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“I’m thinking further back.” I stare at the upcoming T-intersection.

“The more we know about Abby’s past, the better chance we have of finding her now.

There’s a lot she never told me.” I frown as we slow at the highway.

“I checked the map, and if we drive through the night, we should make Leetham by dawn. Maybe Abby’s parents will be able to fill in some of the gaps. ”

“Oh, Christ.” Luke starts to laugh. “Ready to meet the in-laws, mate?”

Since the road north is long, straight, and without any need for directions, I take the wheel while Luke gets some shut-eye.

He has the enviable ability of being able to fall instantly asleep, no matter where he is or what’s going on.

“Special forces superpower,” he once told me, with that laid-back Australian grin that suggests nothing is ever really a problem.

I wish I had his confidence.

Especially now.

Ridiculous as it is for a grown man, I’m nervous as hell about meeting Abby’s parents. What am I supposed to say?

Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Chalmers. Nice to meet you. I’m the guy your daughter ran away from. Oh, and by the way, I’m also a member of the Russian mafia, with more kills under my belt than hot dinners.

Meeting parents has never really been one of the roles I play. And Abby never once suggested it. In fact, I got the distinct, rather uncomfortable feeling she was actively opposed to the idea.

I never pushed it. Her family was one of the topics we danced around, like my allegiance to Roman and exactly why she was put into prison in Colombia.

Or maybe I just didn’t want to hear her say the hard part out loud.

That we were too different. That I’d never fit into her Australian life.

That her parents would fucking hate me on sight.

Not to mention that I somehow have to explain to them why it took me so damned long to come looking for her.

If they are even willing to talk to me—which, given my lack of action until now, is a big fucking if —I have no idea what I’m going to say.

When it comes to guns blazing and putting bad fuckers down, there’s nothing I can’t plan out, no shit show too daunting to face, no matter how ill-equipped I might be going in.

But having an uncomfortably in-depth conversation with Abby’s parents is a whole other story. One in which I have zero experience and no equipment to deal with whatsoever. The kind of girls I dated before Abby weren’t exactly the type who demanded parental meetings—or in-depth conversations.

Let’s face it: before Abby, I avoided commitment like the plague.

Abby was the first time in my life I didn’t want to run the moment the fun was over. She also never stopped being a mystery to me.

Is that why you let her go so fucking easily, you idiot?

I realize I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard my hands hurt. I’ve been avoiding asking myself that question since that morning in London when Luke called to say she was missing.

Why didn’t I fight harder ?

It’s a very different question from the ones I’ve been asking myself over the past months, which have all been torturous what-ifs .

What if I’d just left Roman when Abby asked me to?

What if I’d agreed to start a new life with her somewhere else?

What if I was someone fucking else, who’d never picked up a gun?

But for some reason, I never once asked myself the only question that really matters: why did I find it so easy to believe she could just leave me?

Because, mystery or not, I know who Abby is. She might be tough on the outside, full of passion, laughter, and enough sass to tear paint from the walls. But she also has a heart bigger than anyone I’ve ever met. She’s kind, even to people she doesn’t know or when nobody is looking.

Above all, she’s fiercely loyal to those she loves.

Abby’s a lot of things, Dimitry. Darya’s voice echoes in my mind, uncomfortably clearly. But she’s not cruel.

Darya was right, and I know it. Abby might have left me, but she never would have left me hanging in limbo. If she’d known she wasn’t coming back, she would have told me, even if it was just a letter.

Now that I know she was abducted, this seems painfully obvious.

So why was I so ready to believe the worst of her?

But I don’t need a fucking therapist to tell me the answer to that question.

My mother’s face passes behind my eyes, somewhere just out of sight.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and I shift restlessly. The endless highway stretches into the distance, and I feel the past rushing toward me.

For the first time in many years, I let it come.

Miami, USA

Twenty six years ago

“Come, Dimitry.” My mother tugs me through the Miami streets. “Bystro, synok.” Quickly, little son.

I’m running as fast as I can, but it’s the middle of the night, and I’m exhausted.

We’ve been running for what seems like hours, but I can still hear the sickening sound of Yakov’s hand striking my mother’s face from behind the thin door of our apartment, still feel the stinging burns he left on my skin. It’s the pain that has kept me moving.

