“I was trying a little.”

We’re both holding onto the edge of the pool, breathing hard.

Looking into my brother’s face is like looking into a funhouse mirror. He doesn’t look like a separate person. He looks like me, just slightly different.

I think if I didn’t have Adrian, I would have killed myself a long time ago. Since our mother died, he’s the only person who’s loved me. The only person who’s brought me any happiness.

“I hate it here,” I tell him.

“Why?” he says. “The weather’s better. The food is better. The shopping too! You can get anything here. And you know it’s real—not some knockoff. Which is why it’s all so goddamned expensive,” he laughs.

“I just thought . . .” I sigh.

“You thought it would be different,” Adrian says. He always knows.

“Yes.”

“It will be, Yelena. Give it more time.”

“I don’t like this thing with the Gallos. I feel like a lamb tied to a stake, set out in the snow to entice a wolf. Even if you shoot the wolf, he doesn’t always fall before his jaws close around the lamb.”

“I’ll help keep you safe,” Adrian promises me. “And besides . . . you’re no lamb, Yelena.”

Grinning, my brother wraps his arms around me and pulls me down under the water. We sink down to the bottom of the pool, hugging each other tight. This is how we spent the first nine months of our lives—floating in each other’s arms.

Now it’s the only way to show affection without anybody watching.

Two days later, Papa throws a garment bag down on my bed.

“Get dressed,” he says. “It’s time to do some charity work.”

I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but I know better than to question him. I put on the dress, which is skin-tight and flame red, with a halter top and a slit almost up to the hip.

I put on a pair of gold sandals and a single bangle, plus a pair of gold earrings. I pull my hair up into a sleek ponytail, because I like the way it makes my face look sharp and ferocious, the high pony adding to my height.

I paint my lips, fingers, and toes the same shade of crimson as the dress. I don’t know where we’re going, but I know my father will expect me to look flawless.

The armored car is already waiting out front, with Timur driving. He knows better than to look at me as he jumps out to open the back door. Still, I catch the involuntary flicker of his eyes that lets me know I’ve done well with my preparations.

Timur and I are distantly related on my mother’s side. He’s fiercely loyal to my father, because Papa got him out of a fourteen-year sentence in Taganka prison. Papa always starts his business relationships with a favor. He wants you to be in his debt.

I’m surprised to see Adrian climbing into the backseat beside me, dressed in a neat black tux with his blond hair combed back from his brow.

“You’re coming along?” I say.

“Of course!” He grins. “I want to see the show.”

“What show?” I demand.

He gives me a look of maddening mystery. “You’ll see soon enough,” he says.

I scowl at him, debating whether it’s worth trying to wring the information out of him, or if that will only result in more teasing. I love my brother, but he’s spoiled and not always considerate of the difference between his situation and mine. What amuses him often drives me to absolute fury. He and I live parallel lives, with entirely different stakes. He always knows things will work out for him in the end. I have no such assurance.

We have to wait almost an hour for my father to come out of the house. He could be handling some other business, locked up in his office. Or he could be keeping us waiting for the hell of it.

He, too, is dressed formally in a smoke-gray tux, his beard and hair freshly washed and fragrant with Moroccan oil. He smells of cigar smoke and vodka, so maybe he was taking some kind of meeting with one of his brigadiers.

“Go ahead, Timur,” he says as soon as he’s in the car.

Adrian and I are crunched over in the corner to give him more space. He glances over at us and gives a grunt of approval at our appearances.

“No drinking tonight,” he says to Adrian.

“It will look odd if I don’t at least have a glass of champagne,” Adrian says.

“Only champagne,” Papa growls. “If I see you with anything harder, I’ll have Rodion tie you down and waterboard you with a bottle of Stoli.”

“That doesn’t sound half-bad,” Adrian murmurs in my ear. He says it so quietly that a mouse could hardly hear him. He’s not foolish enough to talk back to our father.

The car pulls up in front of Park West, a long, flat building with almost no windows and dark painted sides. I suppose it must be an event center of some type—I can see a stream of high-society types heading inside, so clearly we’re here for some kind of gala or dinner. I look around until I spot a navy and gold banner that reads Chicago Green Spaces Charity Auction.

Fantastic. Maybe Papa will bid on a yacht.

Papa gets out of the car first, and Adrian and I follow after. Adrian gives me his arm to help me scale the steps in my heels. As soon as we’re out of the car, camera flashes explode in our faces. I doubt any of the Chicago press knows who we are, but my brother and I always make an irresistible pairing. On our own each of us is beautiful—as a matched set, we’re stunning. I see even the fanciest guests turning to stare at us, and I hear a murmur of whispers from those who want to know who we are.

Papa walks just ahead of us, looking smug. He views us as assets, and as such, our beauty is a credit to him. He’s not a handsome man himself, though he is striking. To ensure good looks in his children, he married the most beautiful woman in Moscow. Our mother wasn’t wealthy or accomplished. Her father was a sanitation worker, and her mother ran a small daycare out of their house.

My mother’s best friend convinced her to enroll in a national modeling contest called “Svezhiye Litsa.” It was a televised event, where viewers could vote for their favorite contestants. Out of the 25,000 girls who entered, my mother received a landslide of votes. She had more than double the next runner-up.

She was called the Jewel of Moscow, the Princess of the North. My father watched the contest and bet on her from the start. When she won, he received 3,000,000 rubles, more than the entire contest prize. Actually, all my mother won was the equivalent of five hundred American dollars, plus a fur coat and a packet of coupons for Natura Siberica cosmetics, who had sponsored the event.

Papa became fixated on her, watching the show. He used his contacts to find out her name, where she lived, and where she worked (the shoe department at Tateossian).

He came to her workplace the following week. He actually wasn’t the first man to do so—an elderly mechanic and a lovestruck student already had the same idea. But my mother had been able to turn them away. There was no getting rid of my father. He ordered her to join him for dinner, and he waited outside the shop until she complied.

They married two weeks later. She was nineteen years old at the time. She gave birth to me and my brother within the year.

Carrying twins was hard on her body. I don’t think my father found her quite as beautiful afterward. He used to sneer at the loose skin on her stomach and the stretch marks across her sides. This was years later, when to most people’s eyes she had regained her figure. I certainly thought she was lovely, still.