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APRIL

I ’ve managed to avoid Jay for the last two days. I don’t know how to process all the feelings us hooking up brought. But now it’s my last shift before I get a day and a half of reprieve while helping my neighbors clear out their cabin. Hopefully being away from Lola’s—and Jay—will bring some clarity.

The Friday late-morning lull in the bar is one of my favorites. The air carries the scent of freshly squeezed citrus and the warm bread we serve with our lunch salads. It’s a chilly day, but sunlight slants through the wide windows, painting golden patches on the scuffed wooden floors. The place is half full, mostly occupied by retirees nursing coffee, plus a few workers on lunch breaks. Easy-going chatter floats in the air, and the soft clinking of glasses fills the spaces in between.

I wipe down the bar, my body moving on autopilot. I enjoy the calm that comes with the day shift. It lacks the frenetic energy of the evening crowd, and the regulars who do stop by are friendly enough. After only six months, Lola’s and Fir Hollows feel like home. Hopefully I haven’t messed that up by sleeping with my boss. I love my job and the comforting predictability of my routine.

But all of that shatters the moment the door swings open, letting in a gust of cold winter air, and a ghost from my past.

My fingers tighten around the rag in my hand as my heart stutters. He’s taller than I remember, broader too. His dark suit is crisp, expensive—far too out of place in a casual spot like Lola’s. But it isn’t just the suit or the way he carries himself that sends ice crawling down my spine.

It’s the tattoo inked just beneath his collar, visible for only a second before it disappears under the fabric. A black snake coiled around a dagger.

Viktor Volkov. The brigadier, the lieutenant, of the Russian mobster Adrik Popov. Also known as the guy my dad worked for as an accountant. Until he stole a ledger so he could make a deal with the FBI and get immunity if he turned on the mob. Supposedly, our whole family would get witness protection, and my dad immunity, from prosecution. But that didn’t work out so well.

Someone at the FBI was dirty and let Popov know where our safe house was. My mom and uncle Nathan were killed in a shootout and my dad took off. I haven’t seen him for six years. Which is also how long I’ve been on the run.

I force myself to breathe. Maybe Viktor won’t recognize me. Maybe he isn’t even here for me. It’s been six years, and I’m not the same girl who used to visit my dad at work. Back when I thought he just worked in a regular office. I’ve dyed my hair, changed my name.

I’ve been careful.

Always so careful.

At any hint of anyone Russian paying extra attention to me, I’ve skipped town and created a new identity all over again.

And yet, Viktor’s gaze sweeps across the room and lands on me with chilling precision.

He knows.

I force my lips into a tight smile, though I can feel the panic rising beneath my skin. "What can I get you?" I ask, keeping my voice steady.

Viktor slides onto a barstool, his movement slow, deliberate. "Rye whiskey. Neat."

I grab a bottle from the top shelf and pour a generous measure into a glass. The ice in my veins makes my fingertips tremble. I set the drink in front of him and pray he doesn’t hear the slight hitch in my breath.

Viktor lifts the glass but doesn’t drink. Instead, he studies me, his head tilting ever so slightly. "Didn’t expect to see you here, Anna."

I flinch and the silently curse myself for doing so. But I couldn’t help it.

It’s the first time I’ve heard my real name spoken aloud in years. Memories of my mom and uncle surface and I have to blink back tears. I miss them so much. Dad and I were never close, but my mom and her brother were my whole life while growing up.

"You must have me confused with someone else," I say, feigning indifference. I grab a towel and begin wiping down the already-clean counter. Anything to give my hands something to do.

Viktor chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. "Nice try. But you and I both know that’s not true."

My stomach twists. I need to get out of here. Now.

"What do you want?" I ask, my voice quieter this time.

Viktor finally takes a sip of his whiskey, savoring the taste, before setting the glass down with a soft clink. "I think you already know."

I do. Of course I do. That fucking ledger.

The ledger that killed the two people I loved most in this world.

The ledger that is the only thing currently keeping me alive.

Viktor leans in, just enough to make me feel trapped. "I’ll make this easy for you, Anna. Popov wants what’s his. And if he can’t get it, someone has to pay. He needs to maintain his reputation in the community. You understand what I’m saying?"

My stomach turns to lead. I understand perfectly.

I nod once, just enough to acknowledge the threat and force myself to move, to breathe. "I need to step into the back to grab something," I say, keeping my tone even.

Viktor doesn’t stop me. He simply smiles, slow and knowing. "Go ahead. I’m not in a rush."

I turn and walk to the storeroom, careful not to seem too hurried. But the second I’m out of sight, I bolt out the back door, into the alley, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I need to leave. Right now.

I’m not na?ve enough to believe Viktor will let me go easily. He’s probably expecting me to run. But I’ve done this before. I’ve escaped before. I can do it again.

This is why I keep a go bag in my car. I can leave on a moment’s notice.

My car is parked a block away. I force myself to walk, not run, even though every instinct screams at me to move faster. If I draw attention, I’ll lose what little head start I have.

I make it to my car, fumble with the keys, and yank the door open. The moment I slide into the driver’s seat, I let out a shaky breath.

My hands finally stop shaking enough to where I only need one try to get the key into the ignition. I twist it, but nothing happens. The engine won’t start.

I try again. Same result. All I hear is a ticking sound. Maybe my battery is dead?

Then, I see the note.

It’s sitting right on my dashboard, a simple piece of paper folded in half. My breath catches as I reach for it with trembling fingers.

Inside, scrawled in neat, careful handwriting, are three words.

You Can’t Run.