Pain and fear.

I don’t ask where we’re going. All I know is that we’re going away from the man who has made my life a nightmare for as long as I can remember.

It’s very late. I know that because there are few cars on the streets, and even fewer people.

My mother is clutching a card with a picture of a cross on it and an address written in English.

She stops at every street sign, holding the card up to the light and comparing it to the words on the signs.

Occasionally she shows the card to someone, pointing to the words on it, but most people turn away, glaring at us as if we’re a disease they might catch.

Finally, after what feels like hours, my mother finds the street that matches the words. She hurries down it until we reach a building with a cross over the door, the same as the one on the card.

Mama tries the door, but it’s locked. She kneels down in the shadows by the narrow steps, gripping my shoulders hard enough that her fingers hurt.

“Look at me, Dimitry.”

I do, trying not to stare at the ugly purple bruises on her face or the dried blood matted in her hair.

When Yakov finally left our little room earlier tonight, my fists were bloodied from banging on the door.

I attacked him the moment he came out, just as Mama had instructed me to.

Yakov just laughed and slammed me into the wall.

But my distraction worked. She was able to slip a piece of paper between the lock and the door.

We were on the street an hour after Yakov left.

“I am proud of you, synok.” Her fingers tighten on my shoulders, but she doesn’t smile. I don’t really remember the last time Mama smiled. “You were brave tonight. Just like your father. You’re strong, Dimitry. A soldier, like he was.”

I stand just a little taller. I know that I have to pretend Yakov is my father, if anyone asks. I understand that it’s dangerous for us to say anything else, even if I don’t understand why that is.

I don’t remember my real father. He died before we left Russia, when I was little. The earliest memory I have is of my mother telling me not to talk about him.

“You must remember that Yakov is your father now,” she said.

I didn’t like that idea, and I said so. The reason that day is my earliest memory is because it was also the first time Yakov used his cigarettes on me.

“Now you will remember,” he’d said as he crushed the burning tip into my ribs.

“You must listen, Dimitry.” Mama holds my face in her hands. “The people here will take care of you. Be good for them, and do as you’re told.”

“Why?” I frown, feeling a tinge of fear. “Where will you be?”

“There’s something I must do.” She squeezes my shoulders. “Until I come back, you must be brave and strong, just like your papa. Can you do that, malysh?”

“Da.” I nod solemnly, even though I don’t like the idea of my mother going away, even for a short time. “But what if Yakov comes when you’re away?”

“I’m going to make sure he doesn’t.” The fierce look in her eyes scares me a little. “I’m going to make sure he never hurts us again.” She holds my chin a little too tightly as she looks at me. “Because what do we do when people hurt us?”

“We stand and fight.” I say the words automatically.

“Exactly.” Mama smiles with her mouth, but her eyes are still fierce. “And why is that, synok?”

“Because that is how we beat them.” I know the answer to this one, too.

“That’s my brave boy. Never forget that, Dimitry. Soldiers never give up. They never back down. And you are a soldier, just like your father. Now.” She holds up a bottle of milk. “You must drink, synok. It will help you sleep.”

I push the bottle back toward her. “You drink, Mama.” I know milk is expensive. Yakov always says so when he brings it to us.

“I’m not thirsty, malysh.” She unscrews the cap and passes it to me. “This is all for you.”

I drink the milk even though it has a strange taste, because I always do as Mama says.

“You will wake up in a new room,” she says, “but rooms do not matter. Why is that, Dimitry?”

I put my hand on my heart. “Because home is here.”

“Da.” Mama almost smiles, and I feel proud that I know all the right answers.

“Will the peacock be in this room?” I ask. “When I wake up?”

The first thing Mama does when we have a new room is to hang our peacock painting on the wall.

It’s the only thing we still have from Russia, because it’s so small Mama can roll it up and put it in her pocket when we move from place to place.

There have been a lot of rooms since Yakov took us away with him. More than I can remember.

“I will bring the peacock when I come back.” Mama’s voice sounds distant, and her face is smearing, like the outside does when rain comes down the window.

“Remember, Dimitry. Be brave. Be strong. Do not run from hardship or hide from pain. Face everything with courage, like a good soldier does. Promise me, now. ”