Chapter Twenty-Three - Karmia
The chandelier’s light fractures across crystal, scattering cold rainbows down the length of the table. Cutlery glints.
Conversation weaves between bursts of brittle laughter, each joke sharpened to a point, the kind meant to draw blood just beneath the surface.
I keep my eyes on the pattern in the tablecloth, tracing gold filigree with a fingernail, pretending not to hear the veiled comments that circle like sharks.
“She is certainly… unconventional,” one aunt remarks, lips curled in something that wants to be a smile.
“So clever, our Rostya, bringing in new blood. These days, loyalty must be earned in so many interesting ways,” another quips, glass raised, her gaze flicking over me as if I might flinch on command.
They toast to futures, to alliances, to strong sons and obedient wives. I raise my glass when required, mouth twisting around a smile so careful it aches.
Every swallow of expensive wine tastes like ash. Their eyes linger too long, weighing the cost of letting someone like me into their circle. An outsider, a chess piece, a problem disguised as a solution.
Through it all, Rostya’s hand remains anchored at the small of my back, warm, possessive, never pressing but never quite letting go.
It’s a warning and a promise in one. I wonder if he feels how my breath stutters every time someone speaks my name with that edge of ownership, that perfect Bratva blend of welcome and threat.
Dinner stretches on, course after course, each one more intricate than the last. Silver domes lifted, sauces poured, laughter building like storm clouds.
I answer questions with practiced blandness, keeping my voice low and agreeable, letting my hair fall forward to shield my face. Every word is chosen, measured, scrubbed of defiance. No one here wants to know me.
They want to see that I understand my place.
There are moments when conversation stutters—when someone forgets their role for just a breath, and the air tightens. In those silences, I can feel Rostya’s thumb tracing slow circles at my waist, his presence iron and unyielding. I wonder if it’s comfort or constraint. Maybe both.
By dessert, my jaw aches from clenching it shut. The room is too warm, the air thick with perfume and expectation. I force another smile, another toast, laughter that never quite reaches my eyes. I try to remind myself I’m surviving, not surrendering, but the difference feels paper-thin.
When the final glass is raised, the performance ends. The car waits outside, black and silent, the city night curling cold around its doors. I slide into the leather seat and let my head fall back, only then realizing how tightly I’ve been holding myself together.
As we drive, the city blurs, lights streaking by in feverish colors, each block slipping past too quickly to hold. The farther we get from the house, the more I breathe, but the relief feels breakable, delicate as spun sugar. I keep waiting for it to shatter.
We turn onto a narrow street, the city thinning to after-midnight hush, and I notice the black sedan in the rearview.
Then another. Headlights slice through the dark, too bright, too focused.
My gaze flicks to the side mirror, pulse rising as they stay with us, always two car lengths behind, no matter how many corners Ivan takes.
My skin prickles, the hairs on my arms standing as a chill seeps through the thin silk of my dress.
Rostya sits beside me, silent, unreadable.
His hand hasn’t moved from my thigh, heavy and sure, but I can feel the tension radiating from him now—a coil winding tighter with every turn.
I want to tell myself it’s nothing. Paranoia, leftover nerves from the performance of dinner.
The street ahead narrows, and still the shadows tail us, unshaken by the quickening pace.
The headlights behind flare brighter, closer. My breath hitches. I press back against the leather seat, fingers gripping the clutch of my skirt, knuckles white as glass.
It happens all at once. Light explodes in the mirrors.
The night rips open in a staccato eruption of gunfire, the sound so close it shreds thought, a thousand hammers slamming the world apart.
Bullets ring off steel, sparks bouncing in the darkness.
The car rocks violently as Ivan jerks the wheel, the windows spiderwebbing but holding. Bulletproof, but not invincible.
“Down!” Rostya’s voice cracks like a whip. The calm is gone, replaced by command, the tone I’ve only heard in threats before. He pushes me down, body caging mine against the seat. “Ivan, left! Now!”
The city turns feverish—neon smeared across the windows, engine roaring as Ivan punches through gears, another car in front of us peeling away to cut off pursuit.
I hear voices over the radio, sharp, desperate.
The convoy reacts in a storm of motion, black vehicles boxing us in, shields against the hail of bullets.
Another volley, closer this time. A tire screams. The car jolts so hard my teeth clack together, my knees slamming the door. I can’t breathe, can’t move, can only listen to the shuddering percussion of gunfire, the dull thuds against the glass, the distant wail of sirens rising behind us.
The world shrinks to chaos—Rostya shouting orders, Ivan’s knuckles white on the wheel, the blur of city lights swallowing everything but fear.
My hands twist in my lap, searching for something, anything. They close around the hard shape hidden in the folds of my dress—a burner phone, small and cold, the one Denis pressed into my palm with a whispered warning days ago.
It’s there, humming with dread, and in that instant every piece clicks together. The shadowing cars, the relentless pursuit, the way they found us even wrapped in Bratva armor. The phone—my phone—is the beacon. I’m the reason they’re here.
The realization is ice, sliding down my spine, locking my breath in my chest. I clutch the phone, shame and terror battling as the gunfire rages and Rostya’s world tears itself open all around me.
