At noon, Mara closed the lid on her laptop and rolled her head on her shoulders. She slipped the earphones out of her ears and pushed away from the table where she’d spent the morning transcribing notes from a pediatrician’s office. With her stomach growling, she filled Major’s food bowl, then made herself a sandwich from the chicken salad she’d made the day before. As she added a handful of tortilla chips to her plate, she heard a knock at her door.

Major rushed the door and wagged his tail, stilling her suddenly racing heart. She opened the door to Ben, who lifted his hand in a greeting. “Get back, silly,” she said to Major as Ben opened the screen door. “Give him room to come inside.” She smiled at Ben. “Hello!”

“Would you like to get some lunch?” Ben asked, petting Major who had pushed up against him.

“I just made a sandwich. There’s plenty. Come on in.”

He followed her into the kitchen, and when she saw the suture practice board still on the counter, her stomach fell. She gathered it up and hoped he didn’t see it, sticking it under the sink instead of in its regular place above the fridge. When she turned around, she could see the question on his face but ignored it. “I have chicken salad.”

“That’s great,” he said, moving to the sink to wash his hands. “I appreciate it. I was actually going to treat you.”

“I’ve been looking forward to this sandwich all day,” she said, loading chicken salad on a bread slice. “My world-famous chicken salad recipe courtesy of my sister, Esther.” She paused, realizing what she’d just said. How could she let her guard down?

“I thought you didn’t have any family,” Ben replied, taking the plate from her.

“I don’t.” She cleared her throat as she took a pitcher of tea out of the refrigerator. “She died right before I moved here.”

She poured them each a glass, and they sat at the table. After a brief prayer thanking God for the food, she took a bite of her sandwich, nearly choking when Ben said, “Is that why you don’t work in the medical field anymore?”

Her eyes flew to his face as she took a drink of tea to wash down the food in her mouth. “Why would you—?”

“I’m pretty observant, Mara. I watched you with Jeremy. I listened to how you spoke to the paramedics. You clearly were something. Nurse, doctor, paramedic, something.”

Her mind raced through the years of schooling and the stethoscope she’d left hanging on the hook next to her white coat in the locker at her hospital. Deciding she valued Ben’s friendship enough to give him something, she nodded and let the tears fill her eyes. “You’re right. I was a third-year surgical resident when they found my sister’s body. Or what was left of her body. I had to take a break. I had to get out of the city.”

He clearly hadn’t expected her to open up that way. With wide eyes, he reached over and took her hand. “I’m sorry I’ve been so hidden and closed off. This has been the hardest six months of my life. I can’t think of before. I can only think of the future.”

“What future do you want?”

“Freedom,” she whispered, pulling her hand away and taking another sip of her drink. The ice rattled in the cup with the trembling of her hand. “I want a future that is free.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Free from what?”

“Fear.” Major came up to her and lay his head in her lap. He knew not to come to the table with food present, but because he clearly came to comfort her, she didn’t correct him.

“Are you afraid that what happened to your sister will happen to you?”

She paused, her hand resting on Major’s head, and looked him dead in the eye. “I know it will. Just a matter of time. The only question is, will I be able to finish what I started before it does?”

Ben frowned. “I don’t understand.”

She gave a small smile. “I know.” She picked up a chip and waved it in his direction. “I can’t tell you about it, though.”

With a sigh, he said, “Mara, I want—”

“I know what you want, Ben. I do. I’m not oblivious,” she sighed and put the chip down without biting it, “but I can’t give it to you. I can’t. It’s not fair of me, I know, but I value your friendship and don’t want to lose that.”

He studied her for several minutes before nodding his head. “You won’t.” He picked up his sandwich and smiled. “World famous, huh?”

Knowing he intended to act like the entire conversation never happened, she silently thanked him and nodded. “You’ll never be able to look another chicken salad in the eye. I promise.”

Six Months Ago

Victor opened his eyes, startled, and immediately the throbbing in his head worsened. He’d taken a pretty good hit tonight in the practice ring and had experienced enough concussions in his lifetime to know the symptoms. Joe had sent him to rest on the couch, knowing that if a doctor saw him, he would likely pull him from the fight. The way he felt right now, he didn’t think he could even fake feeling fine in two days. He wondered if his last match would have to be a forfeit due to head injury.

What had wakened him? Then the sound came again, the raised voice of a man, begging for his life. As he squinted in the dim light of Joe’s office, he tried to figure out where the sound came from. Rolling into a sitting position on the couch, he groaned and put his head in his hand, trying to focus less on himself and more on the man’s voice.

The gunshot startled him. It sounded like it came from right outside the window. Pushing himself to his feet, he stumbled forward and headed to the window. Halfway there, he heard another gunshot. By the time he made it to the window, he spotted Vyacheslav Markoff, one of his father’s lieutenants, and three bodies on the ground at his father’s feet. Gripping the windowsill with both hands, tears streaming out his eyes, nausea rolling in his stomach, he stared at the man who contributed to half of his DNA and felt hate like nothing he’d ever felt before well up inside his chest.

