I keep waiting for the moment I’ll wake up. This isn't my life. This is a scene from a movie I’d usually turn off because it feels too impossible to believe.

  “Are those guns?” Fuck me, they are.

  “This way,” the tallest of them says. Two of them guide us up the steps. I hear them talking in a foreign language. I think it’s Russian, but I’m not sure. I was never gifted in the language department.

  Inside, there’s a sharp undertone of disinfectant, like someone wiped down a surface recently. I shiver at the thought.

  “Rader.” A man in a dark suit stands near the bottom of the staircase.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Dad starts. “I appreciate⁠—”

  “Follow me.”

  My father obeys. We move down a hallway lined with closed doors. Two more men stand at the corners, hands behind their backs, their eyes fixed ahead.

  My pulse beats in my throat. “Dad,” I whisper. “I don’t like this. Who are these people?”

  He keeps walking. “Stop talking and keep up.”

  “You dragged me out here in the middle of the night. You can give me one straight answer.” Of course, he gives me nothing.

  The hallway opens into a wide room, and everything gets worse from there. It looks like a living room at first glance, but my eyes land on the wrong thing.

  The man in the chair.

  He sits in the center of the room, his socks wet with something dark on the floor. His hands are tied behind the chair. A bruise swells along his jaw, and one eye is already closing. Two guards stand on either side of him.

  “What the hell,” I breathe. I stop walking. He must have heard me, because the man looks up. Our gazes meet before he drops his like he’s been trained not to stare.

  “Jack Rader. You finally decided to show up.”

  A large couch dominates the far wall. A man sits there, watching us. He shifts back into the cushions and snaps his fingers. A guard steps forward and pours a drink. I flinch at the sound of the liquid hitting the glass. The man takes a sip, his eyes already locked on mine. He swallows and tips the glass in my direction. “Who’s your friend?”

  “He’s my son.” Dad’s shoulders hunch. He looks smaller than he did on my porch. Smaller than the man in the chair.

  The man’s mouth quirks. “That wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

  “I told you I could fix this,” Dad says quickly.

  “Your son,” the man repeats, tasting it, his eyes still on me. “And every time you swear you’ll fix this, it falls apart. Last month. The month before.” He tips his glass. “You owe a lot.”

  I shift on my feet, unease climbing fast. Dad swallows. “Please. I just need more time.” His hands shake. “I swear I can make it right.”

  “This is not a place where you make things right.” He takes another sip. “This is where you pay.”

  “And he will,” I blurt. All gazes shift to me. “I mean… he’s got a job. He’ll get you the money.”

  Dad fumbles in his inner pocket and pulls out a folded, stained piece of paper. He holds it out with a shaking hand. “I’ve got a contract. The petrol station on the highway. It’s full-time, steady hours. I can start making payments tonight.”

  The man in the suit doesn't take the paper. A guard swipes it, glancing at the cheap print before handing it over. The man on the couch stares at the document for a second, then lets out a dry, sharp exhale that isn't a laugh. A chill skims up my arms.

  “A petrol station, Jack? You’re giving me a shift at a pump?” He lets the paper flutter to the floor. “You’d have to work three lifetimes just to cover the interest.” I shiver, the weight of the room suddenly doubling.

  “Please,” Dad says, his voice cracking as he steps closer. He bends, scoops the contract off the floor, and shoves it back into his inner pocket. “I’m trying. I brought my boy. You’ve got a family, don’t you? You aren’t the kind of man who’d kill a father right in front of his own son.”

  I turn back to the man in the chair, heat crawling up my neck. “Whatever he owes you,” I say, forcing the words out, “we’ll figure it out.”

  His mouth curves. “I’m glad you’re so positive, cub.” He lifts his glass. “But you’ll have to work a few good years to pay back a hundred thousand dollars.”

  My mouth falls open. “A…”

  A hundred thousand?

  Oh shit.

  The number is a dead weight in my stomach. It turns the last thirty minutes into a trap. I can feel the walls of this room closing in, even though the ceiling is twenty feet high.

