When I open the front door, it's pitch-black inside. Could she still be sleeping? I reach for the switch, flip on the lights, and freeze.
The girl is sitting on the floor a few paces from the door, arms wrapped around her legs, body shaking uncontrollably.
"Shit." I crouch beside her, intending to scoop her up, but the moment I reach, she leaps into my arms, wrapping herself around me like a koala, burying her face in the crook of my neck.
I hold her under the thighs and carry her to my bedroom. My plan to gently lower her onto the bed fails, her arms and legs cling tight.
"I'm so sorry for leaving you alone," I whisper, sitting on the edge of the bed.
There's a bundled blanket nearby. I wrap it around her shoulders. She doesn't move, still clinging and trembling.
"You're safe." I place a hand on her nape and stroke her back with the other. "You're safe."
A small sigh escapes her lips, her body relaxing slightly. I continue the soothing motions for at least half an hour before she lifts her head off my shoulder. I reach for the lamp and turn the dimmer up a bit. She blinks, adjusting to the light, and meets my eyes.
"Feeling better?" I ask.
She doesn't answer. She stares at me for a long moment. Dear God, she is so young. Slowly, she uncoils her arms and lets her hands trail over my shoulders and down my chest, stopping at the lapels of my suit jacket.
Her eyes snap downward, and her body stiffens. Following her gaze, I see it's on my tie. Her shaking intensifies, and a whimper escapes her lips.
"What's wrong?"
Her breathing quickens, shallow and panicked. Her gaze won't leave the tie.
"Look at me." I cup her face, tilt her chin, and meet her dark brown eyes. Panic is written all over them. "Good. Now breathe."
She tries, but her breath hitched. Another attempt. Her lower lip trembles, and I hear a faint whisper near my ear.
"I didn't hear you, baby. Try again."
She closes her eyes, leans closer, and murmurs, "They always… wore suits."
It takes me a moment to understand. "They." Plural. Not a single abuser, she was trapped with more than one. A cold chill runs down my spine.
I release her face and quickly remove my jacket, tossing it where she can't see. Then I start loosening my tie.
Her gaze follows my hands, her body trembling even more.
"Look at me," I say, keeping my voice calm. Anger simmers beneath, but I swallow it. "Good girl. I'm throwing it away, okay?" I let the tie fall to the floor.
Her body relaxes slightly, though she still shakes.
"Shirt as well?" I ask, and without waiting, I start on the buttons. She bites her lower lip and nods.
"Okay, baby." I undo the last button and pull off the shirt.
Better? I stare into her red-rimmed eyes. God, she looks so lost. She glances down and slowly places her hand on my chest, fingertips tracing over the tattoos from collarbone down.
"I'm afraid I can't remove these, Mishka," I say.
Her eyes lift to mine. The corners of her lips curve ever so slightly.
"Is that a smile?"
She shrugs.
Tiny, but a smile nonetheless. Her whole face changes—just a glimpse of the person she was before all of this.
"What's your name, baby?"
The need to know her name, the tiniest detail about her, has been eating me alive.
"It's Asya," she says in a small, fragile voice. An unusual name.
"Asya," I repeat. It fits her. "It's a very pretty name. And your last name?"
"DeVille," she whispers.
I raise my eyebrows. "You're Italian?"
She nods. The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it. "Are you from Chicago?"
"New York."
The moment she says it, everything clicks. "Are you related to Arturo DeVille?"
"He's my brother." She bites her lip. "You know Arturo?"
The underboss of the New York Cosa Nostra Family. Shit. I haven't met Arturo personally, but Roman makes sure the Bratva has intel on everyone connected to us in any way.
"I'm a member of the Russian Bratva, Mishka. Your don's wife is the sister to the wife of one of our enforcers," I explain. "We need to call your brother right away and let him know you're here."
Asya stiffens. "Please… don't."
"Why?" Nausea twists in my gut. "Does he have something to do with what happened to you?"
She shakes her head and burrows into my chest. "He probably thinks I'm dead. I want to keep it that way."
"But he's your brother. He's probably going crazy with worry." I run my fingers through her dark brown hair. "You need to tell him you're okay."
"I'm not fucking okay!" she snaps. She climbs off my lap and pins me with her gaze. "Those people pumped me full of drugs, sold my body for months—and I let them! Did nothing! What kind of pitiful creature just lets that happen without fighting back?"
Her sobs mix with rage. I let her vent. Anger is good. Any reaction is good. I remain still, sitting on the edge of the bed, silent.
"Do you know that last night, when you found me, was the first time I tried to run?" she continues. "You want me to tell my brother that? He raised me better than to be a fucking doormat! I'd rather never see him again than let him learn what I let them turn me into!"
She grabs my shirt from the floor, steps on it, and pulls with all her weight until it rips. Then she starts shredding it. I watch, amazed. She seemed delicate, meek—but now I see the fire burning inside her. The people who hurt her didn't extinguish it completely. And I will find every one of them and make them pay.
"I hate them! I hate them so much!" she roars, glaring at me. "And you? Why the fuck are you just sitting there? Shouldn't you try to calm me?" She shoves me. Again. Once more.
"No," I say.
"No? You'll just watch me fall apart?"
"You're not falling apart, Asya." I trace her chin with my thumb. "You're pulling yourself together."
"Pulling together?" She bursts into hysterical laughter. "When I woke up, I couldn't even decide if I should eat eggs or marmalade! I spent twenty minutes staring at the food on the counter and had to eat both because I couldn't choose!"
Her words dissolve into sobs. Her shoulders slump. I place my finger under her chin, tilt her head, and meet her gaze.
"What do you want?" I ask.
Tears slide down her cheeks. "Do you want them dead?"
A sharp intake of breath escapes me. No reply. I reformulate it into a statement.
"You want them dead."
She nods.
"They will die," I say. "What else?"
Silence.
"You don't want your family to see you like this."
Another nod.
"I'll never be the person I was before," she whispers.
"No. You won't." I lightly pinch her chin. "And that's okay. They'll love you just the same. What happened changed you, Asya—it would change anyone. You need to accept who you've become. You're still you. Changed, yes, but still you."
She sniffs and climbs back onto my lap, limbs wrapping around me, burying her face in my neck. I tilt my head, listening to the barely audible murmurs. When she's done, I stare at the far wall, thinking about what she's just asked.
If Roman finds out, it won't end well. We've kept a good relationship with the Cosa Nostra, but letting her stay could spark war. And if her brother finds out, he might kill me.
I inhale. Nodding, I whisper, "Okay, Mishka. You can stay."