Prologue

STASYA

MOSCOW

Dmitri Morozov is dead to me.

Considering our personal history, it’s an easy decision to make, but today’s interaction sealed my hatred.

I rush down the stairs of the metro to catch the next train with tears streaming down my face. The platform is so congested, I have to elbow my way through the doors. There will be another one in a few minutes, but it’s Friday night and waiting won’t make a difference. Either way, I’ll be fighting the crowd; the people wearing drab, gray work clothes, on their way home for the day, or those with slight pops of color, dressed up to go out for the evening.

Maybe that’s what I should do. When I get home, I should get dressed up, call Svetlana, and ask her to meet me at the discotheque. Maybe letting loose to Victor Tsoi’s latest song is just what I need to help me drown away the pain of Dima’s cold indifference when I asked him if he knew about my brother’s defection to America.

The train jolts abruptly before heaving forward as it leaves the station. I plant my feet firmly for balance and tighten my grip on the bar overhead. 

I haven’t stopped crying since I left the Central Scarlet Army’s hockey training base. Thankfully, anyone who’s glanced my way has quickly averted their gaze. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, wiping away tears with the back of my free hand.

All I wanted was some answers. My twin brother, Vanya, who has shared everything with me since the womb, defected to the United States after a tournament in Sweden. Despite us being so close, he never uttered one word about it before he left. I thought going to Dima, his best friend on the team, would help me understand how my brother could have kept such a huge secret from me.

But the arrogant coward refused to reveal what he knew.

They were roommates. Friends! Was he not concerned or—at the very least—inquisitive when Vanya packed his bags and left?

Dima said he’s scared. He’s scared.

My family is being treated like criminals—being followed and questioned by the KGB—because of Vanya’s desertion, and Dima is scared.

To be afraid is normal, but when a lieutenant in the military is a coward? That’s unacceptable. Those in a position of power who have the ability to help must rise up. Though there may have been a time when I had feelings for him, I have no use for a chicken like him in my life.

When the train stops at Aviamotornaya station, I feel so numb and disoriented, it’s as if the crowd is carrying me out the doors and up the stairs. I’ve walked home from here so many times, I do it on autopilot.

Vanya used to scold me for walking alone because the streets have gotten colder and darker over the last few years. He wasn’t concerned about the weather or season, but the criminals and the violence they bring.

Mafia is everywhere, but I’m not scared. Gangs kill for money, power, and greed. They want something that someone else has.

I have nothing.

Besides, the Bratva is the least of my concerns. I have more to fear right in my own home. Ever since Mama died, I’ve become the lone target of my father’s anger and violence.

Vanya’s hockey accomplishments were the only bright moments in our mundane conversations. Now, we have nothing—just the bleak reality that he left us all behind.

For years, my brother swore he’d take me with him if he ever got the chance to live in America. He promised me again just a few weeks ago, minutes before he left for his most recent hockey tournament.

And now he’s gone. And I’m here, stuck amid chaos and instability unlike anything I’ve ever lived through before in Russia.

At least life under communism was stable—boring, but stable.

The KGB has already harassed Papa, Babushka, and half of the other families who live in our apartment, asking them what they knew about Vanya’s defection. It’s only a matter of time before they come for me.

The thought of a KGB interrogation makes my stomach lurch. Though I rarely drink, I may join my father at the table with a glass of vodka tonight. I need something to numb the anger, betrayal, and heartbreak stewing for Vanya.

The concentrated gasoline smell permeates the air. I’ve gotten so used to the influx of vehicles taking to the roads over the last few years, I don’t usually notice. But today, anxiety has my sensitive stomach bubbling with every inhale.

I’ve just crossed Aviamotornaya Ulitsa when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a rusty Vaz creeping up the street. My jaw twitches involuntarily. Feeling a bit stupid for being nervous of an old car, I nuzzle my chin into my scarf and keep my gaze forward until it passes.

The loud rev of an engine makes me jump, and a shiny, black sedan speeds past and screeches to a stop a few meters ahead of me. My legs shake and I stumble over an uneven crack in the sidewalk.

Vaz is a common brand here, but black BMWs are only driven by mafia. Being stuck in the middle of crossfire between two gangs was not how I expected the day to end. But it’s also not a surprise considering how the rest of it has gone. 

I hold my breath, watching intensely as the sedan’s driver and passenger doors fling open at the same time. Two men covered in black head-to-toe jump out and sprint toward me. My heart thumps in beat with their heavy footsteps pounding the concrete, each step getting louder as they get closer.

Swallowing back fear, I increase my speed and move to the side, giving the men space to get wherever they’re going. 

Suddenly, the taller of the two clasps his thick arms around me and starts carrying me toward the car. The other crouches down, grabs the bag I dropped, and sprints to the driver’s side.

“No!” I scream as I kick my feet and fight to free myself. “Stop!” 

It’s a futile effort. There’s no one on the road other than the Vaz, and the people inside know better than to try to stop mafia.

I stretch my legs to the ground, dragging my feet in an attempt to slow him down, but instead of having any effect, my shoes scrape against the sidewalk and one falls off. He tightens his grip and lifts me into the air.

When we get to the car, he yanks the door open and shoves me in face-first before slamming the door shut. It jars my feet, propelling my body forward and sending my cheek sliding across the seat.

“Please!” I cry out. “Please don’t do this!” My clammy palms slip on the leather as I try to claw myself upright.

Instead of responding, the passenger spins around and leans forward. Cold sweat beads on my forehead as I scramble backward, pressing my spine against the seat. He wedges himself between the two front seats, grabs a fistful of hair, and pulls me toward him. I shake my head violently, but his grip doesn’t loosen, and my jerky movements only enhance the pain.

He deftly wraps rope around my wrists, pulling it tight before making a complicated knot. When he’s finished, he looks up. Icy blue eyes peer at me through the opening of the black balaclava masking his face.

When I gasp, he slams a foul-smelling rag against my mouth and I involuntarily ingest whatever’s on the cloth. Only one thought runs through my head before everything goes black.

I know those eyes.

CHAPTER 1

STASYA

MOSCOW

One Month Earlier

“Come on, Stasya!” Vanya calls to me as we hurry across the slick sidewalks between our apartment to the metro station. “Why are you so slow today?”

“I’m going as fast as I can, Lieutenant!” I snap at my brother, using his official military title as I reposition his hefty duffle bag on my shoulder. Thankfully, my heels act as picks, sticking into the softening ice and helping me keep my balance. “Did you pack extra so this thing would be heavier?”

“Technically, you wouldn’t be permitted to speak to your commanding officer like that, but I’ll let it slide since you’re a civilian.” While he chuckles at his own humor, I roll my eyes. “You lost the bet. You are my slave for the day.”

“Of all the stupid ideas…” I mumble under my breath.

Normally, I wouldn’t be so annoyed by my brother’s teasing, but today is different because having to carry this heavy bag of hockey shit is my own fault. I’m the one who picked the terms of the silly bet I didn’t think I’d lose.

“Do you think there will be someone to wait on me hand and foot when I’m in Detroit, Stasya?” he muses aloud. “Someone who will carry my gear and drive me to games?”

“Yes,” I remind him. “Me!”

In January, Vanya found out he was selected by the Detroit team in last year’s National Hockey League draft, and he hasn’t stopped talking to me about it. I’m one of the only people he can talk to about his dreams of playing in America. Chances are, he’ll never get to go because the USSR will never allow him to leave. 

My brother is no stranger to being selected to play for elite leagues. Three years ago, the Central Scarlet Army—CSA—chose him to play on their hockey team—which is a great honor.

Leading up to it, he trained in the CSA junior system, but not every man who goes through the program makes the team—only the best of the best. Since then, he’s spent eleven months out of the year with his team at the training base. He gets one weekend away from the baza a month—if he’s lucky. Most of the time, he doesn’t even get that break.

But that’s the price he proudly pays to represent our country playing hockey for the Scarlet Army.

Honestly, my heart hurts for him. A team from the best hockey league in the world selected him to play for them, but we both know it’s impossible for him to leave the Soviet Union right now. As a member of CSA, he’s an officer in the military who’s job is to play hockey, and he’s bound by a contract. If he were to leave, he would be classified as a deserter, and punished with death if he ever came back.

There has been so much turmoil and uncertainty here since Gorbachev’s perestroika that no one thinks too brightly about what the future holds right now. Then again, many of us Russians don’t think too brightly about the past either.

The promise of even more change and uncertainty hovers in the air, thick as a blanket of winter snow over the city. The restructuring was supposed to be good for the Soviet Union.

Glasnost—more openness and transparency in the government—was supposed to bring prosperity and freedom like the people of the Soviet Union hadn’t experienced in almost a century. Instead of everything being run by the government, individuals could open businesses. 

We were told we would be able to buy goods and foods we’d never had access to before. We would have more freedom! We would be like the rest of Europe!

It all sounds wonderful. Yet, we’re still standing in line for the most basic goods—bread, eggs, sugar.

And who could afford to start a business? 

