Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sophia
The cold water stings my swollen eyes as I splash it against my face again.
I grip the edge of the sink, counting my breaths. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The porcelain feels solid under my palms.
Through the thin apartment walls, I hear Marina's voice, sharp and protective.
Lorenzo called. Of course he did. My chest tightens at the thought of him on the other end of that phone.
The call ends with Marina's angry goodbye. Part of me wants to feel grateful that she's protecting me, keeping him away. But another part wonders if his calling means something. He wanted to come here. To see me.
I grab the hand towel, rough terry cloth against my skin. The fabric smells like Marina's lavender detergent.
A knock echoes through the apartment.
"Finally!" Marina calls out. "Pizza's here. I'm starving."
Right. She ordered food minutes ago, insisting I needed to eat even though the thought of food makes my stomach turn. I dry my face carefully, trying to erase the evidence of my breakdown. Marina doesn't need to worry more than she already is.
The knocking comes again, harder this time.
"Coming!" Marina's footsteps move toward the door.
I hang the towel back on its hook, straightening it twice out of habit. Mom always said a tidy house meant a tidy mind. If only it were that simple.
Something feels wrong.
The thought creeps in slowly, like ice water down my spine. Marina's footsteps stopped. But I hear no cheerful exchange with the delivery person.
Nothing.
I press my ear against the bathroom door. The apartment has gone completely silent. Not even the hum of Marina's ancient refrigerator or the neighbor's TV bleeding through the walls.
"Marina?" My voice comes out as barely a whisper.
No answer.
My hand hovers over the doorknob. Every instinct Lorenzo drilled into me during training screams danger. The silence isn't natural. It's the kind that comes before violence, the held breath before the strike.
But this is Marina's apartment. We're in Lincoln Park, not some warehouse on the South Side. The pizza delivery guy is probably just counting change right?
The doorknob feels cold under my palm. I turn it slowly, silently, the way Lorenzo taught me. "Never announce your presence," he'd said during one of our sessions. "Surprise is your best advantage."
The bathroom door opens without a sound. I peer through the crack into Marina's living room.
Empty.
The apartment stretches before me, too quiet. Marina's purse sits on the coffee table. Her phone beside it, screen dark.
My bare feet make no sound on the hardwood as I step out of the bathroom. The hallway to Marina's bedroom is only ten feet away. If I can just get there, get to what she keeps in her nightstand—
"Sophia, RUN!"
Marina's scream rips through the silence.
A gunshot cracks through the air.
My hand flies to my mouth, muffling the scream that tries to escape. The sound echoes in my ears, drowning out everything else.
I freeze for one heartbeat. Two.
Then I see her.
Marina lies face down on the kitchen floor. Her blonde hair spreads across the linoleum like spilled honey. A dark stain grows beneath her, seeping outward in a pattern I recognize from too many nightmares.
"Hello, little bride."
Daniil Morozov stands over Marina's body, his gun still raised. His pale eyes find mine across the apartment, and his lips curve into that smile I remember from the engagement party. The one that made my skin crawl.
"We have unfinished business, you and I."
I bolt.
My legs move before my brain catches up, propelling me toward Marina's bedroom. Behind me, Daniil's laughter fills the apartment.
"Where will you go, zayka?" His footsteps follow mine. "This apartment is so small. So few places to hide."
I slam the bedroom door and twist the lock, my fingers fumbling with the mechanism. The metal clicks into place, but I know it won't hold him for long.
The knife. Lorenzo's voice echoes in my head: "Always armed, tesoro. Even when you think you're safe."
I leap across Marina's unmade bed, my hand reaching for the nightstand where I'd set it earlier. My fingers close around the familiar handle
"I wanted to show you," I'd told Marina just some minutes ago, pulling it from the sheath on my thigh. "Lorenzo insists I wear it whenever I leave the compound."
She'd wrinkled her nose at the weapon, and I'd left it on her nightstand before heading to the bathroom. Before everything went wrong.
