Chapter 4
Sophie
The light was all wrong. That was the first thing I noticed—sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, warm and golden, nothing like the dim fluorescent buzz of my Tenderloin studio or the industrial glare of the storage unit. The second thing was the softness. Sheets that felt like liquid against my skin, the kind of thread count I'd only experienced in hotels where ABT put us up for performances. Expensive. Too expensive.
To begin with, I didn't remember. Just floated in that space between sleep and waking where the brain hasn't caught up to the body yet.
Then it crashed back.
The auction. The stage. The men. The grey dress and the lights and hundreds of eyes cataloging me like livestock. The explosion. The hood forced over my head, rough fabric against my face, stealing air and sight. Being thrown over someone's shoulder while bullets flew and people screamed. The smell of smoke and blood and something chemical. Fighting. Kicking. My voice raw from screaming.
And his eyes. Grey. Analytical. The way he'd looked at me on that stage before everything exploded, like he'd seen something I'd buried.
My chest went tight. I sat up too fast, and my bad knee immediately protested—sharp pain shooting up my thigh, the familiar ache that meant I'd stressed it. Again. I was still wearing the grey auction dress. It was wrinkled, slightly torn at the hem. My shoes were gone. Someone had removed them while I was unconscious.
The thought made my skin crawl.
I forced myself to breathe. The panic receded, and the room came into focus.
Massive. Maybe twenty by twenty feet. My studio could have fit in here twice with space left over. Exposed brick walls painted a soft charcoal grey. Dark hardwood floors that gleamed like they'd been recently polished. A king-sized bed with a charcoal duvet and too many pillows—I'd been sleeping in the middle, small and lost in all that space.
The furniture screamed masculinity. A leather armchair by the windows, big and plush and expensive. A mahogany dresser with clean lines and silver hardware. Everything was quality. Everything was chosen. Nothing felt accidental.
I stood, testing my knee. It held. Barely. I moved slowly, keeping weight on my right leg, scanning my surroundings for anything useful.
The walls held clues. Framed architectural blueprints, museum-quality, showing buildings I didn't recognize. The drawings were detailed, precise, beautiful in their complexity. Whoever owned this room appreciated structure. Order. Planning.
A chess table occupied the corner near the windows. Carved wooden pieces, probably antique, arranged mid-game. I moved closer. Black was winning. Three moves from checkmate if I was reading the board correctly. White king trapped, nowhere to run, black queen closing in for the kill.
I wondered if he was black or white in this game. If he played against himself or if this was a real match, frozen in time.
The dresser held photographs in silver frames. Three men who had to be brothers—similar bone structure, similar coloring, same intensity in their eyes. The one in the middle looked like the man from the auction. Nikolai Besharov. Taller than his brothers, leaner, with grey eyes that seemed to analyze everything they touched. Next to him, a massive man with a shaved head and dead eyes. On his other side, a younger man with warm brown eyes and an almost-smile.
Another photograph showed an elderly man with sharp blue eyes and silver hair. His face held the same bone structure as the brothers. Grandfather, probably.
I was in a family compound. Had to be. The Besharov compound. Which meant I was surrounded by soldiers, by security, by a criminal organization powerful enough to afford this kind of luxury.
I moved to the door. Heavy wood, dark stain, modern lock. I tried the handle.
Locked from the outside.
Of course it was.
My heart rate kicked up.
The windows. I moved to them, pressed my hands against the glass. Third floor, maybe fourth. Too high to jump. Even if my knee was healthy—which it wasn't—a fall from this height would shatter bone. I'd be crippled. Useless. Trapped in a different way.
The view showed tree-lined streets and Brooklyn brownstones. Early morning, judging by the light. Maybe seven, eight o'clock. People walking dogs. Someone jogging. Normal life happening while I was a prisoner.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass.
Someone rich had me. Someone powerful. Someone who'd killed the men last night to take me from that auction. I remembered it in flashes—the knife, the blood, the way he'd moved like violence was a language he spoke fluently. Professional. Efficient. Terrifying.
But worse than the violence was the way he'd looked at me on the auction stage. Before the explosion. Before everything went to hell.
He'd seen something.
I'd spent three years building walls, burying Little Sophie under layers of survival and self-sufficiency and sheer stubborn refusal to be vulnerable. Three years of staying big, staying alert, staying armored every single minute of every single day.
And somehow, in the space of thirty seconds on that stage, Nikolai Besharov had seen through all of it.
No. No no no.
I couldn't do this again. Couldn't let someone see that soft, small part of me that craved safety and structure and someone to make the world feel manageable. That part was dangerous.