The people who were already making money—criminals.

Vanya’s silence is uncharacteristic.

I narrow my eyes and kick a clump of packed, dirty snow lingering from the last snowfall. “If you get the opportunity to live in America, you must take me with you, Vanya. You remember your promise, yes?”

The snow hits his calf and breaks apart, but it doesn’t affect him. He looks at me over his shoulder with soft eyes. “I haven’t forgotten, Stasya. I’d never forget about you.”

Maybe—in the grand scheme of life—he wouldn’t leave me behind, but right now it seems like he’s trying his best. He’s walking so fast, I have to jog to keep up. Which is close to impossible for me. I’m dressed for work, and this thigh hugging skirt and high heels are not ideal for running through the snow and slush while hauling a heavy hockey bag.

“Are you excited about the tournament?” I ask, changing the subject. There’s no reason to waste time on dreams about a life in America that will most likely never happen.

“Of course,” he answers quickly. “But Stockholm just got hit with a huge snowstorm, so that’s not good. I was hoping for nicer weather than we have here.”

“I wish I could go with you,” I say longingly, dismissing his annoyance over some snow.

I’m very excited for my brother, but I envy all the travel he gets to do with his hockey team. I never thought much about traveling before Vanya started going to tournaments all over the world.

Growing up, we took trips to Leningrad and visited family and friends outside of Moscow. We spent every summer weekend at our dacha, the tiny country house Babushka’s father built in Ramenskoye, but I’ve never been anywhere outside of the Soviet Union. 

Why would I need to? We have everything we need right here.

Or so I thought.

Until recently, I didn’t realize we were missing out. The government provides us everything we need from housing, healthcare, and food right down to clothing and shoes. Maybe the fashions aren’t that great, but thankfully Babushka taught me how to sew when I was young.

Ever since then, I took on the task of making clothing for my family. It’s easy for me now and I enjoy it. Knowing I can make dresses for me and my grandmother out of Papa’s old shirts and thick, waterproof coats out of Vanya’s old duffle bags gives me a sense of pride.

People have even noticed my clothes. Marina Smirnova, one of my co-workers at Gosbank, the state-run bank of the Soviet Union, said my designs could be in a store one day. 

The way she says it makes me think she means a store in a fashion capital like New York or London, not one of the ones we’re forced to shop in which are filled with drab colors and boring patterns.

She’s even asked me to make her a few things. Knowing she thinks highly of my work makes me feel good. 

Though communism is the butt of most of our jokes, and many older people complain about how we live, I never thought there was any other way since it’s the only thing I’ve ever known.

When our leaders began to change policies from the way things have been done for more than seventy years to restructure and reform to create a more open market, it made me wonder what was so great about communism in the first place and why we’d been led to believe it was the only way for so long.

Vanya always came home raving about music and fashions commonly found in the West—songs we’d never heard or things we never had the opportunity to buy until very recently, at outrageous prices. People there got to choose everything from where they worked and lived right down to the color of their shoes.

And there was so much to choose from! The stories he told me about other countries, especially the United States, were straight out of a Utopian dream and gave me an itch.

Now, I dream about wearing fabrics and clothing in different patterns and styles from what everyone else is wearing. I long to travel out of the country so badly I can taste it.

Sometimes, while at work, I daydream of taking a holiday in Rome or Paris, sitting outside at a café, sketching the clothing designs constantly swirling through my head as a sip a fancy coffee drink.

But it’s not possible right now.

Even if I did see something I liked that wasn’t Soviet manufactured, I could never buy it. The small amount of money I make goes to my family. We are a unit who always looks out for each other’s best interest before giving in to selfish desires.

We’d already heard from family members who live outside of the city that food and goods were being rationed and shelves were empty, but the shortages hadn’t hit us in Moscow yet—until recently.

The first time I complained about standing in line for bread, Babushka reminded me of how things were when she was a child during The Great War. She lived through years of rationing and even a few months where she and her family almost starved. I believed my grandmother because I’d studied that part of our country’s history, but it was a concept I could never comprehend until now.

Since that moment, we’ve been stocking up on foods that will last, and saving the rest of our money. It’s certainly smarter to save for the uncertain future, then to waste it on something frivolous—like blue jeans or a vinyl record from America.

There’s a big difference between needs and wants. We have everything we need right now. Maybe in the new Russia, we’ll have some of the things we want. 

There’s too much unrest. Too much change. Too much worry. Papa says everything we know will be different within a few years—and I believe him. 

All we can do is wait.

As we walk, a gust of frigid air sends chills straight through my threadbare winter coat, numbing my entire body. Tears prick at my eyes, so I lower my head and snuggle my chin underneath my handmade scarf.

Crossing the street without looking up isn’t the smartest idea, since Moscow drivers are crazy, but I trust Vanya won’t lead me into oncoming traffic.

I’ve made it across the street, but I trip on the curb and fall right into something.

Thankfully, it’s a human, rather than a car.

Strong hands grab onto my shoulders, keeping me from falling face-first into the snow.

When I look up, I’m staring into the soft, brown eyes that danced through my dreams since the moment we meet—until recently. 

Dmitri Morozov—Dima to those of us close to him—one of Vanya’s teammates, is the type of man you can’t get out of your head. His dark, curly hair and sexy bedroom eyes put me under a spell, lulling me into believing I may have had the wrong idea about Siberians all these years. 

Maybe they were a magical and mystical group uplifted by the bleak, desolate landscape fitting for prisons and labor camps.

Vanya has always said I live with my head in the clouds. And maybe I do. Instead of seeing people for who they are, I see them how I think they could be in the very best light. I don’t think it’s a bad thing to want people to be their best selves, but I end up disappointed.

Maybe that’s from growing up the way we did. With the exception of my brother and childhood friend who lived in our building and came to my aid on many occasions, I didn’t have many heroes in my life. 

I haven’t met many people from anywhere other than Moscow or Leningrad, so the mystery of Dima being from the far east was part of his charm. Had I been thinking with my head instead of my heart, I may have realized Dima would be like Siberia itself—wild and cold.

During the times Vanya actually gets a chance to come home, all of our friends hang out together. It wasn’t unusual for his teammates to stay with us for the weekend. Very few are from the Moscow metro area, and would never be able to make it home and back before they had to be at the base again.

This year, we had four members of Vanya’s team staying with us on New Year’s Day, the most celebrated holiday in Russia. More people are always welcome, but the extra bodies made for tight sleeping arrangements. Thankfully, we’re lucky to live in an apartment with families who love to celebrate and welcome friends, and would make sure everyone had a place to rest.

Holiday enchantment had everyone in the apartment giddy. We moved from room to room, eating New Year’s staples like tangerines, Olivier salad, and jellied meats while drinking vodka and toasting to the new year.

The mix of excitement and too much alcohol had my hormones raging and my thoughts swirling about how Dima and I could be alone.

After a few hot and heavy kisses, we devised a plan to get away from the crowd. I would go to bed first, complaining that the vodka did me in, and he would follow shortly after. Nothing could have stopped us, not even the fact that my entire family sleeps in the same room—and I share a bed with my brother.

While I can’t say losing my virginity was life-changing, the fast and fumbling experience wasn’t horrible either.

We finished well before any of our friends and family retired for the night. Dima slipped out a few minutes after. I was upset, until he assured me he’d love to stay and hold me, but it made more sense to get back to the party before people started talking.

Amid the music and laughter, I drifted off to sleep with a full heart and a satisfied smile on my lips.

The next morning, Dima acted as if nothing ever happened.

And I mean nothing. 

He was cold and refused to speak to me—as if the year we’d spent getting to know each other never happened. As if the moment we shared just hours before never happened. I pretended like I wasn’t affected, but his indifference stung me to the core.

I still hung out with Vanya and his friends when they came home, but when Dima stayed with us, I’d go out with my friends instead of hang out with my brother. I hated making the choice because I missed Vanya terribly, but I didn’t want to be around Dima.

Evidently, the feeling was mutual, because in the rare times I did see him, he didn’t speak to me and barely even looked at me. Normally, he stayed as far away as possible, but a few times I caught him looking my way when he had another girl in his arms. Which reinforced what a pig he was.

“Sorry. I— I wasn’t looking,” I stammer. My heart beats rapidly betraying my quest for indifference.

He looks past me, toward Vanya, and his entire demeanor changes. The warm eyes that greeted me initially turn frigid as the Moscow air and his square jaw tightens. “You need to watch where you’re going when you cross the road,” he snarls.

“You have no right,” I say, jerking out of his grasp and hurrying toward my brother. Once I’ve caught up, I drop his heavy bag in the snow at his feet.

The nerve of Dima to be angry with me. He’s the one who led me on—showering me with sweet words and sexy smiles for months. He certainly had me fooled into thinking he liked me. When that magical moment came for us to be together, when he crawled into my bed, I thought we had something that would last. He should be ashamed to look me in the eye, let alone speak to me, with such an angry tone.