A gunshot explodes through the apartment. Wood splinters as the bullet tears through the door near the handle. I jump back instinctively, and the knife slips from my grip. It clatters against the hardwood and slides under the bed.
"No, no, no." I drop to my knees, reaching desperately beneath the bed frame.
The door swings open, hanging crooked on its damaged hinges.
Daniil fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking any escape route. The gun hangs loose in his hand, like he's not even concerned I might fight back. His pale eyes sweep over me, still on my knees beside the bed.
"Did you really think locking the door would stop me?" His accent makes the words sound almost musical, but there's nothing beautiful about the way he looks at me. Like I'm already his.
I push myself to my feet, forcing my spine straight. My legs shake, but I won't let him see me cower. "What the hell do you want?"
"Such language from Francesco's sweet niece." He steps into the room, and I back away until my legs hit the bed. "I want what is mine, zayka. What was promised to me before the Sartoris interfered."
"I'm not yours." The words come out steadier than I feel. "I never was. I'm married to—"
"A piece of paper." Daniil waves his gun dismissively. "A ceremony. These things mean nothing in our world without power to back them up."
"The Sartoris have power."
"Not here. Not now." He moves close. "Your husband isn't here to save you, little bride. No one is."
My mind races through the self-defense moves Lorenzo taught me, but they all require getting close to Daniil. Close to that gun.
"Why?" The question bursts out of me. "Why use these methods to have a woman who doesn't want you? What kind of man forces—"
"I don't care if you want me." His voice drops to something darker, more dangerous.
"Your wants are irrelevant. You were payment for a deal, collateral for an alliance.
Francesco understood this. Your husband understands this.
Even you understand this, or you wouldn't have run to the Sartoris in the first place. "
He's three feet away now.
"I'll take you one way or another, Sophia. You can come quietly, with dignity. Or I can drag you out of here over your friend's body. The choice is yours, but the outcome remains the same."
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. Somewhere under this bed is my knife. Somewhere in this city is Lorenzo. But right now, in this moment, I'm alone with a monster who's already killed my best friend.
I need to get him closer. Close enough to strike.
"You're pathetic." The words taste like acid on my tongue. "A real man wouldn't need a gun to handle one woman."
Daniil's eyebrows rise slightly, but he doesn't move.
I push harder. "No wonder Francesco thought you needed help. You can't even manage this without waving that thing around like a scared little boy."
His jaw tightens. Still not close enough.
"Lorenzo was right about you." I don't know what Lorenzo said about anyone, but that gets a reaction. His knuckles whiten around the gun. "He said you were all talk. That underneath all that Russian bravado, you're just another weak—"
He lunges forward, grabbing for my arm.
Now.
My hand flies up, smacking his wrist hard. The gun slips from his fingers, clattering across Marina's hardwood floor.
For one heartbeat, we both freeze. His pale eyes shift, the false civility vanishing like smoke. What stares back at me isn't human anymore—it's pure, undiluted evil.
He didn't expect me to fight.
His hand cracks across my cheek with enough force to snap my head sideways. White stars explode across my vision. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
Before I can recover, his hands are on my shoulders, shoving hard. I hit the mattress, bouncing once before his weight pins me down. Some hundred pounds of muscle crushing the air from my lungs.
No. Not like this.
My nails rake down his face, drawing blood. Four red lines bloom across his cheek.
"Bitch!" He touches his face, fingers coming away red. "I was going to wait until we were in my bedroom. Was going to tie you properly, like the dog you are." His accent thickens with rage. "But you pushed too far."
One massive hand wraps around my throat, pressing down. Not enough to kill but enough to make breathing difficult. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
His other hand moves to my waist, fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans.
"No!" I thrash beneath him, bucking my hips, trying to throw him off. My free hand claws at his face again, aiming for his eyes.
He jerks his head back, avoiding my fingers, and increases the pressure on my throat. "Keep fighting, zayka. I like it better this way."
