32. DARIA
Chapter thirty-two
I nside the limousine, Svetlana sat across from me, staring out the window. The soft glow of the passing streetlights flickered across her face, highlighting the tension she hid well. She had risked everything to help me. And now, she was walking into the fire beside me, knowing full well that if Malinov discovered what she’d done, he’d kill her without hesitation.
I clenched my jaw and turned my attention to the city outside, forcing my hands to stay loose in my lap instead of gripping the seat. If I got out of this alive, I would owe her more than gratitude. I would owe her a future where she never had to fear men like Yakov or my father again.
The limo glided toward the estate’s reinforced gates. The security was impressive, with seamlessly integrated biometric scanners. As the vehicle approached, the driver lowered the window and turned his face toward the sensor. It took only seconds for his identity to be verified before the system granted access. A soft mechanical hum followed, and the gates slid open without hesitation. Ahead of us, towering brick walls loomed, stretching into the fading daylight. Armed guards lined the perimeter, stationed at key points like statues, waiting for an excuse to kill.
The vehicle slowly wound around to the back of the estate, past the grand entryway lined with red carpets where high-profile guests were starting to arrive. We didn’t stop there, however. Instead, we went to a servants’ entrance that was hidden in the shadows—discreet and unassuming.
The limousine rolled to a smooth stop. One of Malinov’s men yanked the door open, and Svetlana stepped out with practiced grace, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her skirt before tucking her hands neatly behind her back. Her expression settled into polite neutrality, her posture impeccable. Without hesitation, she moved toward the entrance, her pace brisk but unhurried, seamlessly merging with the other staff entering through the service door. She didn’t look back.
I didn’t get the luxury of entering the house on my own.
Malinov’s men waited impatiently next to the limo. One seized my wrist, dragging me out before I could step out. The other clamped a bruising grip on my arm, his fingers biting into my flesh. So much for my father’s order not to mark me before I was given to my latest cruel captor.
“Walk,” one of them ordered.
I held my head high and did exactly that.
Keeping my pace purposefully slow, I moved forward. The stone beneath my feet was smooth and polished, gleaming beneath the dim light of the sconces. Once we stepped inside the house, I counted the turns, noted the exits, and clocked the positioning of every man stationed along the way. I carefully memorized everything—every inch of the place I could lay eyes on.
They pulled me through a narrow corridor, down a shadowy stairwell, deeper and deeper into the belly of the mansion. The temperature dropped the farther we descended. At the bottom, dim overhead lights cast a sterile glow against dark-paneled walls. As we walked down the hallway, the smooth marble floors gave way to rougher stone. Muffled laughter and the steady thrum of music seeped down through the ceiling.
A reinforced door waited at the end of the hallway. One of the men punched in a code on the keypad next to it. After a soft beep and a heavy clunk, the lock disengaged.
They shoved me inside, and the door slammed shut.
Silence.
I stood still, taking in the space.
Black stone walls, black marble floors, and recessed lighting that cast muted, eerie pools of gold on the walls. It wasn’t a prison cell. It wasn’t a guest suite. It was a space designed to break someone slowly—a mix between a BDSM playroom and a torture chamber. A shudder ran down my spine as I thought of those who had breathed their last breaths in this place.
I crossed the room, ignoring the unmistakable presence of cameras. Malinov was watching. He would expect me to react. To panic. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I stiffened my spine and toured the suite.
The space was large—too large for comfort. One open room, lavish and cold. To my left sat a massive bed, its carved headboard the color of blood, draped in slate-gray sheets that looked like they belonged in some billionaire’s penthouse suite. Straight ahead, a sleek kitchenette stood against the far wall, all black steel and sharp lines. Next to it stretched a wide wooden bar, the surface gleaming with imported liquor and crystal decanters, like some twisted invitation to unwind. A high-end entertainment system sat adjacent to it, screens dark for now but undoubtedly ready to play whatever sick thing Malinov chose.
But what truly turned my stomach were the other furnishings. Polished steel tables with leather restraints bolted to the corners. A rack of sexual implements made for a man who liked to cause pain. Hooks embedded into the walls. A padded bench that didn’t belong in any home theater.
This wasn’t a suite. It was a performance stage. And I was the one meant to unravel inside it.
And then there was the closet.
In it was a full wardrobe, meticulously arranged. Dresses. Designer heels. Silk lingerie in delicate pastels and harsh blacks. Leather harnesses. Chains.
My stomach tightened.
Had these been bought for me? Or had they been used by someone before me?
I moved to the bathroom. It was ultramodern, luxurious. A rainfall shower. A sunken tub. Enough high-end toiletries to rival a five-star hotel. But no windows—no windows in the entire underground tomb. No vents large enough to crawl through either.
