All of this is to say that I have no idea why the Leonovs are here and why Papa is introducing me to his sworn enemy as if they were best friends.

“—is my youngest,” he’s saying proudly to Boris when I tune back in. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”

“She’s going to be a model,” Mama chimes in. “All the agencies are interested in her.”

Fuck. She did send in the pictures. Well, whatever. I have no intention of modeling anything. When I grow up, I’m going to be a video game developer. Konstantin is already teaching me some basic coding skills.

“Yes, beautiful,” Boris agrees in a gravelly voice, dispassionately studying me with eyes as dark as his son’s.

An involuntary shudder skates down my spine. If Alexei scared me a bit toward the end, this man downright terrifies me. I know now what I saw in Alexei’s eyes besides derision. I know it because his father radiates it.

Cruelty. Darkness. I feel it as viscerally as the cold caress of a blade.

Now that I’m meeting the man, I believe every scary rumor about him—and about his sons. Especially the older one, Alexei.

I’ve been trying to avoid looking at him, but my gaze keeps being drawn to his face—a face as hard and impassive as his father’s. There’s no trace of recognition in his cold, dark eyes, no hint that we’ve already met and that he’d kept me from falling on my ass and called me “beauty.”

Just thinking about it makes my arms tingle where he gripped me.

By all rights, I should tell Papa about seeing Alexei upstairs in his office, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to do so. Everything about that encounter unsettled me, to the point that all I want is to survive these introductions and go hide out in my room.

Alas, that’s not to be. As soon as the introductions are over, Mama makes me sit beside her at the table while Papa launches into a long toast about partnerships, friendships, and all kinds of bullshit. Worse yet, the entire time I have to fight the urge to stare at Alexei, who’s acting like I don’t exist. Ignoring me completely, he converses with a middle-aged man sitting to the right of him. Ivan somebody—a politician, I think. I zoned out during most of the introductions.

Mama plates some food for me and pours me a glass of wine, so I can toast alongside the adults. I dutifully take a sip when Papa finally finishes the toast, and then I pick at my food for the next half hour, my appetite nonexistent.

“Alinochka, why aren’t you eating?” Mama asks with a frown when she notices.

I shrug. “You want me to be a model, don’t you? Models don’t eat.”

She gives me a dark look, and I know that if it weren’t for all the people sitting around us, she’d rip me a new one. As is, she smiles tightly, as if I’d just made a joke, and changes the subject to our upcoming vacation in Cyprus.

I pick at my food some more, mostly for Pavel, who had worked hard to prepare these dishes, and then I excuse myself to use the restroom. I’m hoping nobody notices when I don’t return. By now, most people here are eight sheets to the wind with all the nonstop toasts.

Most but not all. As I’m leaving, I catch Alexei’s eyes on me, icy dark and not the least bit inebriated.

I guess he does know I exist.

My chest feels tight as I run up the stairs and hurry to my room. It’s not until I shut the door behind me that I’m able to take a full breath. Plopping onto my couch, I put in my earbuds and turn on my game, but it doesn’t help.

When I fall asleep two hours later, I’m still thinking about our encounter, still feeling unsettled and strangely unsafe.