SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1

by Henry, Sophia

  SAINTS

  Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1

  Sophia Henry

  Krasivo Creative

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Stasya

  2. Kirill

  3. Stasya

  4. Kirill

  5. Stasya

  6. Stasya

  7. Kirill

  8. Stasya

  9. Stasya

  10. Kirill

  11. Kirill

  12. Stasya

  13. Kirill

  14. Stasya

  15. Stasya

  16. Stasya

  17. Kirill

  18. Stasya

  19. Kirill

  20. Stasya

  21. Kirill

  22. Stasya

  23. Kirill

  24. Kirill

  25. Stasya

  Reviews are Awesome

  OPEN YOUR HEART Excerpt

  Keep in Touch

  Playlist

  Also by Sophia Henry

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Saints

  Copyright © 2019 by Sophia Henry

  All rights reserved

  Published by Krasivo Creative, LLC

  ISBN: 978-1-949786-06-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover design: Antonette Santillo, Dragonfly Ink Publishing

  Cover photograph: Wander Aguiar, Wander Aguiar Photography

  Cover Model: Zack Salaun

  Editing by: Jenn Wood, All About the Edits

  Proofreading by: Jackie Ferrell

  “Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”

  ~ Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance

  #BeKindLoveHard

  * * *

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  Prologue

  Stasya

  “The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.”

  ~ Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss

  Moscow – 7 May 1989

  Dmitri Sergeyevich 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 my friend, 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 Dmitri’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 Dmitri, 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 what he knew.

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

  Dmitri 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 Dmitri 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 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 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.

  1

  Stasya

  Moscow – 1 April 1989

  One Month Earlier

  “Come on, Stasya!” Ivan calls to me as we hurry across 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.” He laughs at his own humor. “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, Ivan found out he was picked by the Detroit team in last year’s National Hockey League draft, and he hasn’t stopped talking to me about it. He’s 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 would be impossible for him to leave the Soviet Union right now. His job is to play hockey, but he is still an officer in the military, bound by his contract to stay. 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 Russians don’t think too brightly about the past either. The promise of even more change 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. But we still stand in line for even the most basic things—bread, eggs, sugar.

  And who could afford to start a business? The people who were already making money—criminals.

  Ivan’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 calves 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 a skirt and heels are not ideal for running over the slush with 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 may 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.

  I’m very excited for my brother, but I envy all the travel he gets to do with Scarlet Army’s 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.” Since I was born, the government has provided everything from housing, healthcare, and food right down to cheap clothing and shoes. Maybe the fashions aren’t that great, but 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 Ivan’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. I’m not sure what store she’s talking about, but it makes me feel good to know she thinks highly of my work.

  Though communism is the butt of most of our jokes and many older people complain about how we live, I never thought much of it since it’s the only thing I’ve ever known. But
when our leaders began to change policies to restructure and reform the way things have been done for more than seventy years to a more open market, it made me wonder what was so great about communism, and why we’d been led to believe it was the only way for so long?

  Vanya came home raving about common music and fashions in the West—things we’d never heard or 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 how many pairs they own. 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 colors 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 a holiday in Rome or Paris, sitting outside at a café, sketching the clothing designs constantly swirling through my head. 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. We’ve 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 didn’t hit us in the city, until recently.