  “Jonah—” I feel Dad’s gaze on me, waiting for something I don’t have.

  “Move. Now. Let’s go.” My heart hammers as I steer him toward the doorway. I know it won’t work. I know that. But fear sends a sharp shot of adrenaline through my veins. I’m getting the hell out of here. I have to.

  The man on the couch tips back his head and laughs. “My, Jack Rader, you didn’t tell me your son was this entertaining. But your papa here is in trouble. And in our world, trouble gets settled with blood. Lots of it.”

  As if on cue, the shackled man lets out a muffled howl. Blood drips from his calves onto his socks, each drop falling to the floor. Around us, guards close the space with quiet steps, forming a wall without touching me.

  The man on the couch leans forward, his eyes fixed on me now, unblinking. “You know how this works. Payment comes due. And when a man can’t pay, the account is settled.”

  Dad jerks beside me. I tighten my grip on his arm, instinct screaming to move. A guard steps into my path.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Thud.

  I freeze. A knife buries itself in the doorframe beside my hand, the handle still quivering. I flinch. The room goes quiet.

  “Not so fast,” a voice says from the doorway. “Not before I decide your place here.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  JONAH

  A woman steps out of the shadows near the doorframe.

  “Matushka.”

  The man on the couch rises and reaches for her, but she doesn’t take his arm. She moves past him without slowing. She threw that knife. Next to me, Dad lets out a breathless sound.

  “Good evening, Ms. Morozova. I was just saying to your son⁠—”

  Heavy gold rings catch the light when she lifts her hand. “You brought a nurse?”

  Dad hesitates. “Yes. I mean, no. Jonah is my son. He drove me here.”

  Liar.

  “I see.”

  She is dressed in black, her hair pulled into a severe braid. She looks old enough to be my grandmother, but her eyes are cold enough to be my executioner. “Jonah…” Her Russian accent rolls around my name. Her pale blue eyes fix on me. “And how old are you?”

  “I’m… twenty-three,” I stammer.

  “Hm.” She nods like she approves the answer. Her attention moves over my scrubs. “And you work at the hospital?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. In the ER.”

  She tips her head, then pulls the knife out of the door in one smooth motion. “He’s not going anywhere, Sergei. I can use him.”

  The man, Sergei, clears his throat. “Matushka, Petrov is already assigned upstairs. We don’t need⁠—”

  She lifts a hand. Sergei goes still. His mouth closes on whatever he was about to say.

  “Jack Rader.” She turns to Dad. “You were trusted with our money. You wasted it. You lied. You ran. And now you return because you’ve finally understood that death follows people like you when they have nowhere left to run.”

  Dad doesn’t argue. He keeps his eyes on the carpet. His fingers press into his right knee until the skin goes white. His breath slips out uneven, loud enough for me to hear.

  “You can’t repay what you lost,” she continues. “You never could.”

  “As I told your son, I can start repayment soon. I have work lined up. This time will be different. This time⁠—”

  “No. It won’t. So far you’ve offered nothing but excuses. They’ve turned out to be empty. Useless.”

  “Please—”

  “No. No more pleas. Be a man about it.” She tilts her chin. “You took our money and went to town. You didn’t pay us back what you should, and you broke your promise. For that, you’ll face punishment. Sergei.”

  Sergei steps forward. Dad sucks in a breath. His hands curl into fists at his sides. A knife flashes in Sergei’s hand.

  “No—” Dad chokes on the word.

  She flicks her fingers. “Show him what happens to thieves. Start with the hands.”

  Sergei grabs Dad’s wrist and yanks his arm forward. He screams as the steel bites into his knuckle. I flinch, watching the blood bloom against his skin. He wets himself, the dark stain spreading over his trousers while he blubbers for mercy. This is the man I used to look up to when I was a kid. The man who left me homeless when Mom died. Hungry. Heartbroken. But he’s all I have left.

  Around us, Russian words fill the air. Then Dad shrieks again.