Gunfire echoes through the steel cage of the car, but it’s Rostya’s voice that cuts deepest. “How are they tracking us?” The question is a knife, aimed straight for my heart. He doesn’t look at me, but then again he doesn’t have to. Fury radiates from him, a heat that burns even through the chaos.
My hands shake so hard I nearly drop the phone.
I want to explain, to throw words between us like a shield, but I can’t make myself speak.
The confession lodges in my throat, sharp and choking.
Instead, I seize the moment between bullets—window cracked from the barrage, the air thick with smoke and fear—and hurl the phone out into the night.
It vanishes, spinning end over end, swallowed by the dark. For a split second, nothing changes. Gunfire still echoes, tires still shriek around corners, Ivan’s voice still barks commands over the radio.
Then, like a switch flipped, the pursuing cars lose formation.
They hesitate, one swerving hard into an alley, another braking too late and spinning out on wet asphalt.
The coordinated menace fractures into confusion, headlights scattering, engines roaring in retreat instead of attack.
The danger doesn’t vanish, but the precision—their advantage—bleeds away.
Rostya’s eyes flash in the rearview mirror, catching mine for just a moment. I see the understanding snap into place behind the anger. Proof: Denis marked me, and through me, marked him.
Our convoy regroups, black vehicles snapping back into formation, engines gunning as backup streams in from every direction.
The radio fills with terse Russian, the promise of violence thick in every syllable. Ivan’s hands never leave the wheel, but the way his shoulders settle tells me the worst is over. The city rushes past, neon and sirens and the smell of smoke, all of it moving too fast for me to breathe.
I curl into myself, hands knotted in my ruined dress, every muscle locked tight. Shame pounds through my veins, colder than any fear. I did this. I let Denis get close, let him press a phone into my palm and promised myself it was insurance, not a trap. I wanted a lifeline.
Instead, I brought a gun to Rostya’s head.
My lungs refuse to work, every breath a shallow scrape. I can’t meet Rostya’s gaze. Not now, not when the truth is laid bare in the night’s wreckage. He knows. They all do.
The car speeds on, city lights smeared and broken, the adrenaline still humming in my blood.
I sit frozen, not daring to speak, not daring to move.
Guilt presses down, heavier than bulletproof glass, harder than any of their stares.
I can feel his eyes on me, feel the weight of everything unsaid tightening the air between us.
There’s no forgiveness in the silence that falls. Only consequence.
The city fades behind armored glass, the battered convoy winding through empty industrial blocks until, at last, the cars grind to a halt. The engine’s growl dies, replaced by a silence so dense it smothers breath. My heart still slams against my ribs, but now it’s the only sound left.
Rostya is already moving. The door explodes open, the crack of it sharp as gunfire in the stillness.
He steps out, broad-shouldered and rigid, his suit splattered with city light.
His face is carved from fury. There’s no mask now, nothing but the raw edge of a man who’s had blood drawn and doesn’t know yet where to bury the knife.
For a moment, no one moves. Ivan waits behind the wheel, knuckles white. The other guards hover at a distance, their eyes fixed straight ahead, suddenly deaf to everything that happens between their boss and me.
Then: “Out,” Rostya commands, his voice soft and cold as snowmelt, each syllable razor-sharp.
I don’t hesitate. There’s no point. My legs tremble as I swing them to the ground, shoes slipping on slick concrete.
The night presses in, cold and brackish, heavy with the stink of exhaust and the ghosts of burned rubber.
It feels like a cage, four black cars hemming us in, empty warehouses towering overhead, windows hollow and watching.
He waits, backlit by the convoy’s headlights, hands loose at his sides but every line of him strung tight.
I want to run, want to hide behind apology or explanation, but there’s no cover left.
I’m the reason for every bullet, every swerve, every life risked and every inch lost. That truth sits in my chest, burning.
He doesn’t shout. That would be too easy. Instead, the anger rolls off him in silent waves, the kind that doesn’t fade when the shooting stops. The kind that festers, sharpens, becomes something colder and more dangerous.
The pavement is freezing under my bare feet. My dress clings to me, torn and streaked with dust, a reminder of just how far out of place I am in this world of guns and blood. I stand as straight as I can manage, arms wrapped tight around my ribs, chin lifted. If I cower now, I’ll shatter for good.
Rostya’s eyes burn in the dark, fixed on me with a heat that almost hurts. There’s no softness, no hint of the man who let me see his scars in firelight. Just the Bratva wolf, jaws bared.
He takes a single step forward. Slow, deliberate. Every muscle in my body coils, waiting for pain, for rage, for whatever sentence he’s decided I deserve.
The air between us crackles, raw, electric, impossibly taut. I force myself to meet his gaze, even as fear claws up my throat, even as my body screams to look away, to drop my eyes and beg. I won’t. I can’t. Whatever comes next, I’ll face it standing.
He stops a breath away, close enough that I feel the heat of his fury, the weight of his disappointment. Close enough that there’s nowhere left to run.
For a long, blistering moment, neither of us speaks. The night hums with the memory of gunfire, of what nearly happened, of what still might. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
He lifts a hand, slow, knuckles white with restraint. I brace for the verdict—his judgment, his wrath, whatever form it takes.
Nothing—not pleading, not lies, not silence—will save me now. The storm is here, and I have nowhere left to hide.