The button of my jeans pops open. I grab his wrist with both hands, trying to pry his fingers from my throat, but he's too strong. The zipper slides down.
My knee comes up hard, aiming for his groin, but he shifts his weight, blocking me with his thigh. He yanks at my jeans, the denim catching on my hips.
"Get off me!" The words come out strangled, barely audible through his grip on my throat.
He pulls harder at my jeans, the fabric burning against my skin as he forces them down. I twist violently, using every ounce of strength Lorenzo's training gave me, but Daniil's size advantage is too much.
The jeans slide past my hips.
The cold truth settles over me like a shroud. This is it. Even if I survive whatever he's about to do, the girl who walked into this apartment will never walk out. Something inside me will die on Marina's bed, and no amount of Lorenzo's protection can bring it back.
My mother's voice echoes in my memory: "Stay free, baby. Promise me."
I failed her. Failed myself. Failed—
"Hey, bastard!"
Marina stands in the doorway, holding her stomach, Daniil's gun shaking in her hands.
The gunshot is deafening in the small room. The bullet punches through the wall inches from Daniil's head above the bed, sending plaster dust raining down.
He releases my throat, twisting toward her. "Stupid girl."
My hand flies under the bed, fingers scrambling across dusty hardwood. Where is it? Where—
Marina tries to steady the gun for another shot, but she's swaying on her feet, eyes unfocused. Daniil moves faster than someone his size should, crossing the room in two strides.
"No!" I rasp, my bruised throat barely producing sound.
He rips the gun from Marina's grip and brings the barrel down hard against her temple. The crack echoes through the room. She crumples like a marionette with cut strings, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
My fingers keep searching desperately under the bed. This angle I've positioned myself now, is perfect because I look like I'm sliding down and he doesn't look to care about where my hand lays. Come on, come on—
Daniil turns back to me, setting the gun next to him on the bed. Too far for me to reach, close enough for him to grab if needed.
"Where were we?" His hands move to his belt.
His belt hits the floor. The sound of his zipper follows.
I close my eyes, not wanting to see what comes next. My mother's face fills the darkness behind my eyelids.
I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry.
The bed dips as he climbs back on. His hand finds my throat again, not squeezing yet, just holding. A promise of violence if I resist.
I start searching again. My fingertips brush something cold. Metal. The knife handle is just out of reach, pushed too far back when it fell. I stretch, shoulder burning with the effort, trying to keep my face neutral as my fingers walk across the floor beneath the bed.
My fingers close around the knife handle.
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me. It starts small, just a tremor in my chest, then grows into something wild and unhinged.
Daniil pulls back slightly, his grip loosening. "What's so funny, bitch?"
I open my eyes, meeting his confused gaze. "You want to know what's funny?"
My hand comes up fast, the blade catching the light for just a moment before I drive it forward with every ounce of strength I have left.
The knife sinks deep into his groin.
Daniil's scream tears through the apartment, inhuman and raw. He launches himself backward, hands flying to the wound. Blood pours between his fingers, so much blood, staining Marina's white sheets crimson.
The gun. I need the gun.
I roll toward it, hand stretching for the weapon.
"You fucking bitch!" His voice breaks on the words.
I'm inches from the gun when his bloody hand closes around my throat. He slams me back against the mattress, his full weight behind it. Both hands wrap around my neck now, slippery with his blood, squeezing with murderous intent.
"I'll kill you," he snarls, spit flying from his lips. "I'll fucking kill you!"
The pressure is different this time. Before, he wanted control. Now he wants me dead.
My vision tunnels, darkness creeping in from the edges. I claw at his wrists, but the blood makes them too slick to grip. My legs kick uselessly, strength fading with each second without air.
The gun sits on the nightstand, might as well be miles away.
His face above me blurs, features dissolving into shadow. My hands fall to my sides, no longer able to fight.
This is how I die. Not from the violation I feared, but from fighting back.
At least I made him bleed.