“Stasya!” Vanya scowls and scoops up his bag, throwing the strap over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. When he looks up, he sees Dima and sighs. “Don’t start with the drama.”

My brother knows all the details of what happened between Dima and I since he’s heard it from both sides. It annoys me that he stays neutral. I don’t care if it’s his line mate and close friend—I’m his sister. He should always take my side.

Then again, he has to be stuck with Dima for eleven months of the year and relies on him for much of his hockey success, so I should be understanding of that.

“Vanya!” Dima greets my brother by placing his hands on his shoulders and leaning in to kiss his cheeks. “It’s been too long!”

“Two full days is longer than we had last month, as I recall.” Vanya laughs.

“Dima sees you more than I do,” I pout, feeling invisible and left out.

My brother rolls his eyes. “You hate me when I’m home and love me when I’m gone.”

“That’s how it supposed to be between siblings, yes?” Dima leans over, looking toward the entrance to the metro, as if they might miss their train. “We should go.”

“I’m allowed to complain,” I say, following them down the stairs. “I don’t get to fly to Sweden today. When I get off the train, I’ll be walking to work in the cold by myself.”

“What!” Vanya stops abruptly and spins around. “You know it’s not safe to be out here alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, mentally chastising myself. I hadn’t meant to slip up and tell him. There’s no reason to get him worked up worrying about me.

“I thought Nikolai was meeting you here for the train?”

“The market called him about bread, but he’s in line waiting for anything he can get. Which won’t be much since the shelves are bare.”

“If you don’t start listening, you’re going to get killed. That’s the Moscow we live in now.”

“I’m not worried about Moscow killing me, Vanya. I’m worried about Papa doing it,” I whisper.

Vanya grabs me and pulls me into his arms, hugging me tightly. We both know there’s truth behind my words.

Tears prick at my eyes, as they do every time he leaves. Over the last twenty years, Vanya and I have shared everything. Despite our teasing, I’ll miss my brother fiercely. Though he’s only four minutes older than I am, he’s always been my protector. Without him, I have no one to shield me from Papa’s anger—or his friends—who have gotten seedier since Mama died.

“I will never leave you, Stasya.” Vanya rests his cheek on top of my head. “I have a plan, but you must trust me. Have I ever let you down?”

“Never.”

Vanya is the only constant in my life—the person who will always look out for me and never let me down. 

CHAPTER 2

KIRYA

WORLD ICE HOCKEY CHAMPIONSHIP - STOCKHOLM

I’ve done a lot of crazy things in my life, but helping someone defect might go down as the craziest. And that’s coming from someone who’s committed and witnessed thousands of crimes.

Though the plan to have Vanya defect from Stockholm has been months in the making, it’s still nerve-wracking. We could only do so much before this moment—but getting him out of the team hotel with no one noticing is going to be one of the most challenging parts. There are so many pieces that have to fall into place that we couldn’t plan. 

Once Vanya makes it to America, he’ll be fine, but if anything goes wrong from now until the plane from Stockholm to New York takes off, we’re going to have to think quick.

Vanya and I are huddled with two representatives of the Chargers hockey team in the lobby of the hotel down the road from where the teams playing in the World Ice Hockey Championship have been staying over the last two weeks.

The tournament is over.

The USSR won.

They haven’t yet realized they’re about to lose.

“Who are you again?” Chris Brookins, the Detroit Chargers Assistant General Manager asks, peering at me over round, wire-rimmed glasses. The tall, thick man was known an enforcer when he played in the seventies. Though he seems like he can hold his own, he’s smart to be wary. They must really want Vanya, because the fact that Americans have trusted me with their lives surprises the shit out of me. I thought they were all scared of the big, bad Russians.

If we get caught, we’ll all get into major trouble. The Americans would be jailed, but Vanya and I would get a one-way ticket to the firing squad.

“Kirill Antonov, his translator. I’m the one who’s been communicating with your reporter friend,” I answer with complete confidence in my English. I’ve been studying the language for as long as I can remember.

After they’d drafted Vanya last June, the Detroit Chargers had to find a way to contact him, knowing the State would never let an organization offering money and freedom anywhere near their athletes. They asked a reporter from their local newspaper who learned Russian during his years in the military to meet with Vanya while he was in Alaska covering another international hockey tournament.

Under the guise of writing a story about the Central Scarlet Army team, the reporter was allowed access to Vanya for an interview. Before he left, he presented Vanya with a Chargers magazine, telling him that it would give him some information about the team. Inside was a letter from the Chargers, letting Vanya know they would do everything in their ability to bring him over whenever he was ready to come to America. But the letter was in English, and Vanya couldn’t read it. Even without an understanding of the contents, he knew enough not to share it with his superiors. Since Vanya and I have been friends our entire lives, and he knew I spoke English, he came to me to translate.

Though we hadn’t seen each other much since taking different paths in life as teenagers, when he called asking me to meet him, my only questions were: when and where? At our meeting, he said he came to me because I was the only person he trusted that spoke English and would be excited to engage in something illegal and dangerous.

How could I say no after such gorgeous flattery?

Once I told him what the letter from Detroit said, he agreed to leave the USSR without hesitation. It made me see my old friend in a new light. I assumed he would blindly follow the Russian machine, but his courage surprised me. We discussed what defection would mean for him as an Army officer. If he were caught, he would be considered a traitor, a criminal. A light sentence would be spending the rest of his life at a labor camp in Siberia. Most likely, he would be killed as soon as he got back into the country.

Being a product of the Russian hockey system serves him well when it comes to confidence. Failing was not an option. To him, there were no consequences, only rewards. He said he’d seen the older guys on the team fight for too much to let the opportunity slide. He didn’t have the same mental investment in the Soviet system as they did because he grew up among political turbulence.

Athletes will always bring money—they can be bought and sold and marketized to bring in revenue. Why would he do that in the Soviet Union where the corrupt State sports department would take the majority of the money and leave him poor? At least in the NHL, he would get millions of dollars in his bank account.

He asked me if I could contact Detroit and help him with the process, and I agreed. Since then, the reporter and I have been in communication, acting as translators for our respective parties, making plans to get Vanya to Detroit.

Brookins glances at Vanya for confirmation, who has no clue what either of us just said, but he trusts me. I told him I’d help him get to North America and I plan on keeping my promise.

The bustling lobby has my jaw and shoulders tense. I’m aware of every person that passes. The team never travels out of the country without Sovietsport officials and KGB agents. There are checks and balances to keep each athlete in line and accounted for. Once someone realizes Vanya isn’t in his room, there will be a manhunt. All hands on deck, searching for their missing superstar. It will go fast.

Though it was the Detroit organization’s idea to steal Vanya away during the tournament, I can guarantee I have the most experience with shady situations out of the four of us standing here. The suits from the Chargers think I’m Vanya’s translator friend, which is fine with me. They’d shit their designer pants if they knew about half of the things I’ve done.

Which is why I feel personally responsible for this plan working—and everyone’s safety.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man looking at us for a second too long. The hair rises on the back of my neck, alerting me that he might be a problem.

Wasting time will get us all killed.

“We need to move this,” I tell Brookins. “I think we were being followed.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, glancing at the man next to him, another member from the Detroit organization. “Of course we are. Where should we go?”

Sweat glistens above his eyebrows. He’s nervous—understandably so. The Chargers organization has spent too much money and put their asses on the line for Vanya to get caught.

I understand enough about the male ego to assume that when they agreed to do this, they probably had some romantic notion that it would be fun, like playing spies in a Hollywood movie. The reality of helping someone defect—or any criminal activity—is a lot less glamorous.

I’ve seen it countless times with boys in Moscow, puffing out their chests and acting like big pines when they are just tiny trees, members of small street gangs with absolutely no authority. When they meet real mafia, they run away with piss darkening the legs of their pants.

These two American men must be courageous or stupid, because what they are doing is against the law. They may think they’re stealthy, but this will be all over the news in every country. And they’re fucking with the Soviet government—the ultimate enemy. Maybe this is the final phase of the Cold War. Steal the Soviet Union’s most prized possessions and watch the country crumble.

Money trumps everything—even politics. Detroit wants their draft pick and they’ll do whatever it takes to get him, even if they have to bend international rules to steal him from another country.

“There is a mall at Hamngatan and Regeringsgatan called the Gallerian. When you get there, drive around to the back entrance on Jakobsgatan. We will meet you out there.” My answer is quick and decisive because I’ve thought of everything.

We all knew KGB would be looking for Vanya as soon as the CSA coaches and trainers realized he wasn’t in his room. In preparing for this moment, I researched Stockholm and the surrounding areas. Keeping Vanya safe is my number one priority and that meant having multiple backup plans in case we had to switch gears quickly.

“Perfect. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.” The men walk away quickly, finally comprehending that time is of the essence in a situation like this. Suddenly, Chris turns around and asks, “Is he certain he wants to do this? To come with us?”

“One hundred percent,” I answer for Vanya before spinning around. We exit the hotel through a different door to avoid being seen leaving with the Americans.

