Page 1 of One Last Shot

CHAPTER1

PETRA

14 Years Ago

Innsbruck, Austria

“It’s time,” Papa says from the doorway of my bedroom.

I look up from my laptop where I’ve been preparing for the upcoming season by rewatching video footage of my ski racing from last winter.

Behind my father, an old picture of Mama hangs above my desk. She’s standing on the balcony of a little hotel overlooking Lake Hallstatt with her hands on her hips and a smile so bright that looking at it is equal parts beauty and pain. Her long dark hair frames her heart-shaped face, but her heavily lidded eyes look at me like they know I’m doing something wrong.

What would you have me do, Mama?

I take a fortifying breath, praying that I’m not making a deal with the devil. I may only be sixteen, but one thing I know for sure is that when things seem too good to be true, they generally are.

“Let’s go,Zaichik.” Papa still calls me Bunny, the nickname from my childhood that will not die.

As I follow Papa down the narrow staircase to the first floor, I take in the mismatched frames full of family pictures that still hang in the stairwell. They haven’t been updated since the horrific car crash that took Mama and my brother, Viktor, from us three years ago. In them, my mother is still young and vibrant. Viktor is still a high schooler who loved to torment his little sister.

As I do every day that I pass them, I wonder who they’d be today. Who we’d be—Papa and me—if they were still alive.

“Be grateful,” Papa reminds me as we leave the comfort of our small caretaker’s cottage to head down the path to the lawn that will lead us to the big house.

“I am.” I don’t mention the other emotions—the fear, worry, and regret.

I breathe in the flowers that line the path behind the big house. Above them, the imposing stucco walls of Whitehall glow in the fading light of the golden hour. For most of my life I’ve curled up on the cushioned window seat of my tiny bedroom, gazing across the lawn at Whitehall as the sun sets, watching the lights come on and the family inside come alive.

Those two boisterous boys were like cousins to me—until Mama and Victor died. Through that tragedy Sasha and I grew impossibly close, but now he and his older brother, Nikolai, are grown and gone most of the time. Niko spent the summer in London for an internship and is now back at university for his senior year. Sasha has been living in St. Petersburg and traveling all over Russia and Europe, playing professionally in the Kontinental Hockey League for the last year.

Having him home for the summer has been both torturous and heavenly. My feelings for him have been blossoming for years, but this summer it’s starting to feel like maybe he shares those feelings. The shared glances, the whispered secrets, the way he often can’t take his eyes off me. It’s like we’re sliding into new territory that I can’t quite name but am desperate to get to. But tomorrow he’s leaving to go back to his team and who knows how long it’ll be until I see him again.

From the patio, Papa opens the door that leads into the kitchen of Whitehall, rather than one of the many glass doors that lead into the grand sitting room at the back of the house.

Last year, when Sasha graduated from high school, Mr. Ivanov had a fancy party to celebrate. Even though we were guests that night, Papa still refused to enter the house through those glass doors that were cast wide open. Sasha had been insistent that I come in the same way as all the other guests, telling me that I was more important to him than anyone else who was there. But Papa claimed that the only doors the property’s caretaker should use are the garage door and the kitchen door. Old habits die hard.

We head through the kitchen and dining room, then into the massive two-story entryway. At the far end, we climb the wide wooden staircase up to the mezzanine, which we follow until we reach the doors of the library.

Mr. Ivanov sits at the ornately carved wooden desk like a king on a throne. Mama once told me never to trust a man like Mr. Ivanov—“duplicitous devil” was how she’d described him. I’m not sure why I shouldn’t trust him, he’s never done anything but try to help my family. Still, the warning hangs there over his head, reminding me to be alert.

“Petra, Leo. Come in.” Mr. Ivanov manages to direct one of his smooth smiles at me and Papa, but like always, the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I feel Sasha’s presence as he ambles in behind us—a warmth spreads throughout my body and just as I’m about to turn around and smile at him, the look on Mr. Ivanov’s face stops me. His voice is about ten degrees cooler as he greets his son with a curt “Aleksandr.”

I’ve never understood Sasha’s relationship with his father, how the two of them are so detached from each other. Papa and I aren’t super close either, but that’s because I was always Mama’s shadow and Papa spent more time with Viktor. But Sasha’s only ever had his father, and I’ve long wondered if Mr. Ivanov resents his youngest son because his wife died during Sasha’s birth. Even though Sasha is my closest friend, I’ve never had the guts to ask his opinion on the matter.

“The paperwork is all ready?” my father asks.

“Yes, we just need to sign these two sheets here. You and I, with our children as our witnesses. I’ll have Gerta translate and notarize it in the morning.” He looks over at me, “Then you’ll be off to Switzerland for school. Are you excited?”

“Beyond excited,” I tell him. I swallow down all my concerns about being so far from home, about how this takes me even farther away from Sasha. But he’s going to be back in Russia again this year anyway, so I can’t let him factor into my decision. Instead, I tell his father, “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s nothing,” he says, waving his hand in the air. To him, it probably is nothing—a tiny drop in the bucket that is his fortune.

“To me, it’s everything. Please, know how grateful I am.” I feel the heat creep into my cheeks because I can tell when Sasha’s eyes are boring into me, even when I can’t see him.

“You are very welcome,” Mr. Ivanov says smoothly. “Make us proud.”

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