Sergei's face flashed in my memory. The way he'd smiled when I was Little. The way he'd held me while he died.
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the window glass, felt the cool smooth surface, breathed slowly, named things I could see. Trees. Brownstones. Cars. Dogs. The sky.
I turned away from the window. Surveyed the room again. Looking for anything useful. Anything that might help me escape or defend myself or understand what the hell Nikolai Besharov wanted with me.
He'd bid two million dollars. Then Anton Belyaev had bid higher. Then Nikolai had started to bid again right before the explosion.
The Belyaevs wanted me. Wanted me badly enough to violate sacred ground, to murder Yevgeny Sidorov, to start a war with all five families.
Why? What made me worth that much?
The ensuite bathroom door stood slightly ajar. My bladder reminded me I'd been unconscious for hours. Basic needs didn't care about captivity.
The bathroom was all marble and chrome, the kind of space that belonged in luxury hotels or architectural magazines. Rain shower with multiple heads. Soaking tub deep enough to drown in. Heated floors warm under my bare feet—someone had turned them on.
I took care of basic needs quickly, hyperaware of being vulnerable even though I was alone, even though the bedroom door was locked from the outside. Old habits. Growing up in my father's world taught you that privacy was an illusion and safety was temporary.
I washed my hands with soap that smelled like cedar and something citrus. Expensive. Everything here was so damn expensive.
Fluffy white towels hung on heated racks. A silk robe in dove grey hung on a hook by the door, my size, like everything else in this place. On the counter, a stack of clothes: black leggings, soft t-shirts in grey and white, a hoodie in charcoal. All folded precisely.
I picked up one of the t-shirts. Felt the fabric between my fingers. Probably organic cotton or some boutique brand. The size tag said small. I was a small. The leggings were size four, twenty-five-inch inseam. That was my size exactly.
I set the shirt down. Moved along the counter. More toiletries in expensive packaging. Shampoo and conditioner, some French brand I'd seen in Sephora and never been able to afford. Face wash. Moisturizer. A hairbrush with natural bristles. A toothbrush still in its package, toothpaste that promised whitening and sensitivity relief.
Everything I might need. Everything chosen carefully. Everything a little too perfect.
My practical side kicked in. I started searching.
The drawers first. Looking for anything useful. A razor I could use as a weapon. Medication I could stockpile in case I needed leverage or escape options. Scissors. Tweezers. Anything sharp or valuable or potentially dangerous.
Top drawer: more toiletries. Face masks, sheet masks, some kind of jade roller I didn't understand the purpose of. Second drawer: hair ties, clips, a silk scrunchie that probably cost twenty dollars. Third drawer: feminine hygiene products, variety pack, like he'd anticipated everything.
Bottom drawer was locked. I tried it twice. Definitely locked.
Which meant whatever was in there was either very valuable or very dangerous. Probably medication. Possibly weapons. Definitely something he didn't want me accessing.
I moved to the medicine cabinet above the sink. Basic first aid supplies. Band-aids, antibiotic ointment, ibuprofen, acetaminophen. Nothing prescription. Nothing useful for escape or self-defense.
The cabinets under the sink were next. I knelt, careful of my bad knee, and opened the doors.
Spare toilet paper. Extra towels. A first aid kit—larger than the one in the medicine cabinet, probably for actual emergencies.
And behind the toilet paper, shoved toward the back like someone had hidden them but not well enough.
Children's bubble bath.
The bottle was purple plastic, shaped like a cartoon octopus with big friendly eyes. The label promised "tear-free formula" and "lavender vanilla scent for bedtime." The kind of thing you bought for toddlers or—
Or Littles.
My hands started shaking.
I reached deeper into the cabinet. Pulled out more items my brain couldn't process, couldn't accept, couldn't—
Soft washcloths. White with little yellow ducks embroidered in the corners. The kind Sergei used to buy me. The kind that felt safe against my face when I was Little and everything was too much.
A rubber ducky. Bright yellow, classic style, the kind that squeaked when you squeezed it. I squeezed it without thinking. The squeak was cheerful, innocent, devastating.
I dropped it. Reached further back. Found the last item.
A sippy cup.
Pink. With handles on both sides. The lid had a soft spout, the kind designed so Little ones couldn't spill when they were regressed and clumsy and needed someone to take care of them.
I stared at it. The pink plastic. The careful design. The way it was exactly the kind of cup Sergei used to give me when I was deep in Little space and regular cups felt too big, too adult, too hard.
