Epilogue
VIKTORIA
T hey came for me in the middle of the night.
My dorm room offered no protection or security.
The moment the door crashed open I slipped my hand under my pillow for the knife I always kept there. But I was no match for them.
Before I could even scream, a blanket was thrown over my head. Still I fought.
A fist slammed into my stomach. I doubled over, gagging, fearing I would vomit.
Large hands grabbed my thrashing arms, twisting them behind my back with such force I felt something pop in my shoulder. White-hot pain radiated down to my fingertips.
I screamed, the sound muffled by the thick wool blanket that scratched against my face, fibers catching in my mouth as I gasped for air.
"Hold her down," a voice growled, oddly familiar yet distorted by my panic and adrenaline .
My body was slammed onto the cold floor.
The weight of a knee pressed between my shoulder blades, forcing the air from my lungs.
Something tight bit into my wrists, cutting off circulation. My fingers instantly went numb.
I bucked and writhed, earning another punch, this one to my kidney. The pain was immediate and crippling.
Bile rose in my throat.
"Fucking bitch won't stay still," the second attacker muttered, his breath close enough to my ear that I could smell cigarettes and stale beer.
The blanket tightened around my head as someone gripped it at the nape of my neck, using it as a handle to drag me upward. My feet scrambled for purchase on the floor, toes catching on discarded textbooks, sending them scattering.
"No!" I screamed, fighting harder, only to be rewarded with another blow, this one catching my ribs.
They hauled me through the doorway, my hip cracking against the frame. Down the hallway where the silence told me no one was coming to help. Three a.m. on a Thursday. Everyone was asleep or gone for the long weekend. No one would even know until my Monday morning class.
The night air hit me like a physical blow, cold enough to steal what little breath I had left. October in Virginia. The first real cold snap of fall. I wore only sleep shorts and a thin T-shirt. Goosebumps erupted across my exposed skin as they dragged me across the deserted quad.
Metal scraped against metal. The sound of a trunk opening. Terror crystallized in my veins. Not the trunk. Anything but the trunk.
"Please," I begged, my voice a ragged whisper. "Please don't?—"
They lifted me, four hands gripping my arms and legs, and pitched me forward. I fell hard, letting out a scream of pain when my shoulder took the impact against something solid. The smell of rubber mats and motor oil filled my nostrils. Definitely a car trunk. Old. Musty.
The darkness became complete as the trunk lid slammed shut, sealing me in a coffin of steel. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the metal beneath me. Every bump and turn slammed me against the sides of the trunk, my bound body unable to brace against the impacts.
I tried to focus, to think through the panic. The knife from beneath my pillow was gone. My hands were bound behind my back, the zip ties cutting deeper with each attempt to free myself. My ankles too had been secured, rope biting into my skin, already slick with what I assumed was blood.
The blanket, damp now with sweat and tears, clung to my face like a death shroud.
My throat was raw from screaming, my voice reduced to a hoarse whisper as I counted seconds, then minutes, marking time in the only way available to me.
One hundred and twenty-seven minutes.
That was how long we drove.
The car finally slowed, tires crunching on gravel.
We stopped, the engine idling for a moment before cutting off .
Car doors opened and slammed shut.
Footsteps approached, crunching on loose stones.
The trunk opened with a rusty groan.
Cold air rushed in, bringing with it the scent of pine and damp earth.
Hands grabbed me roughly, dragging me out.
My legs, numb from being bound for so long, crumpled beneath me when they tried to stand me up.
I crashed to the ground, sharp gravel digging into my bare knees, arms, and face, since I couldn't catch myself.
Someone pulled me up onto my knees and yanked the blanket off my head. The sudden flood of moonlight was blinding after hours in darkness. I blinked rapidly, tears streaming from my light-sensitive eyes, as the world slowly came into focus.
And then I saw them.
My father stood over me, his face a mask of cold contempt. Beside him, my brother Matvey leaned against the car, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me with the detached interest of someone observing an insect.
"No," I whispered, disbelief warring with horror. "You?—"
"Took you long enough to figure it out," Matvey sneered, pushing off from the car. "Still as stupid as ever."
I looked around wildly, trying to place where they had brought me. Trees surrounded us on all sides, their branches skeletal against the night sky. A dirt road stretched behind the car, disappearing into darkness. The only light came from the half-moon above and the car's headlights, illuminating an old hunting cabin twenty yards ahead.
My brother grabbed my uninjured arm, hauling me to my feet, before slicing through the bindings around my ankles. My legs trembled, threatening to give out again. The zip ties had cut so deeply into my wrists that blood trickled down my fingers, dripping onto the ground.
"Why?" I managed, my voice cracking. "Why did you?—"
"Because it's time you finally served your purpose," my father said, checking his watch with a scowl. "We're late. Ivanov won't be pleased."
"Ivanov?" The name meant nothing to me, but the way my father said it with a mixture of deference and fear made my stomach clench.
Matvey's fingers dug into my arm as he dragged me toward the cabin. "Artem Ivanov, a very important man in the bratva. Very rich. Very powerful. You're our ticket in."
"You're selling me," I said, the horrific truth crystallizing. "Like property."
"Like the ungrateful burden you've always been," my father corrected, following behind us. "For two years we've let you waste your time at college. Now you'll finally be useful."
Something broke open inside me. Rage, boiling up through the fear. I dug my heels into the ground, wrenching my arm from Matvey's grasp with a strength born of desperation.
I turned to run, knowing it was futile, knowing there was nowhere to go in these woods, but driven by pure animal instinct to flee .
