It was identical to the piece I watched Sofia painting.

What were the chances? Zero.

A hand shot out, grabbing the doorknob and pulling the door closed. One of Biba’s soldiers narrowed his eyes at me. “I believe you were leaving,” he snapped in warning.

“My apologies,” I offered, turning to catch up with the others.

I only half listened as we said our farewells, then went our separate ways. I started my car and began to drive with no destination in mind.

It couldn’t be. It had to be a coincidence.

The image of Sofia’s panicked face when I told her I’d watched her paint came to mind, and my temples began to throb. Why on earth would Sofia’s painting be at a Russian chop shop? What the fuck had I missed in her life while I’d been gone?

She had known about her family mafia connections all her life, so what other secrets did she have? The fucking Russians? Those assholes were insane. What could she possibly be thinking by associating with them?

My mind was utterly blown.

I needed to figure out what the hell was going on, and I need to know now.

“I’m so ready to get out of my parents’ house. Two whole years until I graduate … I’m never going to make it,” I told Michael in a huff. We had come outside for our lunch on an unusually warm spring day, making ourselves comfortable in a patch of sun on campus grounds.

“Yeah, well, my dad found me this weekend,” he said, pulling a blade of grass and slowly tearing it into pieces.

“He found you? What do you mean he found you? Were you hidden?”

He peered up at me through his thick lashes and smirked. “Sort of. We told everyone my parents had just divorced when I moved out here, but that wasn’t the case. My parents were never married. My dad is a dangerous man. He’s part of the Russian mob, the bratva.”

Despite the warmth of the sun, goose bumps rose along the length of my arms. “Are you joking with me?” My mood had gone so severe, Michael perked up at attention.

His eyes narrowed as he searched my face. “I’m not joking, Sof. I shouldn’t even have told you, but it’s not like I have anyone else to talk to about it.”

“You were on the run from him?”

“Not exactly. If that was the case, we probably would have moved a hell of a lot farther away. A few years ago, my dad made it known he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, and my mom freaked. She made a plan, got us fake papers, and moved us out here. All of her family is in New York, so she didn’t want to go far, but she hoped to keep my dad away from me.”

“Papers—like a new identity? Is your name even Michael?” I gaped, having trouble comprehending what he was telling me. What were the chances the guy who had become my closest friend over the past year was connected to the Russian mob? The Italian and Russian factions didn’t exactly mix, as far as I could tell. I had yet to run into any Russian speakers in my neighborhood of Staten Island.