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And somehow, it breaks the spell. I inhale in a hard, painful rush. “You,” I manage, my voice barely a croak.

“Have we met?” The man in the chair frowns, peering into the darkness toward me. “I rarely forget a face.”

I step forward as if I’m sleepwalking. My limbs are oddly weak, my feet clumsy on the ground.

I feel like I’m six years old again.

Roman casts me a wary look. “Abby,” he growls. “Come to me. Now.”

I’m aware of Abby and the other girls moving off the couch, toward Roman.

Good. They’ll be safe now. Roman will take care of them.

My thoughts are disjointed, unhinged. I feel death hovering in the room, barely seconds away.

“Dimitry,” Leon says in a low voice. “You need to leave. Please—”

“Dimitry?” The man in the chair frowns, then leans forward, studying me.

I don’t answer, just keep walking toward him. I’m not entirely sure Icanspeak.

“It can’t be.” Something flares in the man’s eyes, there and then gone. “Surely not.”

His eyes flicker to Leon, then back to me. “Well,” he says softly. “This reallyisquite the game.”

“You always did like games.” My voice seems to come from a very long distance as I draw to a halt next to Leon. “Didn’t you—Yakov?”

38

Abby

Yakov?

I stare at Dimitry’s rigid back.

Yakov. The man who tortured Dimitry and his mother. The man he ran from back in the halfway house.

“Fuck,” Roman mutters beside me. His face is covered in blood, every muscle taut, his eyes narrow with tension as they flicker between Dimitry and Yakov.

Then I see the men behind him, and my heart seizes in my chest.

“Dad?”I barely manage the word.

My father gives me a strained smile. “Hey, girl.” He glances at Roman. “Let me get my daughter out of here.”

“Not yet,” mutters Roman, still staring at Dimitry. His arm is like a vise around me, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Yakov,” he says quietly. “That fucking piece of shit.”

“Roman.” My hand covers his on the gun. When he glares at me, I just shake my head.

Not this time. You can’t save him from this.

“Leave them be,” I whisper.

Roman stares at me, his face grim as death. But he doesn’t argue.

Rodrigo is still on the sofa, staring at Juan like he’s seeing a ghost, which I imagine it certainly feels like. Yrsa, Lucky, and Mary are huddled together next to Turbo, of all people, who is grinning at me like a maniac.

“Dimitry,” Leon is saying warningly. “Please. Before we run out of time—”