THORNS FOR KATE

​KATERINA’S POV

​The thunderous rhythm of heavy boots against the floorboards was the only warning I had before the world splintered.

​Bang. Bang. Bang.

​The apartment door groaned under the assault, dust shaking loose from the ceiling as if the building itself were shivering. Then came the voice—a low, gravelly rumble that felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest.

​“Vladimir! Open the d*mn door!”

​I turned to my father. He looked like a ghost of the man I knew. Sweat tracked through the grime on his forehead, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. He looked disheveled, frantic—a cornered animal realizing the cage was shrinking.

​“Quick, Katerina. The closet. Now!” He didn't wait for a response, his hands trembling as he ushered me toward the heavy, mahogany wardrobe standing sentry across from the entrance.

​“No matter what you hear,” he whispered, his eyes wide and bloodshot, “you do not make a sound. You do not come out. Do you understand?”

​Before I could protest, he shoved me into the cramped, cedar-scented darkness and pulled the doors shut. I pressed my eye to the sliver of light where the wood didn't quite meet. My heart was pounding against my ribs. Through the crack, I watched him wipe his palms on his faded trousers, trying—and failing—to compose himself.

​“Last chance, Vladimir!”

​The warning was a formality. The door didn't just open; it exploded inward, the wood screaming as it was ripped from its hinges.

​A shadow eclipsed the room. 

Dmitri Petrova.

​He prowled in. As the Don of the Russian Bratva, he was the sun around which all our miseries orbited. My father was just one more speck of dust in his path. Dmitri’s hand shot out, thick fingers coiling around my father’s throat like a viper, slamming him against the peeling wallpaper.

​“Where is the ledger, Vladimir?”

​The question was punctuated by a sickening thud as Dmitri’s fist buried itself in my father’s midsection. My father’s legs buckled, his face contorting in a silent scream for air.

​“I’m not going to ask again.” Another blow. “Where. Is. It?”

​“I… I don't know,” my father wheezed, a thin line of crimson leaking from the corner of his mouth.

​“That’s the wrong answer.” Dmitri let go. My father slumped to the floor, a broken heap of a man.

​“I said I don't have it,” he gasped, his voice a ragged shadow of its former self.

​Dmitri tilted his head, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Oh, really? Then I guess you wouldn't mind a little house cleaning.”

​He didn't even look back as he signaled. Lyova, the underboss—a man whose reputation for cruelty made even the Bratva soldiers flinch—stepped into the room. He didn't scan the area. His eyes locked onto the wardrobe with terrifying precision, as if he could smell my fear through the wood.

​Ice flooded my veins. I backed up, my shoulders hitting the rear of the closet, but there was nowhere left to go. The doors flew open.

​Light blinded me. Before I could even blink, Lyova’s hand was in my hair, dragging me into the center of the room.

​“Bring her,” Dmitri commanded, his voice devoid of emotion.

​“Let go! Get off me!” I thrashed, my nails clawing at his iron grip, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

​“Be quiet, malen'kaya devochka,” Dmitri said, his tone almost bored. “Your father has something that belongs to me. This is simply... incentive.”

​The cold, heavy weight of a pistol barrel pressed against my temple. The metallic click of the hammer being pulled back echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.

​“Otets!” I shrieked.

​My father tried to surge forward, but a heavy boot to his ribs sent him crashing back down.

​“Now, Vlad,” Dmitri purred, leaning over him. “You’re going to tell me exactly where the ledger is, or your daughter paints the floor.”

​“No… please,” my father sobbed, the sound breaking my heart into a million pieces. “Leave her out of this.”

​“The ledger, Vladimir!” Lyova growled, pressing the gun harder into my skin.

​“Okay! Okay!” My father’s hands went up, trembling. “I’ll tell you—just don’t hurt her. Please.”

​Dmitri hauled him up by the collar. “Where?”

​“It’s—it’s in your family’s library. Behind the skull painting.”

​Dmitri paused, a dark smirk tugging at his lips. “The family library? Hiding a death warrant behind a symbol of death. How poetic. I hope for your daughter’s sake it's there, Vladimir. Because if I have to come back, I won't be looking for a book. I'll be looking for a grave.”

