A waiter came by and deposited a few glasses of champagne on the table, and once the couple broke away to take their alcohol, I asked, “You haven’t seen Arlo, have you?”

The woman was the first to look at me, her eyes dramatically shadowed, her eyeliner winged and perfectly applied.

“Big Russian man with a perpetual scowl on his face.” I tried to lighten the atmosphere by adding in that last bit, even smiling sincerely. It felt wrong of me, but I made the effort. It was clear she wasn’t amused by the very forced smile she gave in return.

“Excuse me?” Her voice told me one thing. She was offended I’d had the nerve to speak to her. “Sweetheart,” she said and looked at her male counterpart, the man looking bored as he looked down at his cuticles. “Just because we’re attending the same gala doesn’t mean we know everyone.” She laughed as if I were the stupidest thing she’d ever heard.

I felt my face heat at the humiliation.

“Darling,” the man finally said and glanced at her. “You know him. The Russian brute. The one who does all the dirty work others are too good to perform.”

The woman curled her nose with distaste, and I bristled, instantly pissed that she acted like Arlo was beneath her, like I was beneath her. He was better than all these people, good at heart even if he did bad things.

“Oh… him,” she said in this haughty voice that caused my hands to curl into tight fists.

I didn’t bother showing the disgust on my face as I looked between the two of them. I had to leave, because if I didn’t, I’d surely start a fight. People like them would see me as white trash, the shit on the bottom of their designer shoes.

This place wasn’t for me. I wasn’t made to be surrounded by these types of people or this opulence. All I needed was Arlo, so without looking at the couple again or even responding, I stood and went once more in search of the man who held my heart in his blood-soaked hands.

Chapter Three

Galina

My wandering led me past guests and waiters, security and judgement. I found myself in an extravagant library, the floor-to-ceiling shelving filled with leather-bound stories that could take a person away to any world they wanted, could make them forget all about the evil and dirt that could stain a person’s soul.

The clack-clack of my heels along the floor as I walked farther into the room seemed overly loud, echoing off the high ceilings. The scent of lingering cigar smoke, aged whisky, and a deeply rich, masculine aroma permeated the air as I stopped in front of one of the bookcases and lifted my hand to run a finger down the thick spine of one.