My hands were shaking violently now. The sippy cup rattled slightly. I set it down on the tile floor before I dropped it.
He knew.
Nikolai Besharov knew what I was. What I had been. What I couldn't ever be again.
Little items. Comfort items. Things meant to make regression easier, safer, more appealing. Things designed to coax out the soft, small part of me I'd buried under three years of armor and survival.
I backed away from the cabinet. Couldn't look at the items. Couldn't process what they meant. My back hit the towel rack. The warm metal felt real against my spine. Grounding. I counted to four. Then again. Then again.
It didn't help.
How did he know? I'd spent three years hiding it. Three years staying big, staying alert, staying armored every single minute. I'd never told anyone. Never slipped. Never let anyone see.
But he'd seen it anyway. On that stage. In those thirty seconds before the explosion. He'd looked at me and seen the thing I'd buried deepest.
Memory hit like a fist.
Sergei taking me to a store in Manhattan. One of those boutique places that sold DDlg items, discreetly, expensively. He'd bought me a sippy cup almost identical to this one. Pink with handles. I'd protested—said I didn't need it, said it was silly, said I was fine with regular cups.
He'd smiled. Patient. Knowing. "It's not about need, it's about comfort. About letting yourself be small and safe."
I'd used that cup every day for two years. Until the night he died in my lap and I threw it away along with everything else that reminded me of Little Sophie.
My throat was tight. Eyes burning. I blinked hard. Forced the tears back. Couldn't cry. Crying was for Little Sophie and she didn't exist anymore. Couldn't exist anymore.
I shoved the items back into the cabinet. The bubble bath. The washcloths. The rubber ducky. The sippy cup. Pushed them toward the back, behind the toilet paper, tried to make them disappear.
Slammed the cabinet door.
It echoed in the marble space. Too loud. My breathing was too loud. Everything was too loud.
I stood on shaking legs. Moved to the sink. Gripped the edge of the counter. Stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Pale face. Dark circles under grey-green eyes. Hair tangled. Still wearing the grey auction dress that made me look like property.
"I'm not that anymore," I whispered to my reflection. My voice cracked. "I'm not. I can't be."
Little Sophie was dangerous. Little Sophie got people killed. Little Sophie had been in Sergei's lap, safe and small and completely unaware of the danger, when the bullets came through the window.
The lock clicked. I spun, heart slamming against my ribs, and pressed my back against the bathroom doorframe.
Nikolai Besharov entered carrying a breakfast tray like this was normal. Like I wasn't a prisoner. Like he hadn't bought me at an auction and locked me in his compound.
He was different in daylight. Taller than I'd realized—maybe six-three—with broad shoulders and a lean build that suggested strength without bulk. He wore dark jeans and a fitted black henley that showed he was strong, capable, the kind of body that came from discipline rather than vanity. His dark hair was slightly damp like he'd showered recently. Clean-shaven. Put together.
And handsome. Irritatingly handsome. Dangerously handsome.
I hated that I noticed. Hated the way my brain cataloged details—the sharp line of his jaw, the way the henley fit across his chest, the economical grace in his movements. This was my captor. My buyer. The man who'd killed three people last night and thrown me over his shoulder like property.
I shouldn't notice that he was attractive.
But my body didn't care about should.
His eyes were worse. Grey, piercing, the kind that saw too much.
"Good morning," he said in perfect, almost unaccented English. I thought I could hear the Russian underneath, but I could have been wrong. His voice was deep, controlled, the kind that never needed to be raised to command attention. "How do you feel?"
My throat was dry. "Who are you?" I played dumb.
"You know who I am. Nikolai Besharov," he said patiently. He moved further into the room, unhurried, and set the tray on the dresser beside the silver-framed photographs. "You're in my home, in the Besharov compound in Brooklyn. You're safe here."
Safe. The word made me want to laugh. Or scream.
"I'm a prisoner," I said flatly.
He turned to face me fully. Studied me with those analytical eyes. The attention felt like being x-rayed. Like he could see through the grey dress, through my skin, straight to the parts of me I'd buried.
"No," he said quietly. "You're under my protection. There's a difference."
"You locked the door."
"For now." His voice was too damn patient. Like he had all the time in the world and nothing I said would rattle him. "Until we establish some ground rules and I'm certain you won't do something foolish like try to run."
"Why would running be foolish?"
"Because the Belyaevs want you dead or worse." He said it matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather. "Every family in this city knows they violated sacred ground last night. The Settling has been neutral territory for fifteen years. What Anton Belyaev did—attacking it, murdering Yevgeny Sidorov, trying to take you by force—that broke every code we operate under."