​He dropped my father like a piece of trash. After a lingering, terrifying look at me, he gave Lyova a sharp nod.

​“Sleep tight, malen'kaya devochka.”

​The door remained open as they vanished into the night. I waited until the roar of their engine faded into the distance before I collapsed toward my father.

​“Otets,” I choked out, pulling him into my arms.

​“I’m fine, malishka,” he coughed, though the way he clutched his side told a different story.

​“You’re not fine! They’re monsters!” I cried, my tears hot and thick.

​“I will be,” he whispered, his eyes regaining a flicker of that sharp, desperate intelligence. “Go. Get the first aid kit.”

​I stumbled to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror. My face was a mask of terror, my dyed blonde hair matted and dull. I grabbed the box and rushed back, my hands shaking as I cleaned the blood from his lip with stinging antiseptic.

​“Where is your necklace?” he asked suddenly, his voice sharp.

​“I took it off to sleep, I—”

​“Never take it off,” he barked, his fingers gripping my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. There was a frantic urgency there that scared me more than Dmitri had. “Go put it on. Now.”

​I scrambled to my room, fumbling in the dark until my fingers brushed the cold silver of the skull-shaped pendant. I threw it over my head, the weight of it familiar and strange all at once. When I returned, the air in the room had shifted. It felt heavy with a secret I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

​“Dmitri will realize I lied soon,” he said, his voice low. “The ledger isn't in the library.”

​My heart stopped. “You lied to him? He’ll kill you!”

​“Listen to me,” he leaned in, his voice a frantic whisper. “I heard them talking. Lyova leaves for Italy at dawn for a massive shipment. He’s taking the private transport from the docks.”

​“Why are you telling me this?”

​“Because you’re going to be on that transport.”

​A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. “You want me to stow away with the man who just held a gun to my head? I’ll be dead before we hit international waters!”

​“It’s the only way, malishka. If you stay here, Dmitri will use you to get to me. He will break you to find what he thinks I have. If you’re in Italy, you’re off his radar. You can disappear.”

​“I won't leave you!” I was sobbing again. “If I go, they will kill you.”

​“No one is killing me. But I do know if you stay here, they will torture you and I can't have that.” He looked away, his jaw tight. “Lyova leaves in the morning. You have to find a way to stay hidden until the ship docks. Let them leave first. Then run. Don't look back. Don't call me. Just run.”

​“What happens to me in Italy, Otets? I don't know anyone!”

​“I… I don't know, malishka.” He stuttered, and for the first time, I realized he was as terrified as I was.

​“Go get your bag,” he whispered, his eyes darting to the door as if he could already hear Dmitri’s return. “The sun is coming up, and once you step onto that boat, Katerina, the girl you were dies. You have to become someone else.”

​I stood up, my legs feeling like lead.

​“Malishka,” my father sighed.

​“What, father?”

​“Always remember to keep that necklace on. It was the last item of your mother’s. Just… never let them see it. But never take it off.”

​I looked at the silver skull resting against my chest. I felt like a lamb being sent into the lion's den, armed with nothing but a piece of jewelry and a prayer. I turned toward my room, the cold metal of the skull pressing into my skin, wondering if I was running toward my freedom or straight into my grave.

​The floorboards creaked. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. The game had begun, and I was the only player who didn't know the rules.

KATERINA’S POV

​“Malishka,” a voice pulled at the frayed edges of my sleep. “Malishka, wake up.”

​The insistent tug on my shoulder dragged me from a dreamless void into the biting chill of the room. I groaned, burying my face deeper into the goose-down pillow, the fabric smelling faintly of laundry detergent and my father’s lingering tobacco.

​“One minute,” I mumbled, my voice thick with exhaustion. “Just one more.”

​“It is time, Malishka.”

​The finality in his tone acted like a bucket of ice water. My eyes snapped open, the haze of sleep evaporating instantly. I squinted at the glowing red digits of the clock on my nightstand. 3:00 AM. A shiver raced down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

​“The ship leaves at four,” my father said, his silhouette a grim shadow against the moonlight filtering through the curtains.

​He gestured to the foot of my bed.