Turns out Tyler couldn't stay away, overnighting his hotel key, along with a personally written apology. But I didn't want him to get the wrong idea, so I dragged Quinn along.

A platinum popstar with his own private jet, and the hottest songs on the radio, Tyler lived on the top floor of a luxury hotel; apparently he wasn't home.

"Whoa." Quinn dragged her ombré blonde waves from her face for a better view of the apartment's bells and whistles. "Ya boy is loaded. Look at this stuff."

"I still can't believe he lives like this now," I breathed, running my hand along a Victorian accent chair.

Quinn circled a sleek pool table in the sitting room. She grabbed a stick, racking a new game as I plopped on a settee the color of champagne.

"Tyler was a jackass at the signing and his manager is the devil in Gucci. Why are we even here?"

"He apologized and gave me a room key. I'm willing to hear him out. I just don't want him to think I'm a toy he can play with when he feels like coming home and put me back on the shelf when he leaves."

"You could have said that in an e-mail." One sleeve of her jean jacket had slipped, exposing one flawless, tanned shoulder. She tucked her long, honey waves behind her shoulder, closing one eye as she lined up the shot...

We heard a noise from down the main hall, followed by the sound of approaching voices. Eyes on the door, Quinn took a step back, bumping into a small end-table furnished with a giant yellow egg. I sat up when it fell, clapping my hand over my mouth at the sight of the Fabergé in a million pieces on the floor.

Naturally, we panicked. I leaped from the settee; Quinn threw down the pool stick. I grabbed her arm, dashing into the closet across the room. We sat on the floor, clutching each other in the darkness. The door was shuttered; we had a perfect view of the three men who entered the sitting room.

"It's Tyler's dad!" I whispered.

"Shit! Are we gonna die?"

"Yes!"

I held my breath, listening to Tyler's dad as he addressed two men that had followed him inside. One was a balding giant, the buttons bursting from the business suit stretched across his massive frame. The other man wore a turtleneck with gold and silver jewelry. He was tall and thin like Mr. Moore, blonde hair pulled into a bun.

"I have it, it's right here. I'm telling you it's worth a fortune. My son's grandmother left it for him. But Tyler doesn't even know how much it's worth. Kids these days..."

"Just give us egg," said the giant, in a curt, Russian accent. "Then we are circle."

"The word you are looking for is square, Bortnik." The thin man was also Russian. He lit a cigarette, glancing around the apartment. "Your son has provided you with a comfortable life, Mr. Moore. And you repay him by stealing? Is there no honor among thieves?"

"Don't use my son against me, Aleksandr. You want your money, don't you? Then take the egg. After that, you tell your father I'm done."

"Za Zdarovje, Mr. Moore." Aleksandr flicked his ashes and took another drag. "Circles and squares."

Pete circled the couch, heading for the end-table. Goosebumps rippled across my skin as I watched his gaze travel from the empty table, to the egg fragments under his feet.

Pete cursed.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Moore?" Aleksandr's lazy drawl was heavy with amusement.

"It-it's broken. The egg is goddamn broken!"

Aleksandr sighed. The giant flexed.

Quinn and I shared a horrified glance.

The giant shrugged at his partner. "Vy khotite, chtoby ya pozabotilsya ob etom, boss?"

"Terpeniye, Borev. Otets dal strogiye instruktsii," he replied. He turned to Mr. Moore. "You are a very unlucky man. You should quit gambling."

I swear I heard Pete swallow. He raised his hands, pleading. "I'll get you the money, Aleksandr. You have sway, tell your father I'm good for it! Please—"

Bortnik grabbed Mr. Moore by the shoulder, punched him in the gut. He doubled over; this time the giant's meaty face collided with his face, knocking him to the floor. I couldn't see Mr. Moore from this position, but I heard his grunts as Bortnik kicked Mr. Moore over and over, using the couch for leverage.

I don't know when Quinn grabbed my hand, just that suddenly it was in hers and she was squeezing so hard I couldn't feel my fingers.

"They're gonna kill him, Q!"

"If you go out there we're dead too!"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling it drop to the pit of my stomach. We were cowards.

