Torment | 18+ ✓

01

At night, I often dreamed of waking up on a blood-soaked carpet only to be chased by a hound. No matter what I did, how many times the dream replayed, the hound never shook off my scent.

Soon, Ana had begun to believe me. Because there were more men, and many more carpet replacements. Maybe my father got less and less discreet at the hiding. Or maybe we just got older. Either way, I soon learned the truth about the family business.

And I was about to find out just how unfair it all was.

I’m sixteen now, and Ana is still braiding my hair. I never learned to do it as well as she could. In fact, there are many things she’s infinitely better than me at — art, fashion, and cooking, to name a few.

In the world we live in, asking for Prada is less indulgent than asking for love. That doesn’t stop my sister. We’re upstairs again, in her room, watching another one of her rom coms. Today, it’s How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

“Come on, Ana,” I mumble, butter popcorn flying everywhere as I dive my hand into the bowl before unceremoniously shoving it into my mouth. “There’s no way you actually believe in this stuff.”

She makes a face at my obnoxious chewing, waving a hand. “Shhh. It’s starting.”

I chip at my black nail polish absently, not paying attention to the screen. Ana had made me watch this movie about thirty times. It’s her favorite, along with The Princess Bride. With long, wavy blonde hair and the biggest green eyes, Ana is a real-life Rapunzel. If people could be things, then she was sunshine.

Maybe it’s her blind optimism that’s the most beautiful. She lives with her heart on her sleeve and her eyes on the screen. She never curses, always folds her legs when she sits, wears bright colors, and flashes that pearly white smile like it’s currency.

We’re polar opposites.

It’s the day of Ana’s eighteenth birthday, and I’m high on pink-iced birthday cake when Papa storms into the house after missing most of the celebrations. His rough voice booms up the stairway. “Anastasia!”

I should’ve known better than to ignore the shiver running down my spine. Or the crazed look Papa had in his eyes. Instinctively, my hand goes to the heart locket around my neck, as I draw a thumb over the polished silver.

Ana’s perfectly plucked brows furrow as she glances my way, chewing on her inner cheek. I reach for her hand, not missing the way her pulse hammers in her wrist.

Born as a girl into the Russian sect of one of New York’s crime syndicates, our fate was dictated for us the moment we were out of the womb. We both knew that we might be forced into decisions. We could only hope the day wouldn’t come.

But come it did. Knocking on the door dressed in a well-fitted Armani suit. And the more I think about it, it was less a polite knock and  more a violent rupture through solid oak, burning down everything in its wake.

I know the cause. I know it all too well. The name hadn’t left Papa’s office since the day it was first mentioned. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, acid running through my veins.

Torren Costa.

Our father is a powerful man, but somehow, he’d made debt big enough that it could only be paid with a life. And not his own — his eldest daughter’s.

Mama is quick to tug a dazed Ana aside, pulling her out of my hold and up to her room.

The lines on Papa’s forehead are more prominent than ever, and his dress shirt is wrinkled, tie askew. I can make out the cigarette box in his suit pants. He promised he’d never smoke again, he was never really good at keeping promises.