Suddenly, his father turned and looked in his direction. He stepped back away from the window, thinking he’d seen him, but no, he didn’t look right at the window, just in the general direction. He said something to Vy, who turned and sprinted down the alley. His father stepped over the bodies and followed at a walk.

What had just happened?

He turned and leaned his back against the wall, sliding down until he crouched near the floor. He would go tonight. He’d pack his mother a bag, send her away, and go to the hospital to find Ruth. He must, at all costs, convince her to run away with him. The world knew this weekend would be his last fight, and he knew the moment he retired from boxing, his father would expect him to start learning the family business. He would not. He could not.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, he stood. He would sneak out before his father saw him. He’d never even have to know he was here tonight, would never know he witnessed anything. He stumbled into the doorway and put his head in his hand. He sought inner strength to keep walking. He had to get out of the building before Antoly and Vy returned. With a push, he stumbled into the hall and ran right into Vy’s chest.

Victor had to crane his head to look Vy in the eye. The giant had tattoos running up his neck and behind his shaved head—images of his beloved Russia permanently marked all over his body. Clearly, Victor had startled him because his eyes bugged out, and he put a hand on his shoulder. “Where were you?” he demanded in Russian.

Victor gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Took a hard blow to the head. Joe had me resting.” He made a show of looking around, knowing his father would have emptied the gym to conduct his business. “Where did everyone go?”

Antoly walked down the hallway. “We had a meeting.” He stopped next to the two men and looked at his son, his eyes skimming him from the top of his head to the toes of his sock-clad feet. “How’s the head?”

“I think I have a concussion. I was on my way to the hospital.”

“If Joe wanted you to go to the hospital, he would have sent you.” He put his hands on Victor’s cheeks, framing his face with his hands. “You and I, we need to have a talk about your girlfriend.” He lifted his hands and slapped them back down, hard. The pain in Victor’s head bounced around like the ringing of a bell. His stomach turned. Fear, disgust, anger, the pain in his head, and now on his cheeks—Victor tried desperately to maintain control, to not give anything at all away to the evil man in front of him. He felt his hands form into fists but very consciously relaxed them. “A very serious talk, Victor.”

“About what?” How could she have anything to do with what happened tonight? Terror seized his heart. The idea that his father thought Ruth had anything to do with his business—

Antoly let go of Victor’s face and stepped back, drawing a gun out of his holster and putting the barrel against the center of Victor’s forehead. He felt his blood freeze to ice, and his heart pause.

“She’s a threat to my entire organization. I should kill you for bringing her here. After all, I can just make another son.” His eyes burned with intensity. This was not the first time he’d struck terror in Victor’s heart, but it certainly topped the charts. “Nyet. No. Instead, I will kill her, I think. And I will enjoy your suffering. You need to learn a lesson, too.” As he lowered his Tokarev, he looked at Vy. “Where is Lev?”

“Here,” Lev Genrich, the thick man with the helmet of black hair said, coming into the hall. “I could not catch the cab. I have no idea where they went.”

“Father—”

Antoly rounded on him. “You shut your mouth! Do not speak again!” Spittle flew out with the words. Then, calmly, he turned back to Lev. “Go to her apartment. When she comes home, make sure she understands my message.”

Horror at the order he’d just heard gnawed at his stomach. “What?!”

Antoly put the gun barrel to his forehead again. “I said, shut up.” As Lev left the building, he let in the man Victor knew as Mr. Kester, the contractor who provided cleanup services for some of his father’s more heinous crimes. He hid bodies, erased evidence, and provided alibis when needed. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit with shoes shined to a high gloss. “I’m glad you were available. The mess is in the alley.” He holstered his gun again and added, “There was a witness. I’m sure the cops will be here soon. Make sure there’s no trace.”

A witness? Dear God, had Ruth been here tonight? He had to get to her. He started to step away when Vy caught his arm. Antoly rounded on him. “Victor. Help Mr. Kester.”

He closed his eyes, praying for patience and protection. “I have a concussion. I need medical attention.”

Antoly stepped forward, his toes hitting Victor’s. “You will help Mr. Kester with the three bodies in the alley, or else there will be four bodies. Do not think I would even hesitate before killing you, son of a harlot. You are easily replaced.”

Turning his father against him would solve nothing. His mother had taught him that from birth. He clenched his teeth together and gave a short nod. “I apologize for any disrespect. My head hurts, and it’s affecting my judgment. Please forgive me.”

Antoly scowled. “I will forgive you when you get this mess cleaned up.” He turned to Vy. “Those idiots out there lost ten grand. See what you can do to recover it.”

Victor followed Mr. Kester out into the alley and swallowed against his stomach’s reaction to the line of dead bodies.