  “Take me instead.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. My heart is a frantic bird hitting the walls of my chest. I look at the blood on his knuckles and the stain on his pants. I know he isn't worth a single drop of mine, but the words leave my mouth anyway. I’m throwing my life away for a man who wouldn't blink if I died, but the words are already out. There’s no taking them back.

  Dad jerks toward me, his face going pale. “Jonah⁠—”

  “You knew.” My voice breaks. “When you phoned tonight. You knew the trouble you were in, and that I’d never let you die. Is this what you had in mind? When you needed a favor? You knew I’d come. You knew I’d stay.”

  I turn back to the woman and press my hand to my chest. “If you need blood, take mine.”

  Dad just stares at me. His mouth hangs open. His face is red from crying. He shakes his head. “Jonah⁠—”

  “Spare us the performance, Jack.” The woman’s lips tip up in a cruel smile. “You were already useless to us. Your son, on the other hand, I can use.” She studies me. Her fingers tap once against the knife handle.

  She steps closer. I can smell her floral perfume. “My grandson was shot a week ago. He’s barely conscious now.” Her blue eyes stay on mine. “I need him breathing.”

  I frown. “You want me to… help him?”

  I nod, even though my knees are ready to buckle. It's all moving too fast. One minute I’m an ER nurse with a mortgage, and the next I’m a ghost in a mansion. I nod, knowing that by stepping onto those stairs, I’m signing away every right I have to a world that will never come looking for me.

  She measures me for a long moment. “You’ll keep his heart beating. You’ll never leave his side. What happens to him happens on you.”

  I nod once. My chest is tightening. “What happens to my father?”

  “He’ll answer for what he’ve done.” She doesn’t look back. “But not now.”

  Dad lets out a small sound that barely leaves his throat. “I’ll pay it back.”

  She doesn’t even look at him. “Sokolov. Take Jonah to Petrov.”

  The tall guard steps forward with a curt nod. I look at Dad again. His mouth is set tight. His eyes won’t meet mine. I can’t help but wonder if he knew this would happen. If he brought me here knowing exactly what they’d do to me.

  A rush of regret climbs my throat. “I can’t leave him like this.”

  “You can. And you will. Your work is upstairs, not here.”

  Dad’s face twists. Sokolov steps behind me and closes a hand around my shoulder.

  “You’ll keep him drawing breath.” Her gaze stays on me. “If you fail, I’ll bury you with him. Alive.”

  The word hits me in the gut. My throat closes. I can already feel the weight of the dirt and the cold pressing into my chest until my lungs stop moving. I'm already panicking.

  I look at Dad because there’s nowhere else to look, still believing he’ll rise to defend me.

  He doesn’t move.

  “Say something,” I whisper.

  He lifts his head. The fear in his eyes turns into a sharp, ugly heat. “Say something? To you? You were the biggest⁠—”

  The echo of his words from years ago slams into me.

  The biggest mistake of my life.

  They hit me harder than a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. The words hit me harder than a fist, and suddenly, the guard’s grip is the only thing keeping me upright. I want to scream, to hit him, to demand he take it back, but my body is already going numb. I’m half-outside myself as the guard hauls me away.

  “Walk.” Sokolov’s grip tightens, already guiding me forward.

  I let myself be dragged away. Anything’s better than Dad’s words. He betrayed me, or perhaps I betrayed myself. All I bought him was time.

  The hallway outside is darker. A keypad glows at the far end. There is blood on the doorframe. Sokolov hauls me through, and the door locks behind us. The sound is final. There’s nowhere left to run, and honestly, after what Dad said, I don't think I want to.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  JONAH

  Sokolov guides me down the corridor. His grip is locked around my arm. Our footsteps echo off the walls. Each turn takes us farther from the room I just left behind.

  What if I can’t keep the man alive? No. I can’t think like that. I am a good nurse. I have to be. But my steps hitch before I catch myself.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll see.” Pressure clamps on my shoulder as he steers me down the hall.

