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refused.
    Ivana felt bile rise in her throat and tears start in her eyes. She’d said yes to Demitri in Sofia because he’d promised she would work for a rich American. Dreams of working in a beautiful shop or perhaps for rich and generous celebrities had vanished in a painful haze of beatings and harsh, strange men.
    Her heart had soared at the thought of leaving the squalid orphanage in Sofia where she’d been raised and coming tothe fantasyland of America. When he’d offered to take Villie as well, that was too good to be true. Villie had already been out of the orphanage for four years, making a meager living sweeping city streets. They believed Demitri would take them to a bright future, where they might earn more money than would ever be possible in Sofia.
    “Perhaps we’ll even rent a two-bedroom apartment,” Villie had gushed, eyes happier than Ivana had ever seen them. The lies Demitri told had given them hope . . . and the hope had been dashed here in this room on a dirty mattress.
    Ivana choked back a sob, knowing there would be no sympathy from Ana or Galina. She couldn’t understand how the two girls could give themselves so willingly to the men Demitri sent them. Ana was only a few months older than Villie, and Galina was Ivana’s age. They smiled and fixed their hair, drenching the men with compliments. It was all Ivana could do to lie quietly and not scratch their eyes out.
    Now Villie was gone. Demitri had taken her, told her he had a customer waiting at another location. It was a punishment, he said, because Villie had been disobedient. The man would be quite brutal.
    “Let this be a lesson to you, Ivana,” Demitri had said. “The men I bring here treat you nice, but the men I take you to will not be so nice.” He’d then dragged Villie out of the room.
    That was yesterday morning as far as Ivana could figure, but it seemed an eternity ago. For the first time since she’d been brought to this prison of hopelessness, she prayed for the door to open.
    Open, and bring Villie back to me.

8
    M AGDA BUSIED HERSELF with an inventory report. Next to her children and Anton, the store was her pride and joy and the biggest part of her life. As if returning her devotion, Black Sea Folk Art and Collectibles was thriving. Located in Long Beach, in a shopping area along the marina called Shoreline Village, the shop had been a success from the day Magda opened it six years previous. People in Long Beach and surrounding areas couldn’t get enough of the ethnic art and knickknacks Magda imported from her native Bulgaria and other parts of Eastern Europe.
    It was a blessing and a curse, she often thought. The success had made her a wealthy woman, allowed her family to move to California, but it had also brought her to Demitri’s attention. She glanced at her salesclerk Anka, the only Bulgarian girl Magda had working for her. Demitri’s daughter   —and a spy, Magda was certain. Just twenty-five, Anka was blissfully ignorant of many things, but not of how to protect her father’s best interests. And Magda ferventlyhoped Anka would never come to know how much she hated the girl’s father and hoped to be free of him. Magda had made her unknowing alliance with the man long ago when she was just Anka’s age.
    Communism had fallen, and her father, a Bulgarian ambassador, and her mother were flying home from an assignment in France. Their plane went down in a snowstorm, and everyone on board was killed. At twenty, Magda had to make a life for herself alone in a country that was in flux. She’d turned to Demitri, knowing only that he was her wealthy cousin, and asked him for a loan to start a tourist business on the Black Sea. She had no idea then that his money had come from a thriving black market during Communist rule.
    She could run a successful business, she’d told him. After all, as the daughter of an ambassador, she’d lived all over the world, spoke several languages, and could cater to the wealthy