Chapter 2

Ana

There’s always that one thing that happens to you—which ensures you are not the same person you were before it happened.

For me, that thing was watching Caspian Andreas, the love of my life, get sprayed with bullets in a seedy 24-hour chapel on the Vegas Strip.

It happened three years ago, and yet, it plays in my mind as though it happened three hours—no, three minutes—ago.

Ever since then, I’ve been going through life as if in a dream, praying for the day that I finally die and go to heaven, so I can see my CasBear—as I used to call him—again.

For now, though, I’m adjusting the cathedral veil on my head and preparing for my wedding. I’m in a private changing room near the catacombs of the Holy Fathers Russian Orthodox church.

Various family members are coming in and out of the vestry, like a demented cuckoo clock, to wish me the best of luck in both English and Russian.

“Bozh'yeblagosloveniyena vas, Ana,” says one tetka—aunt, in Russian terms.

“God’s blessings be on you, Ana,” says another great-aunt or cousin.

It doesn’t even faze me.

Because I’m not the same.

I’ll never be the same.

When your last clear memory of Las Vegas is seeing the love of your life laying in a pool of his own blood, gunned down unceremoniously by a bunch of Russian thugs with AR-15’s—you become…hard.

And speaking of Russian thugs, in walks the one who gunned him down now—the same one I will have the “privilege” of marrying in a few hours.

He smirks when he sees me. “Beautiful,” he says, his thick accent reverberating throughout the vestry.

I snarl at him. “You know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, Yuri.” I almost spit out his name.

He laughs and paws at my breasts, which are barely concealed through the lace-white illusion atop my Pnina Tornai gown that’s drenched in Swarovski crystals. “Bride, schmide,” he jokes, pawing at me. “These are mine either way.”

With one forceful shove, I push him away, sending him flying across the room. “You’ll get whatever you want when we’re husband and wife,” I bark at him, “but until I walk down that aisle, you get nothing, Yuri. You hear me? Nothing!” He laughs and runs his fingers through his hair. “This kitten has claws,” he remarks slyly.

“You know what, Yuri,” I say, pointing to the door. “Get the fuck out!”

“You’d curse in a church, Ana?” He makes the sign of the cross. “May God forgive you.”

“Get out!” I screech, tossing a bottle of perfume at him.

He runs out the door and slams it behind him, causing the perfume to smash against the door jamb and break into a million pieces.

The whole room now smells of Chanel No. 5.

“Terrific,” I grumble. “Another $340 down the drain.”

I turn back to the mirror and absentmindedly adjust my veil again.

I’m not the same girl I was. I’m just not the same.

Yuri pokes his head back into the room.

“I almost forgot, my milaya,” he says, opening my hand and placing a ring inside it. I recognize it immediately.

This is Cas’ ring.

“This is what will be on your finger in just a few hours,” he says with a devilish smirk on his face.

He runs out before I can scream at him, cackling like a warlock as he slams the door.

“I hate this son-of-a-bitch,” I grumble to no one in particular.

Yes, I know I’m nothing more than currency in Russian mob dealings—I’m a girl, after all, and I can’t be seen holding guns or taking numbers.

Yes, I know this is what my father wants. But I also know, I would sooner die than be married for more than a few minutes to that man.

To say I don’t love him is the understatement of the millennium; I actively, openly loathe him. But there’s no need to worry, because I have a plan.

I fish around in my purse and find what I’m looking for—a pink butterfly knife. I practice opening it with one flick of my wrist. It’s amazing, I say to myself as it unfolds with a slight whoosh.

I’m fully armed in 60 seconds or less.

I stick it in my bouquet, filled with long-stemmed roses and sunflowers, looking inconspicuous against the red-and-yellow.

Red, for blood.

This isn’t something I necessarily want to do—I’ve never taken a life before, after all.

But this is something that I have to do.

I am not chattel.

I am not property.

I am not currency.

I’m Ana Rachmanoff, and I’m lost without my CasBear. If it comes down to dying or marrying this Russian asshole, then I’ll take dying with no hesitation.

I lay out the plan, once more, in my head: I’ll walk down the aisle, with Daddy on my side, just like in the rehearsal.

The priest will give a blessing.

Mass will start.

We will turn to each other and begin our vows.

Yuri, of course—will be asked first if he takes me—Ana, to be his lawfully wedded wife; to have and to hold from this day forward, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others for as long as we both shall live.

I’ve been through this before, I say to myself as I run down the vows.

And he, of course, will say “I do,” because he can’t wait to get some of this pussy.

And that’s all he can think about, and we all know he’ll only stay married to me until I turn 40, where—like he always says—he’ll trade in “a 40 for two twenties,” ha haha, so funny!

And he really thinks it’s funny. Jerk.

And then, it will be my turn.

The priest will ask me if I take him—Yuri, to be my lawfully wedded husband; to have and to hold from this day forward, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others for as long as we both shall live.

And I will say, “I do.”

And I will draw the knife and slit his throat.

And then I will take my own life. Because I know that once I slit Yuri’s throat, no one will let me leave the church alive.

It’s better to die on my own terms than theirs anyway.

I smile, content on my plan, and stand up. “Let’s do this, Ana,” I say to myself.

I turn around.

And see a ghost.

For a minute, I think I’m going to pass out.

He walks towards me and confirms he’s real.

“Hello, Ana Baby,” Cas says, taking my hand.