I made it three steps before Matvey caught me by the hair, yanking me backward with such force that strands ripped from my scalp.
"You always were dramatic," he hissed in my ear, his arm snaking around my throat in a chokehold. "Just like Mother."
The mention of her—so casual, so cruel—sent a fresh wave of sorrow and rage through me. I twisted in his grip and spat directly in his face, a mixture of saliva and blood splattering across his cheek.
His eyes widened in shock, then narrowed with fury. Before he could react, my father stepped forward and struck me across the face with an open palm. The blow was so hard, my head snapped to the side, my vision blurring.
My father grabbed my jaw, fingers digging into the flesh with bruising force, forcing me to look at him. His eyes, so similar to my own, were devoid of anything resembling paternal love.
"Listen carefully, Viktoria," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You will do whatever Artem Ivanov demands of you. You will not disgrace this family." His fingers tightened until I whimpered. "Or I will finish what I started when you were sixteen."
Ice flooded my veins.
The basement.
The darkness that lasted for days.
"Do you understand me?" he asked, giving my face a shake.
I said nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction. My silence earned me another slap, this one splitting my lip. Blood dripped down my chin onto my T-shirt, staining the white fabric crimson.
"Answer me!" he roared.
"Yes," I whispered, the word tasting like surrender.
"Good." He released my face with a shove. "Get her cleaned up," he instructed Matvey. "Ivanov will be here within the hour, and I won't have him thinking I can't control my own daughter."
Matvey nodded, grabbing my arm again and pulling me toward the cabin. As we approached, I could see it was more dilapidated than it had first appeared, the windows boarded up, the porch sagging, the wood weathered gray by years of neglect.
"Where are we?" I asked, my voice raw.
"Nowhere anyone will find you," Matvey replied, kicking open the door with his boot.
The interior of the cabin was dark and musty, smelling of mold and something else, something metallic and familiar. Blood. The realization came as Matvey flicked on a battery-powered lantern, illuminating the single room.
A mattress lay in one corner, stained with rust-colored patches I didn't want to identify. A wooden chair stood in the center, with rope coiled neatly beside it. A bucket in another corner. Nothing else except dust and cobwebs.
"Home sweet home," Matvey said, shoving me toward the chair. "At least until Ivanov decides what to do with you."
"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Why now?"
My father's face remained impassive. "We owe Solovyov. He's called in the debt. The Ivanovs are in turmoil. Their boss is weak and distracted. Now is our time to strike. And we're going to use Artem to do it."
"A debt you pay with your daughter," I said bitterly.
"Be grateful," Matvey interjected, leaning against the wall, watching me with those dead eyes. "He could have asked for much worse."
"What could be worse than selling your sister?"
He smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Use your imagination."
I shivered with revulsion. My father checked his watch again, his movements agitated as he cut the zip ties from my wrists with a pocketknife and thrust a water bottle between my hands.
"Hurry up," he snapped. "Use the water to clean your face."
"And if I refuse?" I asked, raising my chin defiantly.
"I think you know the answer to that," he said softly.
Rage and terror warred within me, but self-preservation won out. With shaking hands, I awkwardly dampened a corner of the blanket they'd used to kidnap me and wiped at my face, the fabric coming away streaked with blood and dirt.
"Good girl," my father said, the praise as revolting as it was unfamiliar.
Outside, the crunch of tires on gravel announced another vehicle approaching.
My father's head snapped up, his eyes widening. "He's early," he said, an edge of panic in his voice.
He turned to me, grabbing my shoulders. I stifled a scream of pain. My shoulder was definitely dislocated, but I'd be damned if I let them know. I knew from past experience, it would only lead them to exploit the injury to cause me even more pain.
"Listen to me. You will be respectful. You will be obedient. You will agree to whatever he proposes. Do you understand?"
I stared back at him, saying nothing, letting my hatred speak for me.
His hand twitched, clearly wanting to strike me again, but the sound of car doors slamming stopped him.
"Last chance, Viktoria," Matvey warned, crouching in front of me, snatching my wrists together as he tied rope around them. "Cooperate or find out exactly how expendable you really are."
Footsteps approached the cabin, heavy and deliberate.
My father straightened his jacket, smoothing back his hair. Matvey rose and crossed his arms over his chest, widening his stance. Both of them stared at the door with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
And I realized, with a clarity that cut through my fear, that they were afraid . These men who had terrorized me my entire life were afraid of whoever was about to walk through that door.
The footsteps stopped. A shadow fell across the threshold, massive and imposing, darkening everything in its path.
And for the first time since they'd dragged me from my dorm, I felt something other than fear. Something dangerous. I felt hope.
But hope in this world was a double-edged blade. This man who made my father and brother tremble could be my salvation...or my complete destruction .
One thing was certain, I was about to trade one devil for another, and there was no telling which one had the blacker soul.
Moonlight silhouetted him, a mountain of a man carved from darkness itself.
I couldn't see his face, just the broad shoulders that blocked the night sky, the predatory stillness of a man who never needed to rush because nothing ever escaped him.
Power radiated from him like heat from a flame, scorching the air between us.
My father took an instinctive step back.
The stranger stepped into the lantern light, and I saw his face for the first time. Cut from marble and just as cold. Eyes the color of winter storms, slate-gray and merciless.
Artem Ivanov.
My father and brother were playing a dangerous double-cross game with this terrifying man…using me as the pawn.
And everyone knew how easily pawns were sacrificed.
To be continued…
Twisted Proposal
Ivanov Crime Family, Book Five