  “Please.” The word slips out before I can stop it. My heart drums in my ribcage, urging me to get the hell out of here.

  Another guard steps in at my other side, closing the space. I’m boxed in. Pushed forward. Sokolov’s grip tightens. “You have no idea where you are.”

  Faint now, through layers of wall, I still hear Dad shouting my name. Sokolov’s fingers dig into the thin fabric of my scrubs.

  “Don’t,” he says. “He’s not getting you out.”

  We move deeper into the estate. Only an hour ago, I was leaving work and thinking about reheating old noodles. Now I’m walking through a mansion full of guards. Sokolov leans closer. His breath brushes my ear. “You walked into a world that doesn’t let people go. No one comes looking for men like you.”

  The words land with the weight of absolute truth. Sokolov is right. I hate that he is. I’ve lived my life like a ghost, drifting from shifts to my trailer. The truth hits me like a physical weight. If I vanish tonight, the hospital will post my job listing before they post a missing person’s report. I’m a nobody. And in this world, nobodies are the easiest to bury.

  My chest tightens at the thought, but I keep walking. There’s nowhere else to go anyway. We climb stairs, then turn into a narrower corridor, letting the noise of the main house fade behind us. I straighten my shoulders. Fear sits low in my stomach. “I’m not disappearing. I won’t.”

  No one answers. There’s just the dull sound of their boots on the floor.

  We pass a set of glass cases placed neatly between the doors. Knives rest inside them in careful rows. Some long, some curved, all looking to be made for one specific, lethal hand. Sokolov presses the back of my neck. “Keep moving.”

  Footsteps join us as a woman falls in beside him. Sokolov steps aside and gestures once toward the opening, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Welcome to the prince’s wing.”

  The air changes the second we cross the threshold. Thick carpet swallows the sound of our boots, killing the echo. It’s too quiet, except for the wild pounding of my heart. How the hell will I ever find my way back out of this place? I’m already lost.

  A man waits by the door in a dark suit. His sleeves are pushed back just enough to show his forearms.

  “This is Jonah, your replacement.” Sokolov’s grip tightens on my shoulder. “Jonah, this is Doctor Petrov.”

  Petrov’s gaze drags down my frame, pausing on my damp scrubs and sneakers with visible distaste. “My replacement.”

  “Babushka’s idea.”

  “I see.” His Russian accent is unmistakable. He sizes me up. My skin prickles like he’s already deciding where I’d break. “Jonah, the nurse. Yes?”

  I hesitate, then nod. “Yes.”

  “Very well. If Babushka has decided, then we proceed. You will follow my schedule.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, even though I don’t understand what that means yet.

  “He’s been unconscious for a week. We don’t know if he’ll make it.” There’s a faint shift at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as soon as I notice it.

  “That’s awful.” My stomach drops. If he dies, I die too. That part has been made all too clear.

  “That’s why you’ll stay with him. Day and night. Until I say otherwise.” He presses a medical bag into my chest, forcing me to take the weight of it. “Good luck. You’ll need it when he wakes.”

  My fingers tighten around the strap. “Why?”

  Petrov opens the door and nudges me toward the threshold. “Fear, Jonah. He doesn’t tolerate it.” His gaze flicks over me. “And you reek of it.”

  “Don’t scare the poor boy,” Sokolov barks from behind me. His hand presses briefly between my shoulder blades as he guides me to the threshold. “The only thing that matters in your life now is taking care of Viktor Morozov.”

  The name hits like a blow to the chest.

  Viktor Morozov.

  Headlines crash through my mind—a black car, a body dragged from a club. He was supposed to be dead. My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that says I’ve walked into a grave that hasn't been covered yet.

  I swallow hard. “He was shot. They said...”

  “That he was dead?” Sokolov’s mouth curls. “People say many things.”

  My pulse roars in my ears. The Morozovs rule this city, and Viktor Morozov was not supposed to be alive. Of all the places I thought I could be, this wasn’t one of them.