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My sister’s a total martyr—she’d trade herself for someone else in a heartbeat. Actually, I’m probably the only person she could be one hundred percent sure would pick myself. Which means she’s sending Kris and Aleks a message. . .through me. She won’t want me to share it until the time has passed.

“If you don’t come alone,” a man’s voice says, “we’ll kill her.”

A chill shoots up my spine. This man sounds worse than Nojus.

“If you’re late, we’ll kill her.” The man hangs up.

With shaking hands, I look up the distance to the address and find out that, shockingly, it’s not that far away. If I take a cab and run, I’ll have a little time. I stop at the local post office, scrawl out a hasty note, and mail my own phone to our apartment at Liepašeta.

I was never going to get the money.

Part of me knew that already. There’s also no way I was going to repay Nojus in the way he wanted. Since I was clearly doomed to die today, I may as well do it for a good cause.

I’m terrified as I march into the park where the men told me to go. My heart’s racing. My palms and pits are sweaty. My head’s throbbing from dehydration, too much panic, and the incessant darting of my eyes, looking for the horrible mastermind who wants Kris and didn’t mind kidnapping and threatening my sister to draw her out.

What do they want with Kristiana?

I expect a dozen men in all black. I expect knives and guns and flinty eyes. I don’t know what kind of people Kristiana pissed off—or maybe it was her husband who made them mad. They’re probably Russians, right? The Russian mafia? Maybe Aleksandr borrowed money, too. That would be rich, if I get killed for the same thing I did, only by someone else’s mob boss. Won’t Nojus be shocked when he can’t rape me? I hope he finds out that I’m dead—I want him to be deprived of the satisfaction of doing it himself.

Or maybe he’ll spend several years and thousands of dollars searching for me. That would be even better.

As I glance at my watch, I realize that if I can just delay whoever it is that comes for Kris for twenty minutes or so, Nojus’s lackeys should show up to collect me. That might be interesting.

And of course, as always, the second I see a glimmer of hope. . .I start to make a plan.

The people who wanted Kris here will be strong. Powerful. Probably scary looking. And I have no idea why they want Kris. Mirdza knew something, which means Kristiana would have an inkling of who they are. Other than dealing with her dad’s gambling, her life was pretty blasé before she got engaged.

Plus, Mirdza said, ’like Aleksandr thought they might.’ It has to be related to him. He’s Russian, so the guys will likely be Russian. It’s probably about money. Everything is, at its most basic.

I start watching people intently as they move around the park.

No one’s wearing black. No one’s carrying any weapons I can make out. No one even looks very ominous.

Actually, there aren’t really any scary men.

There’s a woman leading her two young children. A lady carries a bag of groceries as she briskly walks past. There’s a teenage kid with a dog. And there’s one man, talking on a cell phone. He’s wearing a bright blue scarf, he has hair so dark that it’s almost black, and when he looks up at me, his eyes exactly match his scarf. I mean, sure, he’s wearing a dark suit, but it’s like Dior or something.

No mobster would ever wear what he’s wearing.

Plus, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Like a print ad model for Calvin Klein, or a movie star here on holiday. He smiles, and even though I never date and have no intention to ever change, I still swoon a little.

I can’t help smiling back.

A moment later, he hangs up his call and stands. Then he strolls toward me. I mean, this happens sometimes. I’ll meet some stranger’s eye, and he’ll approach me. Then he always asks for my number. I may be a mess, but like Mirdza’s bestie, I’m blonde, thin, and pretty.

It’s just a really bad time to deal with this sort of thing.

I’d hate for the beautiful stranger to get caught in the crosshairs of my surrender. I glance at my watch and realize it’s now only five minutes until Nojus’s deadline, and the stranger’s a few paces away and closing.

“What’s your name?” he asks, and his accent is Russian.

It can’t be the bad guy, right? There’s no scar on his face. He doesn’t look like the henchmen that people like Nojus order around. Nothing about him sends me danger vibes. Even so, when I answer, I say, “Kristiana Liepa.”

Just in case.

When he stands there, half-smiling, I feel like I should warn him off.

“I’m dating someone,” I say. “Sorry.”