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32

Camila

I’m a pile of needles. Each time I move, I feel my thoughts prickling me—not hard enough to draw blood, but still enough to remind me of my discomfort. I can’t believe Mom is coming here. Settling on the cushion of my vanity, I run my brush through my hair. There are no tangles; I’m brushing it just to stay busy.

Will she like it here? What should I say to her?

What can I even say to her?

Hi, Mom, you remember Asher? Turns out he’s a Bratva pakhan who killed a man the night before he showed up to buy our studio.

Oh, and he’s my husband now. But don’t worry, it’s just a temporary thing.

God, she’ll never forgive me if she hears any of that.

My phone on the vanity begins to buzz, and I snatch it up, answering without looking. “Hello?”

“Camila!” Adriana shouts in my ear, and I have to hold the phone away while wincing in pain. “Oh my God! You’re okay!”

“Yeah, of course, I’m okay.” I guess she must have worried because we haven’t spoken to each other in a while. “What’s up?”

“What’
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