The thin man was the only one unbothered. He thumbed through the magazines on the coffee table, continuing to smoke as Bortnik the brute continued to beat Mr. Moore. His gaze swept across the apartment... and landed on the closet door. I froze, feeling only the bite of Quinn's nails in my skin as Aleksandr stared right at us. His eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, smoking his cigarette while staring at the closet in fascination.

"He can't see us, right?" My voice was a strangled whisper in the dark.

"No way, dude!"

Aleksandr winked.

I clapped my hand over Q's mouth so she wouldn't scream.

Pete yelled in pain; Aleksandr turned his attention from the closet.

"Khvatit, Bornik."

Bortnik stepped aside at his boss' command, sweating as he brushed aside the strands of dark hair that had fallen in his face. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket; I watched, feeling sick as Bortnik blotted his damp forehead and wiped bloody knuckles before tossing the napkin on Pete.

I understood now: Bortnik was the muscle, just a dog on a leash. It was Aleksandr who ran things. Aleksandr was the one to be afraid of.

Aleksandr tossed his cigarette, grinding it in the carpet with the heel of his shiny Ferragamo shoes.

"My father is running out of patience, Mr. Moore. He's not as forgiving as my friend, Bortnik."

The giant folded his arms; his scarred, ugly face twisted in hate as he glared down at Pete. Tyler's dad was blocked by the couch. I couldn't see him, but I could hear his long, ragged breaths as he wheezed at Bortniks' feet.

I caught a clear glimpse of Aleksandr's. He was young and suave, like a gorgeous movie star. Aleksandr was a thug, but he had manners, and he was funny. That's what scared me the most. Aleksandr's evil actions weren't reflected in his face.

He sighed. "Speaking as a son to a father, you are a disgrace, Mr. Moore. You do not provide for your family; they provide for you—and you take advantage. It is always the weak who come to my father, Mr. Moore, the ones so desperate for what they want that they are willing to sacrifice everything for it." Aleksandr frowned, as though he were actually concerned for the man he had ordered his hitman to beat. "One day, you may be the one sacrificed. The next time we meet, you will have my father's money, Mr. Moore. Or Bortnik will shoot you."

In the blue blanks of space that were his eyes, I saw cruelty, and knew Aleksandr wasn't lying.

He paused in the doorway. "There is someone hiding in your closet," he said, pausing in the doorway. "Perhaps it was they who broke your egg." He smirked at the closet one last time, then closed the door behind him.

I exhaled as soon as he left, eyes closed in relief.

"Tyler?" Mr. Moore was panting. "Tyler, get out here!"

Blue eyes wide as saucers, Quinn shot me a fearful look. I shrugged back, helpless, then stepped from the closet, with Quinn close behind. We circled the couch at a distance, hand-in-hand.

Pete lay on the floor, a crumpled, bloody mess, clutching his side in obvious pain. He groaned when he saw us.

"Tyler... Where's my son?" Mr. Moore's voice sounded the same way he looked. Broken.

"W-we don't know. He was gone when we got here," I said, as Quinn took a silent step back, edging toward the door.

"What the hell did you do to my egg?" Using the couch for support, he rose with a pained grimace. His swollen, bloody face looked like ground beef.

"I dropped it," I said, quickly. "I did it, it was me."

Quinn hissed my name. "Ali, don't!"

I silenced Quinn with a sharp glance.

"Do you know what you've done!" Pete bellowed, holding his side as he limped forward. "You little brats just cost me a hundred and fifty grand!"

"We are so sorry, Mr. M!" said Quinn, wringing her hands. "Sh-should we call an ambulance?"

"Get the hell out—and if you say one word to my son—"

He seized a lamp from the coffee table. Quinn and I didn't stop to see what he would do with it. We ran. Right before I slammed the door, I heard the tinkle as it broke.

"You owe me a hundred and fifty-grand, Aaliyah!"

***

We bumped into Tyler on our way down the hall. He stepped from the elevator carrying the biggest bouquet of roses I had ever seen. With his emerald green eyes and carefully tousled brown waves, he was more handsome and charming than any poster could fully capture.

"Aaliyah, hey." His smile faded. "Are you leaving?"

I felt terrible when I darted past him, jamming buttons on the elevator to get away as fast as we could. "I'm sorry, Tyler. I can't do this."

"Can't do what?" he said, the elevator doors closing in his bewildered face.

***