I exhaled slowly. There was definitely no way out.
I walked to the bar, pulled a cold bottle of water from the fridge, twisted the cap, and took a slow sip. Then I sat, composed, and placed the bottle in front of me on the glass table, waiting patiently.
The lock disengaged with a heavy clunk. The door swung open, and several burly men strode in, positioning themselves on either side.
Then Yakov Malinov swaggered inside like he owned my soul.
Ugly. Cruel.
Fleshy jowls sagged over the collar of his tailored suit. His bloated frame pressed against the buttons of his silk shirt, the fabric straining. A thick scar ran from his temple down to his cheekbone. Rumor had it, he’d gotten it from a woman he’d failed to break.
I wished she had finished the job.
His men, built like brick houses, followed behind him as he moved further into the room. They remained silent, waiting for orders.
Malinov smiled. His yellowed teeth were too large for his mouth, and he was grinning like a predator who held prey within his jaws.
“Come to me.”
I did. Chin high, shoulders back. Confident. I knew what he expected—subservience masked as strength. Men like him loved a woman with a little fight in her, as long as they believed they could break her down to submission.
I stopped a step away from him. His gaze crawled over me, from my heels to my throat, before landing on my mouth.
A slow exhale left his nose. “You’ve grown into something exquisite, Daria.”
His fingers twitched. He wanted to touch me.
I waited quietly. It was a test. He needed to see if I’d behave.
He slid a hand under my chin, forcing my gaze to his. The stench of old cigars and garlic clung to his breath.
“Welcome home,” he said, chuckling darkly as his belly bounced. “I’ve waited so long for this day.”
I said nothing.
“You think you’re in control, don’t you? Refusing to show fear—or speak.” His grip on my chin tightened, twisting my head at an angle. “No matter. You’ll learn. They all do.”
He dragged his thumb across my bottom lip. My stomach churned, but I held still.
“The sooner you accept your new role, the easier this will be.” He let go, flicking his finger over his thumb. “I must say, recently you’ve been quite misguided, my dear. A soldier of Russia, one of the Kremlin’s best, throwing herself away on Ukrainians and Americans.” He shook his head. “A tragic waste.”
His expression darkened, shifting from amusement to something far worse.
“But don’t worry,” he continued. “I enjoy fixing what’s been broken.”
A slow grin stretched across his fat face.
“And I do love a little pain in the process.”
His men chuckled under their breath.
Malinov stepped closer to me, the heat of his body invading my space. “You thought you could turn against Mother Russia? Against the Tambovskaya Bratva?” He tsked , gripping my jaw. “What arrogance.”
I didn’t flinch.
He smiled. “That’s why I wanted you. Why I paid so much for you.” His thumb stroked my cheek while his other hand slid lower, pressing against my hip. “Strength is so much more satisfying when it shatters.”
His fingers dug into my flesh.
“There will be punishment, of course.” His grip tightened. “But I have no doubt you’ll survive it. You’re made for this.”
He tilted his head, the sick glint in his eyes sharpening.
“You’ll make a fine mother for my children.”
My stomach roiled, but my body remained motionless.
I forced myself to smile—a slow, reluctant shift of my lips.
Malinov’s fingers trailed down to my waist before he yanked me forward, his overfed frame pressing against mine. His mouth crushed my lips, wet and greedy. I let him kiss me.
I leaned in just slightly, rocking my hips against him in a show of compliance.
His cock hardened.
Disgust pulsed through me, but I masked it.
This was about control. He had to believe he was winning.
He tore his lips away, breath ragged and eyes glinting.
“You’re learning,” he murmured. “Good girl.”
I dropped my gaze, lowering my chin in the way he expected.
Malinov’s hand lingered on my waist for several hellish seconds longer before he stepped away. He turned to his men, grinning widely, clearly pleased.
“She’s smarter than her father gave her credit for.” He straightened his suit, smoothing the fabric over his stomach. “She knows how to play the game.”
The men smirked.
Malinov sighed theatrically, shaking his head. “And to think—Alexey feared she’d be a problem.”
His eyes flicked to me.
“I told him not to underestimate a woman’s instinct for survival.”
My skin burned where his hands had been.
But I didn’t let it bother me, because he had no fucking idea that I would never let him touch me after tonight.
Malinov lifted a hand and flicked his fingers.
The goon to my right grabbed my wrist.
I lashed out, but another set of hands clamped onto my shoulder, twisting me sideways. With a brutal shove, I was sent staggering backwards. My spine slammed against the rough, cold stone of the wall. Then the man spun me hard, shoving my cheek against the rock.