Vanya left with only a few personal things in this possession. I brought extra clothes and hygiene products he’ll need to get to America. Once he’s there, someone from the team will take him shopping.

I wish I could go to Detroit with him, but I have a meeting with my uncle in Brooklyn, New York. I know he’ll be fine when he gets to America, but Vanya is as close to a brother as I’ll ever have and I’ll always look out for his best interest.

On the street, we hail a cab and direct the driver to the Gallerian.

Vanya hasn’t said two words since we left the hotel and his silence worries me. I understand having doubts and fear now that the moment is here, but this is where I need his courage. If I know anything about my friend, it’s that he’s a natural leader and a strong decision maker.

“Are you rethinking the decision?” I ask.

“No.” A thick patch of dark blond hair flops over his right eye as he shakes his head.

“Then what are you thinking about?” I hit his thigh with the back of my hand. “Your brain is working so hard, you have steam coming from your ears.”

He’s silent, chewing on his bottom lip for what seems like an hour, but of course it’s only been a few seconds. It reminds me of his sister, Anastasiya, when I would find her sitting on the floor in the common hallway in our communal apartment when we were young.

Every time her father beat her, she would flee to the hallway and wait for him to fall asleep. As if I had a sixth sense to feel her pain, I’d open the door of my family’s room and find her with her back against the wall, biting her bottom lip to keep from crying and wringing her hands.

We’re taught that tears don’t solve anything. That tears are weakness. Seeing her forcing herself to be stoic when I knew she wanted to break down is permanently imprinted in my mind. Fuck living in a culture that allows men to beat their daughters, but won’t allow the daughters to display emotion or be able to do anything about the abuse.

It’s one of the reasons for the hate that fuels my heart. It’s one of the reasons I chose the path I did—to live outside the laws and rules of the Soviet society. I’ll help Vanya defect because it puts him on the path to a better life. I’ll do anything in my power to push Russians toward the freedoms and life we deserve, especially if it means inciting change—by any means necessary.

Though they are twins, I’ve never looked at Vanya and been reminded of his sister before. I see them as two completely different individuals.

Anastasiya Mikhailovna Kravtsova was my first love.

First love. Only love. Lost love.

We spent our entire childhoods together. I was three years old when the Kravtsov twins were born. When you grow up in a communal apartment, your neighbors become closer than your extended family, whether you want them to be or not. There’s no way to keep people out of your business, so it’s better to give in and work as a unit—the Russian machine.

The babushkas watched the children while the parents worked. Or—in Vanya and Anastasiya’s case—one parent worked; their father just drank. Sometimes our families combined our food and cooked meals together. My mother always shared the fresh fish and meat her brother brought her. He didn’t live with us, but he had connections no one else in our apartment had, and kept us—my mother, Babushka, Dedushka, and I—stocked with exotic foods and gifts.

As a boy who grew up without a father, Uncle Vitya—Viktor Antonov—was my hero, my inspiration, the man I looked up to. He taught me everything, from how to ice skate to how to shoot a gun. I listened intently when he talked about his ideals and gave advice, soaking everything up. Though he was a powerful man, and maintained close friendships with people in crucial administrative positions in the country, he denounced communism in favor of capitalism.

He was among the first people who started illegal businesses in the seventies, creating a black market that thrives today. Being able to buy goods that weren’t sold in government stores never seemed wrong or “illegal” to me. I wondered why there needed to be a black market. Why couldn’t all Russians have access to the things they sold there?

I understand Vanya’s fear and uncertainty about defecting. It goes against the Soviet propaganda we’ve been brainwashed with our entire lives. Especially someone like Vanya, an officer in the Scarlet Army and a player on the most successful hockey team of all time. Living in that environment for so long made the weight of his decision heavier because the costs of leaving were higher for him.

Most people didn’t grow up with entrepreneurs like Uncle Vitya in their families, like I did. That’s not to say everyone agreed with communism. On the contrary, Soviet society was wonderful fodder for humor.

The propaganda starts early in schools. I still remember Stasya, who couldn’t have been more than seven years old at the time, walking home from school on a freezing, cold November day with her coat unbuttoned just to show off her badge—a shiny, red star with a gold Lenin face in the middle. She and Vanya must have had their “Little Octoberist” ceremony that day. Vanya hadn’t seemed to care about the pin, but Stasya wore it proudly, beaming and strutting down the street.

It made me laugh at the time, but I couldn’t break her heart by telling her. As people get older, they realize on their own that the propaganda is complete bullshit.

Vanya knows it, or he never would have set this into motion.

He better open his fucking mouth soon, because he’ll fuck up the entire plan if he’s this nervous. One way or another, I’ll get the concerns out of him, even if I have to resort to unusual methods. I have a way of getting people to talk—and it has nothing to do with the special treats I used to offer Stasya. I don’t have softness in my heart for many people like I had for her. Not even her brother.

“I’m worried about Stasya,” he finally says.

My head snaps to him. I should have known. The uncanny sixth sense I have for Stasya’s well-being must’ve brought the memory of her to my mind.

He pushes the hair out of his eyes only for it to fall right back. “Investigators will think she knew about what I was planning, Kirya. They’ll question her—harass her. We’re too close. They won’t believe that she didn’t know.”

He’s right. The KGB will interrogate his entire family, but they will focus on Stasya because of their relationship.

The moment he mentioned her name, my mind was made up—Anastasiya Kravtsova will never fear for her life.

I swore years ago that I would do anything in my power to protect her, and I have a hell of a lot more power now than I did then.

Our eyes lock. “Stasya will be fine,” I assure him. Vanya nods and his shoulders relax in relief. He turns his head to the window and stares out at the bustling streets of Stockholm.

The cab drops us off at the front of the mall on Hamngatan. We wander around for a little while, going in and out of a few stores, giving the perception we’re just two guys shopping, as we make our way to the doors near the back. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I’m positive we’ve been followed from the hotel. The chances are much more likely than not and I don’t think being ultra-vigilant in this case is a bad thing. 

“It’s been over twenty minutes. We need to get to the back door and see if the car is here.”

“Okay,” Vanya agrees, his hand shaking as he places a button-down, dress shirt back onto a rack. He’s still more nervous than I’ve ever seen anyone and I wonder if we’re even going to be able to pull this off.

I punch his shoulder and he turns to me. “You can do this.”

He nods and gives me two thumbs up.

Very reassuring. But the kid isn’t a pussy, so I know he’ll buck up when he needs to.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see two large men in shabby, gray trench coats and sunglasses coming toward us. What kind of egomaniac idiots wear sunglasses inside? At least we know they aren’t going to blend into the crowd. 

“Follow me,” I bark out the command. “Fast!”

Vanya and I walk out of the store quickly, winding through as many different racks as we can to try to lose the men in pursuit. It won’t be that easy, I know, but it might help.

As soon as we’re out of the store, I see the large, double doors that lead to the back exit and bolt toward them. I’m glad I’m dealing with a world-class athlete because I don’t have to worry about Vanya lagging behind. He’s so fast that he outruns me, slamming the door open before I even reach it.

As soon as we’re outside, he points to Brookins standing next to a navy-blue car with the engine still running. The American is as white as a ghost as the impact of the situation hits him.

When he sees us, he wastes no time opening the back door and ushering us in before getting in himself. The driver hits the gas before he closes the door.

“Do you think we’re being followed?” Brookins’ sidekick asks as we drive through the streets of Stockholm. I couldn’t even remember his name if someone had a gun to my head.

“Absolutely,” I answer dryly.

I didn’t think it was possible for his face to lose any more color, but it drains a shade lighter. There’s no reason to sugarcoat the situation. We won’t be completely safe until the plane to New York is off the ground.

Brookins turns around and addresses Vanya. “You can still go back if you want. This is your last chance to change your mind.” 

Before I can finish translating that he’s entering the point of no return, he interjects, “No. I go.”

With those three words, Ivan Kravtsov became a face of freedom for Soviets.

* * *

When we get to the U.S. Embassy, Vanya and I have to sneak inside wearing clothes borrowed from the Americans. The less we look like ourselves, the better because embassies are always being watched.

Once we’ve made it inside, a sense of relief washes over me, even though I know we’re not in the clear yet. I pull the tattered, gray Boston College sweatshirt Brookins gave me to wear over my head and toss it onto the small coffee table next to me.

I sit in an uncomfortable office chair, sipping stale coffee and listening as they organize paperwork. Some of it was already here, like Vanya’s NHL contract, which Detroit’s owner had faxed over, but the travel documents saying he signed would need to be drawn up today with both him and the Detroit representatives.

A TV blares from the next room. I don’t know Swedish, but I can clearly make out Ivan Kravtsov’s name and USSR hockey. Vanya’s disappearance being all over the Swedish news doesn’t bode well for us.

My knee shakes as more minutes tick by. I’ve never helped anyone defect before, so I’m no expert, but I understand enough about Soviet Union officials and the KGB to know time is of the essence. The longer we’re in Sweden, the less likely it is Vanya will make it to North America.

