Billie and the Russian Beast - 50 Loving States, South Carolina - Quarantales

However, it is happening to me. Right now. There’s a stranger in my kitchen, standing right behind me.

Taking a deep breath, I turn around.

The man is about the same height as me. Five foot eight. Maybe a few inches taller. But where I’m toned and fit from the YouTube yoga and Just Dance workouts I force myself to do a few times a week, he’s bulked out under his leather jacket. I can’t tell whether it’s fat or muscle.

I’m betting muscle though. Possibly gained during a stint in prison. I’m pretty sure his accent is Russian, and he’s got that jet-black hair/craggy skin combo that older gangsters seem to favor in the movies.

But we’re not in the movies. This is real life. Happening to me.

I feel like there is a rope tightening around my throat, cutting off my breathing. Oh, God, there’s some kind of mobster/burglar/killer here. In my house. And I have no idea if my brother heard him come in.

My eyes cut to the butcher block I keep tucked away next to the double oven for the rare night when I have time to make a meal.

“I would not do that if I were you,” The stranger advises. He sounds both amused and disappointed. “I am old man who still appreciate pretty girls. And if you fight me, I might have to make your face not so pretty.”

To punctuate his point, he opens his jacket just enough to reveal a holstered gun hidden beneath.

There’s a stranger in my house and now he’s threatening me. With a gun!

I can feel the beat of my heart against my tongue. And I try to swallow, but saliva? I don’t have an ounce of it in my throat. “Who are you? Why are you here in my house?”

“I’m an employee of someone your brother owes a lot of money,” he answers, his tone almost gentle. Almost kind.

But not quite.

“Clem?” I ask. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I have any other brothers. “But I thought he was in the back asleep.”

The old thug throws me a look that makes me feel both pitied and stupid.

“No, he is currently at my boss’s residence, awaiting your arrival. And if you want what is best for both you and your brother, you will come with me, Princess South Carolina. No fight.”

Chapter Two

I step out of an elevator that opens into a sleek black and grey hallway. Then the thug who introduced himself as Vlad while directing me which way to drive from the passenger seat of my own car escorts me down the short corridor into a gorgeous penthouse apartment.

I find my brother sitting on one of the couches in the sunken den living room.

“I’m sorry, baby sis. I’m so sorry!” he says, jumping to his feet as soon as we come through the door.

Vlad tuts and crosses the room to shove Clem back down on the couch. “Yes, you should be sorry, causing your poor sister so much unnecessary distress. But right now, we will wait here quietly for Mr. Rustanov to finish the rest of his game.”

“Mr. Rustanov?” I repeat, looking at Clem. “Who’s that?”

Clemson doesn’t answer. Just sits on the couch with his eyes lowered in a way that puts me in mind of a little boy, even though he’s large and dressed in a t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a gold chain. He’s much larger than me and an offensive lineman for the Carolina Leopards. But it doesn’t matter how big or strong he is, there’s always something about Clem that reminds me of a little kid. Maybe that’s because our mom’s dying wish on her deathbed was for me to take care of him no matter what.

No matter what…

The words echo in my ears as I wait for Clem to answer my question.

But instead of replying, he looks to Vlad, like a child requesting permission to speak.

“All will be made clear soon, Princess South Carolina,” Vlad answers in Clem’s stead. “Please sit.”

I sit on the couch directly across from my brother. But I don’t feel much like a former beauty queen, dressed in my loose tank top, shorts, and house slippers with my sisterlocks in the two loose braids I put them in last night. I also really don’t feel like I belong here. This apartment, it’s too nice. I’m an Ikea and replace it every five years, kind of girl.

But the sleek, dark furniture in this penthouse looks like it was handpicked from a showroom. The kind that’s not open to the general public and is staffed by people who wear suits—not striped yellow shirts and jeans.

There’s a slate black coffee table between the couches with a gorgeous chess set on top. The pieces are painted black and red instead of the usual black and white. A nod to Russia maybe?