A hand wrenched my arm up, forcing me onto my toes.
Roughly, Malinov’s lackey yanked one of my wrists over to a metal cuff that had been bolted into the wall and locked me in place with a metallic snap. Then he forced my other arm wide—since the other cuff had been situated deliberately far away—stretching my ribcage and pressing my chest against the stone until I was splayed across the wall.
Another snap, and I was hanging there, my tiptoes searching for purchase. With both wrists secured, I was stretched so wide I could barely shift an inch in either direction—suspended like an animal on display.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He needed me pristine for the party, didn’t he?
But here I was, bound and trapped.
The door banged open again, and a man in an expensive tuxedo strode toward me, smiling as he rested a hand on my shoulder—as if seeing a woman in a formal gown strung up against a wall was just another day at the office. But this man wasn’t a soldier or a brute. He was a professional—a doctor, perhaps?
He set a black medical kit on the nearby table and unzipped it. Inside was an array of medical instruments and supplies that gleamed ominously in the dim light. Fastidiously, he laid out some sterile swabs, a sleek injector, and a small metallic device no larger than a vitamin capsule.
Fuck! What was Malinov about to do to me?
Implant? Tracker?
Malinov always played with his food before he devoured it.
I yanked at the cuffs, but Malinov’s thug pressed into my back, locking me in place.
A dry chuckle slithered into my ear.
“Ah, Daria,” Malinov murmured, amused. “You didn’t think I’d trust you, did you?”
The doctor stepped up next to me and raised a gloved hand, wiping down the back of my upper arm, just above the triceps, with alcohol. The injector’s needle punched deep. This was followed by a click and a cold burst under my skin. The placement was deliberate. It was hidden from immediate sight, nestled in the muscle, where removal would be difficult without precision.
The bastard had implanted something in me!
After the doctor dabbed at the minor wound with a cotton pad, he stepped back and packed his kit without saying a word. He didn’t need to speak. His job was done.
Malinov stalked forward and trailed his fingers down my spine, tracing the rigid tension in my muscles. “You may be tough, my dear, but even the strongest bodies are nothing against the right poison.”
He wrapped an arm around my waist and grabbed me between the legs, pressing his obese body into me as his breath soured the air beside my ear.
“The MediVex subdermal delivery device is a beautiful little thing, isn’t it?” He squeezed me tighter to him. “A simple tap on my phone, and within ten seconds, a neurotoxin twice as potent as tetrodotoxin floods your bloodstream. Your diaphragm paralyzes first, locking your lungs. Then your heart follows. A painless death? No, no, my dear. You’ll remain conscious the entire time, feeling every second as your body betrays you.”
I clenched my jaw, forcing my breathing to remain steady.
He chuckled, gliding his hand up my chest to my throat. There, his long fingers wrapped around me.
I refused to react.
“Removal?” His grip tightened beneath my jaw until he was just shy of cutting off air. “Impossible. Two microbarbs are anchored into the tissue, locking it in place. Any attempt to rip it out?” He laughed, low and smug. “The compression sensor detects tampering, triggering an automatic release. Just a nick. Just a misstep. And then—”
He snapped his fingers beside my ear.
I stared ahead, unflinching.
His laughter crawled against my skin. “This guarantees you will obey me, because now, my beautiful little warrior, I own you.”
The burning rage in my blood made it impossible to stay still, and I could barely mask my disgust when his hard dick pressed against my ass.
Malinov’s head jerked forward. His teeth sank into the back of my neck. Just as quickly, he was gone, leaving behind a sting. “A little love bite,” he said.
“Lovely,” he purred, dragging his tongue over the spot where his teeth had been. “You were made to be worshipped, weren’t you?”
He slid his hand down my arm, tracing the curve of my waist, then moved it along the length of my thigh where the dress slit exposed skin.
The fabric of my dress lifted as his palm skimmed the bare skin of my ass.
He let out a dark hum of approval. “Mmm. Flawless.”
His fingers moved across and then lower down my other thigh.
They stopped.
Followed by a slow, measured tsk tsk tsk .
Malinov’s fingers brushed against the strap of my combat knife.
Another tsk .
“Oh, Daria,” he murmured, amusement curling around every syllable. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find it?”
The room filled with laughter.
Malinov unhooked the strap and then sheathed the knife with ease. He held up the blade for his men to see. “You are a strong-willed little thing,” he mused, spinning the knife between his fingers. “Like a wild stallion, bucking and fighting against the reins.”
He pressed the blade under my chin.
“And you know how I like breaking wild things.”
I spat a curse under my breath.
His men laughed again.
Malinov grinned and pulled away, dragging the knife’s edge along my jaw and down my throat—just enough to intimidate, not enough to break the skin.