While the Detroit representatives and the embassy agents work diligently on the documents, Vanya gets permission to call his family.

He calls his home number and asks the operator to be connected to Stasya. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and says, “They put me on hold.”

I wonder if having an operator dial out is the way all calls happen at the embassy. Seems odd that he can’t just call his family directly.

Suddenly, Vanya mouths the word “Fuck,” and slams the receiver on the base.

“What happened?” I ask, jumping from my chair.

“It was not the same operator. It was someone asking questions,” he says gravely. “I think they know where we are. They are listening to calls.”

“No more names,” Brookins snaps. “If you make a phone call, we don’t use names, got it?”

When I translate, Vanya nods.

“Excuse me,” I say, to stop a woman passing the door. “What are they saying on TV?”

“They’re searching for a player from the Russian National Team. They say he’s been kidnapped.”

Though I’m usually fairly calm under fire, this situation has me on edge. But if I pull this off, something that took major planning and the utmost secrecy, it will prove to my uncle I’m ready to move to the next level. He never had children, so I’m the closest he has to a son. I’ve spent more than ten years hustling to prove I’m worthy of being his second-in-command.

Though I’d been part of the criminal life just by being related to him and taking the things he would give us, the criminal life for me started when I was thirteen, when I started buying items from foreigners visiting Moscow and selling them. It was easy enough as many people were eager to trade their jeans, vinyl records, even beauty products, for hokey Russian souvenirs. Uncle Victor supplied me with Russian chocolates or tchotchkes, like matryoshkas, the nesting dolls foreigners love.

A few years later, he took my mother and I to America. That’s when I took my business to the next level, bringing home two suitcases full of things to sell on the black market.

We all start somewhere.

* * *

For as much drama as it was from the hotel to the Embassy, the drive from the Embassy to the airport is uneventful. Still, all four of us are on high alert because we know there’s still time for something to go wrong.

Vanya and I walk around the airport in our ill-fitting, borrowed clothes until it’s time to board. We don’t want to sit in one place for too long, and we definitely don’t want to be seen with the guys from the Chargers.

Over the course of my life, I’ve been in some intense situations—mugged, kidnapped, shot…but I’ve never breathed such a huge sigh of relief as I do when the airplane leaves the ground.

Ivan Kravtsov, a Lieutenant in the Scarlet Army, is officially a criminal—a traitor of the highest level.

And I can proudly say I helped him defect.

* * *

As soon as we step inside the terminal at JFK International Airport in New York City, reporters swarm us. I slip sunglasses on and pull the baseball cap over my eyes, trying to keep my identity concealed despite feeling like one of those asshole KGB agents I made fun of in Stockholm. 

My job is done. Vanya is on U.S. soil with all the paperwork he’ll need in Detroit for now. If anything else comes up, the Chargers will take care of it.

This is where we part ways. Vanya and the Americans will drive to Detroit from here and I have to catch a train to Brooklyn. My uncle and I have business to discuss in Brighton Beach.

“Thank you for all of your help and planning,” Chris Brookins tells me as we shake hands.

I smile. “Always happy to help a comrade escape the regime.” 

After shaking hands with the other Brookins, whose name I have no interest in learning, I turn to my friend. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you,” Vanya says. “For everything.”

“It’s my pleasure to help, my friend.” When he brings me in for a hug, I slap his back. “We will meet again.”

Before he lets me go, he whispers, “I have a lump in my stomach, Kirya. Promise me you’ll take care of Stasya.”

“Don’t worry. I always have and I always will,” I give him my word as I back away.

CHAPTER 3

STASYA

MOSCOW

“Your brother is gone,” Papa says in greeting as I enter our room after work. He’s sitting at the table, pouring himself a glass of vodka.

I tilt my head, confused. “Well, of course he is, Papa. He’s in Sweden for the World Tournament.”

He downs his drink and slams the glass on the table, which shakes the plates and silverware Babushka set for dinner. “He is not in Stockholm, Anastasiya. He is in America. Defected.”

“They’re calling him a deserter,” Babushka says from behind me. She edges past and places a large bowl of potatoes on the table.

“He is a deserter,” Papa reminds her. “No matter how happy we are for him, he is still a criminal.”

“He went to America,” I whisper. While Papa sits there, drinking to Vanya’s escape, realization of what he’s said makes me lightheaded, and I think I may faint.

“Come, Stasya.” Babushka waves me toward her. “Help me bring the rest of the food in.”

I follow her down the hallway to the kitchen, numb to feeling, oblivious to the bustling of multiple families cooking at the same time. I duck under the wet clothes hanging on the one of the clotheslines that runs through the kitchen, and allow Babushka to fill my hands with plates.

Not even the enticing smell of cabbage rolls snaps me out of my funk.

My twin brother left for America without me. How could he? After all of our promises? Just over a month ago, before he left for this trip, he stood on the metro platform, hugging me, and telling me he’d take me with him if he ever left.

After we’ve brought all the food to our room, my grandmother and I join Papa.

“We’re getting closer and closer to freedom,” he says sarcastically before scooping a heaping forkful into his mouth. “Maybe Vanya will send us money. We could become business owners. What kind of business shall we open?”

“I’d rather have Vanya than his money,” I say, pushing boiled potatoes around my plate, wishing I were with my brother—or that he were here and everything was like old times. Not that I wish it on him, to be here instead of living his dream in America, but the sadness of losing him is draining me, mentally and emotionally.

“Things are changing, little bird. And who knows what will happen to us now,” Babushka says uncharacteristically. She doesn’t usually say much about the changes in the country, unless she’s offering us glimpses of her youth.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“While you were at work, the KGB was here, banging on the door, demanding answers about your brother—yourtwin—who left us behind for money and freedom. They think I knew. ‘How could a son not talk to his father about such an important life decision,’ they asked?” The contempt in Papa’s voice is crystal clear. He’s hurt and angry at Vanya.

I watch him toss back two more glasses of vodka. “Everything is changing. Everything you know today will be different tomorrow.”

“It takes longer than one day for everything to change.” I brush his comments off.

“Did you know, Stasya?” my grandmother asks quietly, lifting her eyes from her plate.

“Did I know what?”

“Don’t be stupid!” Papa barks.

Babushka shoots him a dirty look, but her voice is calm when she clarifies her question. “Did you know Vanya was leaving?”

They’re both staring, waiting for my answer. It’s as if time has stopped.

“I did not,” I tell them, avoiding their eyes. No matter what I say, they’ll think I’m lying. Vanya and I are far too close for them to believe I didn’t know—even if it’s the truth. 

Papa’s dark, bushy eyebrows narrow as he glares at me. “It’s hard to believe, you know,” he says in an accusatory tone. “You and your brother share everything.”

“Ever since the womb, yes, I know.” I set my fork down and place my fists on the table, before taking a deep breath. “Of course, we talked about how excited he was at being drafted by Detroit, but he never once mentioned defecting.”

“America has stolen my son, the only one who brought joy to this family,” Papa muses, shaking the vodka bottle to get the last drops into his glass.

“He won’t forget us, Papa.” I assure him quietly. I’m used to the stabbing comments. Vanya has always had a higher place in Papa’s heart. He is my father’s only son. Playing for the CSA team brought pride to our family and Mother Russia. “He’ll contact us when he’s able.”

“Contact us? Why would he do that? He has money and fame. He doesn’t need us—not even you. He left like a coward in the night.” The dark circles under Papa’s eyes are so pronounced, it looks like someone painted grayish-purple crescents there. “You think I couldn’t hear you two talking at night? You think I didn’t know about your plans to go to America with him to get away from me?”

He shoves his plate at me angrily, sending potatoes and cabbage onto my lap. When he grabs a bowl and cocks his arm back, I jump up and raise my hands to shield the attack.

“Mikhail Grigorovich!” Babushka cries out.

“The joke is on you, isn’t it, Anastasiya?” he mocks, lowering the bowl as he watches me brush the food from my thighs onto the floor. “How does it feel to be left behind? To be left in a country crumbling more every day while your brother enjoys freedom in America.”

Tears spring to my eyes. Being hit or beaten hurts when it happens, but physical pain eases. The mental and emotional damage he’s caused has warped my mind in ways I’ll never be able to measure. Papa knows exactly what to say to cause the most pain. The things that penetrate like a hammer through my heart.

“Be sure to keep your emotions in check when the KGB comes for you,” Papa warns, grabbing the empty bottle of vodka. “They won’t be swayed by glassy eyes and a trembling lip when it comes to your brother’s desertion.”

My stomach tightens and I clench my teeth, bracing myself for the worst, but instead of throwing it at me, he leans down and sets the empty container on the floor.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and get me another bottle?” he sneers, relishing in the knowledge of how much he scares me.

Rather than answer, I rush past him and out the door. Once I’m in the hallway, I don’t stop against the wall and slide to the floor like I did when I was a girl.

This time, I keep running.