I already knew this. Had grown up hearing my father talk about the old codes, the rules that kept the five families from destroying each other completely. Neutral ground was sacred. Violence there was unthinkable.
Until last night.
"But until the situation is resolved," Nikolai continued, "you're too valuable and too vulnerable to be anywhere else."
"So I'm bait."
"No. You're protected." His gaze held mine. "There's a difference, Sophie."
The sound of my name in his voice did something to my nervous system. Made my pulse skip. Made some buried, traitorous part of me want to trust him.
I shoved that part down hard. Couldn't trust anyone. Couldn't let myself want safety or protection or any of the things that got people killed.
"What do you want with me?" I asked.
He pulled out the leather chair—the expensive one by the windows—and sat. Giving me space. Putting himself at a lower height than me. Everything about his body language was careful. Deliberate. Non-threatening.
Which somehow made him more threatening. Because it meant he knew how to handle scared, skittish things. Knew how to make them feel safe enough to let their guard down.
I stayed pressed against the doorframe.
"Let's start simple," he said. "Tell me your real name."
"Sophie Andreeva."
"Sophie Volkov," he corrected. "Your father was Dmitri Volkov. Exiled from the Volkov family twenty-five years ago for stealing. Changed his name to Andreev. Worked for West Coast bratva operations until his death six months ago."
The blood drained from my face. "How did you—"
"I'm very good at research." His voice was matter-of-fact. "I know exactly who you are, and more importantly, I know the Belyaevs know."
"And what will you do with that information?" I asked.
"Nothing."
I laughed. It came out harsh, bitter. "You bid two million dollars for nothing?"
"I bid two million dollars to keep you out of Anton Belyaev's hands." His grey eyes held mine. "There's a difference."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care if you believe me." He leaned back in the chair, relaxed, controlled. "It doesn’t matter in the slightest. Whether you believe me or not, here's what's going to happen, Sophie. You're staying here until the Belyaev situation is resolved. You'll have this room. You can lock it from your side if that makes you feel safer. You'll eat three meals a day. You'll tell me if you need anything. But you're not leaving."
"So I'm still property," I whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes. Might have been anger. Might have been hurt. It was gone too fast to identify.
"No," he said firmly. "You're under my protection. Whether you want it or not."
He stood. Moved toward the door. Stopped with his hand on the handle and looked back.
The morning light through the windows caught his profile. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw. The kind of face that belonged in old photographs of Russian aristocracy, back when bloodlines and power were the same thing.
"The breakfast is blini with fresh berries and Georgian tea," he said. "You should eat. We'll talk more later."
The lock clicked behind him. Softer this time. Almost gentle.
I stared at the closed door. At the breakfast tray on the dresser. Blini—thin Russian pancakes—arranged carefully on a cream-colored plate. Fresh strawberries and blueberries. Tea in a delicate porcelain cup, the same blue-flower pattern as the set I'd seen in the photos of what must have been his grandmother's kitchen.
He'd made me breakfast. Or had someone make it. Either way, it was thoughtful. Considerate. The kind of thing someone did when they cared.
The kind of thing that made it harder to remember he'd locked me in.
I moved to the dresser. Picked up the teacup. It was warm in my hands, the porcelain thin enough to be translucent. The tea smelled like earth and tannins and something almost smoky.
I took a sip. Bitter. Complex. Exactly right.
My chest went tight.
Sergei used to make me tea. Not this kind—he preferred English breakfast—but the ritual was the same. The care in preparation. The attention to temperature and timing. The way he'd hand me the cup and watch to make sure I drank it, making sure I took care of myself even when I forgot to.
I set the cup down too hard. Tea sloshed over the rim onto the dresser.
Couldn't think about Sergei. Couldn't compare Nikolai to him. Couldn't let myself want the care and attention and structure that had gotten Sergei killed.
I was alone. I would stay alone.
The breakfast tray sat there, waiting. The blini were probably still warm. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since—when? Before the auction. More than twelve hours ago.
I picked up a strawberry. Bit into it. Sweet and tart and fresh, the kind of quality you paid for.
Everything here was quality. Everything was chosen. Everything was designed to make me comfortable, safe, cared for.
Everything was a trap.
He came back an hour later. I'd eaten half the breakfast—the blini were good, I hated that they were good—and was standing at the window, counting cars, when the lock clicked again.
I turned. Nikolai entered without the tray this time, just himself and that controlled presence that filled the space without trying. He moved to the leather chair, pulled it out slightly, and sat. Giving me distance. Giving me space. Everything deliberate.