The door slammed open again.
At the same time, a scream tore through the air, raw and desperate, before breaking into a ragged sob.
I struggled so hard to turn it hurt.
I knew that voice.
No!
The metal cuffs dug into my wrists as I twisted against them. I yanked, wrenched, trying to force my head around, desperate to see, my shoulders screaming in protest.
Boots scuffled as a struggle ensued. Then there was a harsh smack followed by a whimper.
Not her. Not her.
I fought harder—just enough to see a form being dragged into the room between two men.
A mess of dark hair. A black and white servant’s dress.
Svetlana!
A sharp breath shot through my nose. My heart slammed against my ribs.
Her wide, frantic eyes locked onto mine, and terror cracked through me like lightning.
Two of Malinov’s men dragged her closer to me. Her hands clawed at the arms holding her.
“No—please,” she choked, her breath shuddering. “Please—I did nothing!”
Malinov’s men moved toward me and unlocked the cuffs. My arms dropped, fire racing through my shoulders as blood surged back into my hands.
I’d seen men burned alive, women killed in the street, children screaming for parents who would never return. I’d witnessed every horror imaginable. But this—this cracked open something in me I thought had turned to stone.
Not her!
I lurched forward, preparing to strike, but Malinov grabbed me by the back of the neck and wrenched me to him.
“You thought you could make a fool of me?” he bellowed. “You and your little rat?”
The bastards holding Svetlana threw her onto the floor, and she landed in a heap, struggling to lift herself up onto her knees.
“I don’t know anything!” she gasped. “Please—”
Malinov squeezed the nape of my neck, hard enough to make my spine scream.
“She gave you the knife,” he hissed. “She put a weapon in your hands to kill me.”
Svetlana’s breath hitched. “No, I—”
“Don’t lie,” Malinov snapped. “You lived by the sword, girl. So shall you die by it.”
I lunged, but hands clamped down on my arms, dragging me back. “Malinov—”
He ignored me and turned, tossing the blade to one of his men.
“Do it.”
Svetlana thrashed, her cries becoming more desperate. “No, please—”
The man grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head back.
The blade flashed, slicing her from ear to ear.
A wet, gurgling sound filled the room. Svetlana’s body spasmed, then went still.
A feral scream tore from my throat.
Her head lolled back, her eyes unseeing. Her body folded, crumpling onto the cold floor. Blood spread in a slow, pooling wave, creeping toward my feet.
Malinov slid an arm around my waist, tugging me close as if we were lovers. My body didn’t move. I wasn’t sure it could.
His lips brushed my ear. “It’s time to greet our guests.”
He turned me toward the door with a satisfied hum. “Put on your best face now. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking something is out of place, would we?”
Numbness seeped into my bones. My legs moved, but my mind refused to follow.
Svetlana’s body. The blood.
I forced my gaze away from her.
She would not die for nothing.
In a daze, I was led up to the ballroom. Music pulsed through the grand hall while we weaved our way through the crowd of Russia’s elite. Chandeliers bathed the ballroom in a warm golden light. The scent of champagne, caviar, and perfume wafted through the air, layered over fresh flowers. Roses. Lilies. Peonies. The decorators had done a spectacular job. Beauty draped over the grotesque—a gilded illusion.
Almost immediately after we arrived, the receiving line began, and Malinov drew me close. One by one, guests approached, offering pleasantries. I smiled. I spoke. My mouth formed practiced words as I recalled personal details from Svetlana’s notes.
Svetlana…
I locked the thought away.
An hour passed. More guests. More smiles. My head spun, but I stayed steady on my feet. Holding firm to my resolution to escape, despite the poison in my arm, I scanned the room furtively, noting every exit, every guard’s placement, every possible way out.
A server approached, extending a silver tray.
Glistening on a small porcelain plate was a wobbling slice of aspic, slivers of pale fish trapped in a translucent, quaking gelatinous prison.
The stench of brine and fish oil hit first—pungent and cloying. Underneath it was a dull undertone of vinegar that curled in my nose.
I started to shake my head, but Malinov’s grip tightened. “You will eat.”
I took the plate and cocktail fork, keeping my hand steady even as my stomach twisted. The gelatin trembled. The first bite slithered against my tongue—cold, slimy, and thick with the essence of rotting fish.
The foul taste crawled down my throat. My insides twisted, and bile rose.
I turned sharply, pressing a hand to my mouth and shoving past a nearby guest as I ran for the bathroom I recalled seeing on the way up.
Malinov’s laughter boomed behind me.
“Ah, my little warrior,” he mused. “Sensitive, aren’t we?”