CHAPTER 4

KIRYA

BRIGHTON BEACH, BROOKLYN, NY

The first time I rode the Q Train to the Brighton Beach area of Brooklyn, I was nervous about missing the stop. All my worries subsided while looking out the window. Familiar Cyrillic letters are everywhere. Signage for stores and restaurants are all in Russian and English. Though nicknamed “Little Odessa” because of the Russian and Ukrainian immigrants who settled in this area, there’s no resemblance to Odessa—or even Moscow, for that matter. It looks like Brooklyn’s been translated into Russian. It feels like home, but not.

Exhausted from the constant adrenaline over the last few days, I grab a coffee to keep myself awake. I feel like a feral cat who got the shit beat out of him and dragged through an alley. And if I look half as exhausted as I feel, my mother will freak the fuck out.

Plus, I need my wits about me when I’m with my uncle. He may be like a father to me, but he’s still the leader of Russian organized crime in North America.

The walk to Brighton Peaks, the oceanfront complex building where my uncle and mother share a luxury apartment, takes less than five minutes. The boring faded, brick high-rise looming over the Brighton Beach boardwalk with ornate, white balconies jutting out of each floor couldn’t be more different than his home in Moscow.

After I graduated from university, my uncle let me move into his four-room apartment on Gorky Street. It’s located on the top floor of a beautiful building designed by Arkady Mordvinov in the 1940s in the Stalinist Empire style. Sure, the Peaks’ proximity to the ocean is a bonus, but if I want to live in an ugly brick box, I can do that in Moscow.

I wade through puddles on Brighton Beach Avenue before making a right at the corner with the Brooklyn Public Library. My head pounds and my nose starts to run, a telltale sign of Spring in New York. Flowers are blooming and trees are spewing shit I’m not used to inhaling.

It’s a reminder of how different it is from Moscow. In New York, I worry about puddles from rainfall and melted snowbanks and plants that wreak havoc on my allergies. In Moscow, I’m less worried about that than the dead bodies that appear when the snow thaws.

I enter the building and take the elevator the thirteenth floor. I rap on the door three times, draining my coffee as I wait for someone to answer.

My mother whips the door open, greeting me with tears in her eyes. She looks more vibrant and beautiful than I ever remember. Healthy, blonde hair bounces above her shoulders and her once hollow cheeks are plump, with a natural, rosy glow. Though I miss her dearly, choosing to live here with my uncle, soaking up the sunshine and freedom, is the best decision she ever made.

I step inside and pull her into my arms.

“Kirya! My Kirya! You’re finally here,” she says, squeezing me as hard as she can. At barely over five feet tall, she’s not a big woman, but she’s sturdy and strong. Her embrace feels like it could crack my ribs.

“What is this ‘finally’?” I ask with a laugh. “It’s only been a few months since I was last here.”

“I’m allowed to miss my son,” she says, pinching the top of my ear. I bat at her hand.

My uncle strolls up behind Mama, greeting me with a cigarette hanging from his upturned lips. He plucks it from his mouth, letting out a stream of smoke into my face. I cough, waving the smoke away. He’s always got a way to remind me who’s boss.

“Kirya!” He beckons me to come further inside. “Come in.”

“Good to see you, Uncle Vitya!” I step into the large living room and kiss his cheeks before giving him a quick hug.

After ten years in America, Viktor is almost unrecognizable. When he left Moscow, he was as thin as the cigarette between his fingers. His rotund belly and chubby, red cheeks are a telltale sign of a life of excess. Still, even with extra weight and gray stubble dusting his jaw and upper lip, he looks younger than he did twenty years ago. Maybe Americans get their water from the fountain of youth. The only thing left from his harder days are his crooked, yellow teeth. 

“Good flight?” he asks, closing the door behind me and taking the duffle bag out of my hands.

I nod.

“Are you hungry?” Mama asks. “You must be, after a flight all the way from Sweden,” she continues before I have a chance to answer. “I’ll make you a snack.”

“Not too much!” Viktor tells her. “I’m taking him to see the restaurant today.”

“Then I should make Kirya double! Not even a dog should eat the food at that place,” she mutters.

“What restaurant?” I ask, following him through a small, but extravagant living room.

If anyone ever doubted my uncle’s wealth, all they’d have to do is look at his apartment. Everything is antique and overly ornate. From the frames on the artwork to the beautiful Oriental rugs covering the gorgeous hardwood floors. It’s the same way in his Moscow residence, though the Oriental rugs hang like tapestries.

He looks over his shoulder and winks at me. “I bought you a present.”

When we reach his office, he nods at the brown leather wingback chair across from his mahogany desk as he stomps his cigarette out in a brass ashtray.

“You bought me a restaurant?” I ask, lowering myself into the chair. The tension leaves my shoulders as I sink into the back, letting the wings envelope me, relaxing for the first time since I left Sweden. There’s still a massive pain surging in my head, but I’ll grab some medicine to take care of that.

He sets the duffel bag down and riffles through it, stopping when he finds the bulging envelope he’s looking for. “You look like shit,” he says, pushing the bag to the ground. Good thing I didn’t pack anything breakable.

“I feel even worse.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and rubbing my forehead. “Fuck spring in New York.”

Viktor laughs. “It was bad for me at first too. Go to the banya tomorrow. Dry that shit up.”

There’s nothing I’d love more than to relax in a steam bath right now, but there’s no time. “My flight to Moscow is at six a.m. tomorrow.”

“Your mother’s going to be pissed.” He looks up from the stack of cash he’s counting. “She’s been waiting for you.”

“She knew this wasn’t a social visit.” It’s harsh but the truth. I love my mother with all my heart, but I know she’s safe here with Viktor. Maybe someday I’ll be in the United States full-time. Until then, I’m happy I get to see her a few times a year, even if the visits are short.

“You’re so much like me, I could be looking in a mirror.”

“Dear god, I hope not!” I pat the top of my head and run my fingers through my hair to make sure it’s still there, teasing my uncle about his balding dome.

“You’re a funny man today, yes?” Viktor says dryly.

I just smile and settle back into the seat, stretching my legs out and crossing them at the ankles. The old, worn leather is soft and welcoming, I could easily fall asleep right here.

“There is a lot of money to be made right now, Kirya,” he says. His hazel eyes glow green, the shade of the American dollars stacked in front of him. “You getting Kravtsov to Detroit is just the beginning.”

“Is that how we’re going to capitalize?” I ask. “I’ll be going back and forth, helping Russians defect?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not for long, at least.” He shoves his chair away from the table, puts his feet up, and lights another cigarette. “There won’t be many more athletes defecting. There’s too much money to be made on them. You think Sovietsport is going to let that go?”

Sovietsport is a State-run group of companies responsible for importing and exporting sporting equipment, negotiating sponsorships, and sending athletes to other countries. Soviet athletes are in demand—and the government knows it.

“No, but I don’t think they will give up their most prized workhorses either. What’s the catch?”

“Money. Money is always the catch. The state is strapped and they need to do something. They are selling players to the NHL.”

“Really?” I lean forward, interested in the new development. A few of the older guys on the Scarlet Army team have been to begging to be allowed to go to the NHL for years.

“If a player has been drafted, they are going to let him go to America”—he waves his cigarette around as he speaks—“or Canada. But the player will not get his full salary, you see. Sovietsport will draw eighty percent of it.”

“Eighty percent?” I laugh. “Who would agree to that?”

My uncle’s smile disappears. “Who wouldn’t, Kirya? You know how they live. Eleven months at that dilapidated training base in the middle of nowhere.” His face is stone-cold sober. “They can’t even get their dicks sucked. Not even the married ones.”

I nod, understanding why a player would go, even for such a shitty financial deal. They play in tournaments all over Europe and North America and see the freedom—the opportunity. They will do anything to get to the West. Twenty percent of a five hundred-thousand-dollar contract is still more than they will ever make there.

 “So how does this benefit us?” I ask. Time to get to the point. And there must be a point if my uncle brought me in to discuss this opportunity. “If the money is going to Sovietsport, what sense is it to help them?”

“Well, it is always good sense to help—influence—those in power, yes?” His eyebrows raise with his hypothetical question. “It will not go through the sports committee for long, my boy.” He pauses and smiles. “Soon, there will be no Soviet Union. And when that happens, players will be free to go without paying anyone. The Americans and Canadians, they are not stupid. They know Soviet players will flee in droves.”

“And we will be there to assist them,” I finish the thought.

“Exactly.” Viktor takes another drag on the cigarette and slowly lets out the smoke. “By helping Kravtsov, you have gained a reputation, Kirya. Players trust him and he will recommend you.”

Vanya will recommend me even if he doesn’t want to. That’s part of our agreement.

“I can also approach them too, yes?”

“I expect you to. I can get you a list of players who have already been drafted by NHL teams. You will contact them in the order of who was drafted highest. Because those are the players they want the most. The ones they will pay big dollars too. You know the talent here, Kirya. Hockey is in your blood.”