The care in his movements made me more nervous, not less. Like he knew exactly how to approach someone who might bolt or bite. Like he'd done this before.
I stayed by the window. Kept the room between us.
"Did you eat?" he asked.
"Some."
"Good." He settled into the chair, relaxed but alert. "Let's continue our conversation."
"I don’t want to."
"I found out a few more things about you," he continued quietly. “Your mother died when you were seven. Cancer. After that, your father raised you alone while working for West Coast bratva operations. He was valuable, but he gambled. Started losing. Started borrowing from people who don't forgive debt." He paused, letting that sink in before delivering the rest. "He also had a photographic memory, didn't he? Could track numbers, routes, operations without writing anything down. And you inherited it.
My hands were shaking. I hid them behind my back.
"That's why the Belyaevs want you. You're a walking intelligence database.”
Made him valuable. But he gambled. Started losing. Started borrowing from people who don't forgive debt."
"How do you know all this?" My voice came out rough.
"I told you. I'm very good at research." He said it matter-of-factly, not boasting.
I wanted to sit down. My knee was aching from standing too long. But sitting felt like giving up ground, admitting weakness.
"The Volkovs don't know you exist yet," Nikolai continued. "I haven't told them. Alexei Volkov is the current pakhan—your uncle, technically, though you've never met him. He has two younger brothers. Your cousins, if you want to claim the connection."
"I don't." The words came out sharp. "They exiled my father. They don't want me."
"Perhaps. But blood matters in our world." His grey eyes held mine. "Whether you like it or not, you're a Volkov. That name carries weight. Protection. Obligations."
"I don't want their protection."
"You might not have a choice." He leaned forward slightly. "Here's what I need to know, Sophie. What do you remember? About your family? Your father? His debts?”
I swallowed hard. My breathing was too fast.
“All of it.”
"Every name," he continued. "Every location. Every schedule, every route, every weakness your father ever mentioned while you were in the room. Even casual conversations. Even things he thought you weren't paying attention to. You remember."
"I won't tell them anything." My voice shook. "I won't."
"I believe you." His tone gentled. "But Sophie, torture isn't just physical. There are other ways to break someone. Chemical. Psychological. They would have found a way."
The thought made me want to throw up. The breakfast I'd eaten threatened to come back up.
"But they don't have you," Nikolai continued. "I do. And I'm not going to extract anything from you."
"Why not?" The question burst out. "You paid two million dollars. You have the same information access they wanted. Why wouldn't you use it?"
He was quiet for a long moment. His grey eyes studied me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
"Because some things matter more than intelligence," he said finally. "Like keeping promises. Like protecting people who can't protect themselves. Like making sure someone scared and alone has a safe place to sleep at night."
His words hit something deep in my chest. Some buried, desperate part of me that wanted safety. Wanted protection. Wanted someone to make the world feel manageable again.
No. Couldn't want that. Couldn't let myself need that.
"You don't know me," I said. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know more than you think." His voice was quiet. Patient. Dangerous. "I know you're brilliant. I know you're scared. I know you've been alone for too long. And I know—"
He paused. His eyes sharpened. Focused.
"I know you're a Little who's terrified of being small."
The world stopped.
My heart slammed against my ribs. My vision tunneled. Couldn't breathe couldn't think couldn't—
"Someone hurt you," he continued, relentless but gentle. "Didn’t they?"
"Stop." My voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm right, aren't I?"
"Stop," I said again. Louder. My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking.
He stood. Didn't move closer. Just stood there, giving me space, giving me room to run or fight or fall apart.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Sophie," he said quietly. "I'm not going to force you to be something you're not ready to be. But I need you to understand—I see you. Really see you. All of you. The brilliant woman who survived alone. And the Little girl who's scared and tired and needs someone to make the world feel safe again."
"You don't know anything." Tears burned my eyes. I blinked them back. "You don't know what it's like. You don't—"
"You're right. I don't." His voice was impossibly gentle. "But I want to understand. When you're ready to tell me."
The silence was heavy. Suffocating. All the things I couldn't say trapped between us.
"This room is yours. You'll eat three meals a day. You'll tell me if you need anything. I will provide anything you require."
He moved toward the door. Stopped. Looked back. His grey eyes held mine. "I'm a very patient man. I hope you’ll tell me eventually. What happened. About who hurt you. About why you're so scared of being small."
Then, devastating in its gentleness: "And when you do, I'll make sure you're safe enough to be Little again."
He left. The lock clicked.
I stood there, shaking, staring at the closed door. At the empty room. At the safety I couldn't let myself want.