Running from hell isnʼt easy. Especially when thereʼs someone dragging you back down into it.
Belligerent, brash and always in shades of black, Freya is hardly a lady. Hidden away by her father, sheʼs lived a normal life despite being born into the...
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THIS HAS TO BE SOME KIND OF sick joke.
Each time I cross paths with Torren Costa, he disrupts the fabric of my reality. Tears my life into irrecoverable pieces, then sets each piece alight — with a front row ticket to watch it all go up in flames.
I always disliked the Costas for the way they treated us. Like outsiders. Something to be stepped and trampled on, even when my Papa paid his dues. They fed us lies about how we’d benefit from it in the form of protection.
Protection. I scoff. The only protection we ever needed was from the Costas themselves. I disliked them, but after today, there’s a red hot hatred festering deep in my chest. It grows wilder each second, chewing up my insides.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.
He pulled a gun on Papa without any remorse then watched as Morozov blood spilled, the corner of his lips tipped up, like he enjoyed it. Lived off of it — a sadist with nothing to lose. Vicious. Feral.
And when I’d met his gaze, his dark eyes were void of emotion. Dead. Like the men who bled out on the carpets in Papa’s office. But somehow . . . somehow he was still condescending. He looked at me like I was beneath him. Like I was as good as the ground he walked on.
Anxiety brews in my chest as I place my fingers on the locket around my neck. The Costas left, and we’re all still in the lounge, soaking up the situation while waiting for the family doctor to allow us to see Papa, who’s getting treated.
Right now, Ana’s perched on the edge of the food table, heels discarded as her bare feet swing back and forth. Her white Chanel off-shoulder sundress is creased and hangs low, showing a bit too much cleavage. She stares at no one in particular as she says, “I dieted for a whole week to look good for this engagement.”
She stuffs her face with the strawberry cheesecake she baked for the engagement. “I made this amazing cheesecake and I resisted the urge to eat it the whole time. Do you know how hard it was?”
There are rare moments when she drops the I’m perfect act. This is one of them.
“I was so hungry,” she wails.
I ignore her breakdown.
Somehow, she still looks pretty with her cheeks stuffed. Like an angry squirrel girl. A deep frown mars her face. “And he didn’t even look at it, Frey!”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure he would’ve loved your cheesecake, Ana. Unfortunately, he was too busy shooting our father.”
Annoyed, she pouts, not bothering to dust away the cheesecake crumbs at the side of her mouth.
Next to her on the couch, Mama seethes as she takes a long drag from her cigarette before her cold gaze settles on me. “What have you done, malen’kaya ved’ma?”