He’s right. I grew up playing hockey with Ivan Kravtsov. But unlike him, when the Scarlet Army selected me for the junior team, I refused. I was making too much money selling the things I bought off foreigners. Thanks to my uncle’s guidance, I was already living the life I wanted to live. Money over hockey wasn’t a difficult decision for me, and going back to being under strict Soviet rules and discipline wasn’t even an option.

“I should also go after the new kids, the ones coming up in the system,” I say, already mulling over ideas. The opportunity to represent Russian hockey players in North America is exciting. It’s also an easy sell, since they’ll need someone to help translate and negotiate their contracts. Who better than me—someone who understands hockey, business, and the language.

“You must focus on the best ones, Kirya. Get to them before someone decides to do the same thing. If you have a relationship established, it will be harder for others to squeeze in.”

“Well, I’m sure you have a plan for the people who try to poach our players anyway.”

Viktor laughs. “I’m trying to get you away from that, my boy.”

“It’s hard when I’m in charge of collections at the market, Vitya. If something has to be taken care of, I do it.”

“Yes, I know. You take after me.” He looks up at me as he extinguishes his cigarette. “But I’d still rather you let Slava and Igor do that part. Keep your hands relatively clean for now.” He continues, “You know how different the media is in America. They aren’t spewing government propaganda. They have freedom to write whatever they want. And Soviet hockey players leaving is international news.”

I nod. While in America, I witnessed the media’s bloodlust for a story firsthand. I’m still surprised Vanya made it to Detroit. Reporters tracked his every move on TV and in the newspapers. They were even at the airport when he arrived, with cameras and video recorders catching every move. There was a press conference about the ordeal the next day. It was an absolute circus.

My uncle has been one step ahead of the curve his entire life. He’s got a brilliant mind, hundreds of relationships and agreements with members of the highest levels of Soviet government, and zero morals. All of which explain how he’s risen so high in organized crime.

At five years old, he set me up with a personal English tutor. When I complained, he told me it was one of the most important languages I could ever learn. Despite my initial hesitance, I speak the language almost as well as a native. My studies served me well as a young entrepreneur, trading Russian things for American goods—records, clothing, food—anything. Being able to converse gave me the upper hand over other kids trying to do the same thing. It’s a lot easier to trust a Russian who speaks the English language than one throwing out random words and phrases.

 “They’ll link me to you. There’s no doubt.”

“Yes. That’s why when I say Slava and Igor will handle things like collections, you will listen, you understand?”

I nod again. As an Avtoritet, or “authority” in the Bratva, I may be a high-ranking soldier, but I’m still a soldier.

“How will we get paid?” I ask.

“Legally,” Viktor answers. “You remember that business I started with Vashnikov?”

I nod.

A year ago, my uncle opened a sports and entertainment company, with Sergei Vashnikov. A few days later, a sniper gunned down Vashnikov as he left a bathhouse. And just like that, Viktor become the only owner.

People like my uncle have seen the end of the Soviet Union coming. While many citizens live in fear, we’re counting down the days. Once the country breaks apart, those of us who formed relationships in the West and started businesses here early will become even richer.

“I’ve split the companies into two. From this moment on, you are the owner and CEO of New World Management. Being a sports agent is a perfectly legal career all over the world. You negotiate contracts and communication between the players and organizations and you get paid. We get paid.”

“Eighty percent?” I smirk, though I’m floored at Viktor’s ability to think ahead again. Someday, I hope to have the same strategic brilliance.

“No. But it will be enough. An old friend is drawing up contract documents now. A lawyer I know from the zone.”

“A lawyer you know from prison?” I ask. “That’s who I’m trusting to come up with a legal and legitimate contract?”

“He wasn’t in prison with me, Kirya.” Viktor laughs again. “He helped many of us get out.”

For someone who’s killed more people than I can count, he seems as normal as any man walking down the street. Once his clothes are off, the tattoos adorning his body tell the story of who he is: vory v zakone, a professional criminal with a high-level position in organized crime and authority over lower-level members.

He follows a strict code, which, among other things, says they are never to marry or have children. But family is extremely important to him. I’m sure that’s the reason he’s always doted on my mother and I, providing us everything we needed and anything we wanted, even after he moved to the United States. Which is why I’m slightly surprised he’s offering me legitimate work. The code also states they are never to participate in legal work, but live only on what they’ve gained through criminal means.

“Please excuse me, Uncle. I don’t mean to offend you with this question, but this seems out of character,” I begin cautiously. “Doesn’t this business directly violate your rules?”

Viktor explained the vory code to me when I started working with him as a teenager. Since I’ve never been to prison, I can’t claim the title. It’s a generation of criminals that has impressive power now—especially with their influence on government officials, but they’re losing steam to the new gangsters, the ones who don’t follow any code at all. Rising up in organized crime under his wing means I’ve had his protection and his power. I earned my position, but I can’t deny I’ve had opportunities because of him.

“I’m no longer attached to the business, Kirya. It will be yours and you are not vory.”

After all these years, he is still providing for me. The father I never had.

He has given his family the best life we could possibly have, while still keeping us under the radar to the criminal activity he’s involved in and the company he keeps. We lived in communal housing assigned by my mother’s employer, but we had access to things no one else in our apartment could get.

When my grandparents got tired of living in the city, he moved them into an enormous dacha 130 kilometers northwest of Moscow. It was a beautiful two-story house with marble floors and columns. Not long after, I left the apartment to go to university, leaving my mother in a room that was once shared by four of us. For a few years, she felt like a queen.

“What if they don’t accept my services?”

“Don’t worry about that. We have a hundred Slavas and Igors we can send to change their mind.”

* * *

As the cab weaves through crowded streets of Midtown Manhattan toward the restaurant my uncle bought me, excitement builds like a balloon, getting bigger and bigger as we approach. As soon as we step inside, it deflates.

I spin around, taking in the bland, outdated décor and dilapidated furniture. Everything looks like it’s covered with a layer of dirt bleach won’t even wipe away. I can’t believe this restaurant hasn’t been shut down by the health department. “This place needs a lot of work.”

“I have faith that you can bring it back to its glory, Kirya.” He shoves a photo album into my chest. The cover is a deep red with The Russian Dining Room in scrolling gold script.

My jaw drops as I flip through the pages. Inside, photos capture a formerly breathtaking space, whimsical and bold, highlighting the excess and grandeur of Imperial Russia. It’s a complete one eighty from the boring, bland room surrounding us. It looks as if someone came through and stole every piece of rich Russian character. “This doesn’t even look like the same place. What happened to it?”

“It fell on hard times over the last few years. Someone bought it and did this.” He spits on the floor. “I believe their mission was to change it completely. But I couldn’t have them get rid of a historic gem like this, could I? When their financing fell through, I scooped it up.”

“We need a beautiful space like this to gather in the city. Think of the parties we can hold here.”

Despite having the historical proof in my hands, it’s hard to imagine this was ever a place people wanted to gather.

I toss the album on to the bar. “I’m not a designer.”

“True, but I know you appreciate a challenge. You’re smart enough to figure out how to bring it back. You have the kind of mind that can merge the most interesting parts of Russian culture and cuisine into a profitable restaurant. It’ll be a sparkling gem again.”

“I appreciate the confidence.”

“Plus, it’s another way to get you to New York.”

“You really want me here?”
“Want is not the right word, Kirya. I need you here.”         

“I have business in Moscow.”

“You will phase that out over the next year while you are recruiting clients,” he tells me. Then he walks toward the door. “Come on. Your mother’s cursing us right now.”

I nod and follow him through the front door to West 57th Street. “When I was a boy, if you would have told me I was going to be a sports agent and a restaurateur in New York City, I would have laughed at you.”

“Why? I always told you that you could be anything you wanted to be.”

“I wanted to be like you.”

“Don’t strive for that, Kirya! You are a much, much better human than I will ever be.”

The entire course of my life changed in the last twenty-four hours. I never saw a future outside of organized crime—didn’t care about that kind of future unless I had freedom. Now, I’m the owner of two legit businesses. I’ve never been so excited to get back to Moscow so I can prepare to leave for good.

* * *

When we get back to Viktor’s apartment in Brighton Beach, Mama tells me I have an urgent message from Slava.

When I call back, he answers immediately despite the six-hour time difference. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask without greeting.

“Kravtsov’s defection is big news, Kirya,” he says. “KGB is watching the family already. And Igor overheard one of Sobakin’s goons today at the market, talking about taking the sister.”

Fuck!

“I have the first flight out tomorrow morning. Have Igor get some guys to watch Sobakin’s men and Kravtsov’s family. But I want you on the sister, Slava. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“What about KGB?”

“Fuck those pussies!”

KGB is annoying, but not an organization I fear anymore. My main concern is Stasya. Before we parted ways at JFK Airport yesterday, I made Ivan Kravtsov a promise and I intend to keep it.

CHAPTER 5

STASYA

The Central Scarlet Army’s training baza is in the middle of nowhere. I’m not supposed to know where it is—not even player’s wives are supposed to know—but Vanya called me once after a particularly strenuous workout. He said he was worried that he’d die out there and he wanted someone to be able to find him.

It’s early afternoon when I reach the base. I left work after lunch because I wasn’t exactly sure how long it would take me to get there after I got off the metro. It ended up being a mile walk, then another half-mile up a long, grassy road to the complex. My feet hurt and I’m completely out of breath when I reach the gate.

“I need to speak to Lieutenant Morozov,” I tell the guard. “It’s an emergency.”

“Emergency? What kind of emergency?” he asks. His dark eyes assess me under his military cap. A red Soviet star with a yellow hammer and sickle in the middle sparkles like a gem.

I bite my tongue. I can’t divulge that I came to ask Dima about Vanya or I’ll be hauled off for questioning.

“It’s a personal matter,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes locked on nothing in particular over his shoulder, averting his gaze. Slowly, I bring my hands to my belly and cradle it with my hands.

His eyebrows furrow as he shifts his gaze from my face to my stomach. Then, as if a lightbulb goes off, he grunts and nods. “I’ll get him.”

If there’s a law about lying to an officer, I’m definitely getting locked up. But I couldn’t care less at this point. Life in Russia without my brother is a jail sentence anyway.

A few minutes later, I hear Dima’s footsteps coming fast and loud as he runs toward the gate. “Anastasiya!” he calls out. He’s breathing hard when he gets to me. “What’s going on? Peshkov said you’re—”

“Dima! What happened? Where’s Vanya?” I ask desperately.

“Shhh! Keep your voice down, Stasya!” He glances over his shoulder as if he’s being followed, but the guard is nowhere in sight. “What are you doing here? Peshkov said you’re pregnant.”

“What else could I say that would allow him to let you out here to talk to me?”

A wave of relief crosses his face, but then he seems worried again. “You can’t be here, Stasya. It’s not safe. They’re questioning everyone.” His eyes implore me to leave, but I can’t—I won’t—until I find out what he knows about my brother.

“Everyone is so worried about my safety—and I’m worried about Vanya. What happened?” I plead. “Where is he?”

“He’s gone!” Dima says harshly.

“Did you know?” I ask again, balling my fists at my side as I fight back the tears. My voice gets higher, sorrow filling every word. “When we were all waiting for the train, talking like it was any other day, did you know that I’d never see my brother again?”

“You being here is dangerous, Anastasiya!” he pleads with me. “Not just for you—but all of us.” He presses a finger to his lips and tilts his head, as if listening for something or someone. “If they see me talking to you—” He trails off.

“How can you be so cold?” I ask, grief cracking my voice. Rage pumps adrenaline through my veins and I pound on his chest until I collapse against him, my forehead falling onto the silver zipper of his red training jacket.

“Take your hands off me this minute.” He grabs my wrists and pushes me from his chest. “Ivan Mikhailovich is a traitor to his country. I have nothing else to say about the deserter. Now please leave the premises before you are escorted away,” he says through clenched teeth.

A large, uniformed man hurries toward Dima and I. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Lieutenant,” I mock Dima.

Swallowing back anger and tears, I spin around and run as fast as I can. My heart pounds, pumping anger through my veins.

* * *

Dmitri Morozov is dead to me.

Considering our personal history, it’s an easy decision to make, but today’s interaction sealed my hatred.

I rush down the stairs of the metro to catch the next train with tears streaming down my face. The platform is so congested, I have to elbow my way through the doors. There will be another one in a few minutes, but it’s Friday night and waiting won’t make a difference. Either way, I’ll be fighting the crowd; the people wearing drab, gray work clothes, on their way home for the day, or those with slight pops of color, dressed up to go out for the evening.

Maybe that’s what I should do. When I get home, maybe I should get dressed up, call my friend, Svetlana, and ask her to meet me at the discotheque. Maybe dancing to Victor Tsoi’s latest song is just what I need to help me drown away the pain of Dima’s cold indifference when I asked him about my brother’s defection to America.

The train jolts abruptly before heaving forward as it leaves the station. I plant my feet firmly for balance and tighten my grip on the bar overhead. I haven’t stopped crying since I left the Central Scarlet Army training base. Thankfully, anyone who’s glanced my way has quickly averted their gaze. I close my eyes and take deep breath, wiping away tears with the back of my free hand.

All I wanted was some answers. My twin brother, Ivan—Vanya—who has shared everything with me since the womb, defected to the United States after a tournament in Sweden. Despite being so close, he never uttered one word about it before he left. I thought going to Dima, his best friend on the CSA hockey team, would help me understand how Vanya could have kept such a huge secret from me. But the arrogant coward refused to reveal he knew.

They were roommates. Friends! Was he not concerned or, at the very least, inquisitive when Vanya packed his bags and left?

Dima said he’s scared. He’s scared.

My family is being treated like criminals—being followed and questioned by the KGB—because of Vanya’s desertion, and Dima is scared.

To be afraid is normal, but when a lieutenant in the military is a coward? That’s unacceptable. Those in a position of power who have the ability to help must rise up. Despite any feelings I had for him previously, I have no use for a chicken like him in my life.

When the train stops at Aviamotornaya station, I feel so numb and disoriented, it’s as if the crowd is carrying me out the doors and up the stairs. I’ve walked home from here so many times, I do it on autopilot.

Vanya used to scold me for walking home alone because the streets have gotten colder and darker over the last few years. Not because of the weather, but because of the criminals and the violence they bring.

Mafia is everywhere, but I’m not scared. Gangs kill for money, power, and greed—they want something that someone else has.

I have nothing.

Besides, the Bratva—brotherhood—is the least of my concerns. I have more to fear right in my own home. Ever since Mama died, I’ve become the lone target of my father’s anger and violence. Up until today, we had Vanya’s hockey accomplishments to talk about and celebrate. Bright stability in the chaos. Now, we have nothing—just the bleak reality that he left us all behind.

For years, my brother swore he’d take me with him if he ever got the chance to live in America. He promised me again just a few weeks ago, minutes before he left for his most recent hockey tournament.

And now he’s gone. And I’m here, stuck amid chaos and instability unlike anything I’ve ever lived through before in Russia.

At least life under communism was stable—boring, but stable.

The KGB has already harassed Papa, Babushka, and half of the other families who live in our apartment, asking them what they knew about Vanya’s defection. It’s only a matter of time before they come for me.

The thought of a KGB interrogation makes my stomach lurch. Though I rarely drink, I may join my father at the table with a glass of vodka tonight. I need something to numb the anger, betrayal, and heartbreak stewing for Vanya.

The concentrated gasoline smell permeates the air. With the influx of vehicles over the last few years, I don’t usually notice, but anxiety makes my sensitive stomach bubble with every inhale.

I’ve just crossed Aviamotornaya Ulitsa when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a rusty Vaz creeping up the street. My jaw twitches involuntarily. Feeling a bit stupid for being nervous of an old car, I nuzzle my chin into my scarf and keep my gaze forward until it passes.

The loud rev of an engine makes me jump. A shiny, black sedan speeds past and screeches to a stop a few meters ahead of me. My legs shake and I stumble over an uneven crack in the sidewalk. Vaz is a common brand here, but black BMWs are only driven by mafia. Being stuck in the middle of crossfire between two gangs was not how I expected the day to end, but it makes total sense, considering how the rest of it has gone. 

I hold my breath, watching intensely as the sedan’s driver and passenger doors fling open at the same time, and two men covered in black head-to-toe jump out and sprint toward me. My heart thumps in beat with their heavy footsteps pounding the concrete, getting louder as they get closer.

Swallowing back fear, I increase my speed and move to the side, giving the men space to get wherever they’re going. Suddenly, the taller of the two clasps his thick arms around me and starts dragging me toward the car. The other crouches down, grabs the bag I dropped, and sprints to the driver’s side.

“No!” I scream as I kick my feet and fight to free myself. “Stop!” 

It’s a futile effort. There’s no one on the road other than the Vaz, and the people inside know better than to try to stop mafia.

I stretch my legs to the ground, dragging my feet in an attempt to slow him down, but instead of have any effect, my shoes scrape against the sidewalk and one falls off. He tightens his grip and lifts me into the air.

When we get to the car, he yanks the door open and shoves me in face-first before slamming the door shut. It jars my feet, propelling my body forward and sending my cheek sliding across the seat.

“Please!” I cry out. “Please don’t do this!” My clammy palms slip on the leather as I try to claw myself upright.

Instead of respond, the passenger spins around and leans forward. Cold sweat beads on my forehead as I scramble backward, pressing my spine against the seat. He wedges himself between the two front seats, grabs a fistful of hair, and pulls me toward him. I shake my head violently, but it his grip doesn’t loosen, and my jerky movements enhance the pain.

With skill, he wraps rope around my wrists, pulling it tight before making a complicated knot. When he’s finished, he looks up. Icy blue eyes peer at me through the opening of the black balaclava masking his face.

When I gasp, he slams a foul-smelling rag against my mouth and I involuntarily ingest whatever’s on the cloth. Only one thought runs through my head before everything goes black.

I know those eyes.

SAINTS

Saints and Sinners Duet

Book 1