3. Anastasia
3
ANASTASIA
P aris holds its magic in the small side streets.
At least that's what the concierge told me, his accent thick as he traced a route on my map away from the tourist monuments and toward the beating heart of the real city. I follow his directions now, savoring the narrow cobblestone pathways and buildings with their wrought-iron balconies dripping with flowers.
For three hours, I've wandered the Marais district, blending with locals at a small café, browsing boutiques where nobody treated me like Bratva royalty, visiting a tiny art gallery where the elderly owner spoke passionately about an emerging artist's work. Such ordinary pleasures, yet entirely foreign to my Moscow existence.
The jazz club still awaits, but I'm reluctant to end this solitary exploration—this unprecedented freedom to move unobserved, unchaperoned, unjudged.
Or so I thought.
The prickling awareness returns, stronger now—that unmistakable sensation of being watched. I've felt it since the hotel, initially dismissing it as paranoia born from a lifetime of surveillance. But I know better. My mother taught me to trust those instincts before she died.
Without changing pace, I scan my surroundings through the reflection of a darkened shop window. There—two men, keeping pace thirty meters behind. Their movements hold the distinctive cadence of men who understand violence intimately. Not French. The set of their shoulders, the force of their steps—Eastern European, almost certainly Russian.
Father's men? No. He would have told them to maintain complete invisibility. These men are making no effort to conceal their pursuit.
My fingers twitch toward my purse where a slender tactical knife lies hidden—another legacy from my mother, who insisted I never travel unarmed. "Beauty attracts predators, Nastya," she'd whispered during our secret training sessions. "Never be helpless prey."
Under a false bottom in my bag is a small gun—a legacy from my father who never shies away from violence.
A memory surfaces, vivid as yesterday. Mother in our private gymnasium beneath the Moscow mansion, dressed in workout clothes so different from her usual elegant attire. I was fifteen, gangly and uncertain, my body still transitioning from child to woman.
"Come at me," she'd instructed, standing relaxed in the center of the padded floor.
I'd hesitated, unwilling to charge at my own mother, the woman who embodied grace and refinement in our brutal world.
"Nastya." Her voice had hardened with unexpected steel. "One day, someone will come for you because of who your father is. Because of who you are. And I might not be there to protect you. Now, come at me."
Something in her eyes—fear, perhaps, or foreknowledge—had compelled my obedience. I'd rushed forward, expecting to knock her down easily with my teenage exuberance. Instead, I'd found myself flipped onto my back, the breath knocked from my lungs.
She had knelt beside me, jasmine perfume incongruous with the ruthlessness of her movements. "Again," she'd said. "And this time, think before you move. Calculate. Find my weakness."
Day after day, for years, those secret sessions continued. How to break a man's grip. How to use your attacker's weight against him. How to target vulnerable points with minimal force for maximum effect. How to scan a room for threats. How to move through public spaces with constant awareness.
"Your father believes a woman's only defense is the men who protect her," she'd told me once, as we practiced knife techniques. "But men can betray, can fail, can die. This—" she'd pressed the training blade into my palm, closing my fingers around it, "—this never betrays. Your awareness, your training, your own strength. These are your true protections."
I took the next right turn, deliberately moving toward more populated streets. The men adjusted their course, closing the distance with newfound urgency. Not good. I quicken my pace, mind racing through options. Creating a public scene would draw unwanted attention, potentially exposing my identity. Seeking help from Parisian authorities is equally problematic—the Markov name carries its own diplomatic complications.
I'm on my own.
The silver-eyed stranger from earlier is nowhere to be seen. For one irrational moment, I find myself wishing he'd materialized again, though I can't explain why his presence registered as potential safety rather than threat.
The next alley offers a shortcut back to busier boulevards, according to my mental map. I take it, heels clicking rapidly against ancient stones. Halfway through, I realize my mistake. The passage narrows, darkens, dead ends into a small courtyard with a locked gate. Before I can reverse course, heavy footsteps sound behind me.
"Prekrasnoye mesto dlya progulki, devushka." Beautiful place for a walk, girl. The voice carries the harsh consonants of Moscow streets, not the polished Russian of Bratva elite.
I turn slowly, measuring the distance back to the main street. Too far.
Two men block the alley's entrance, broad-shouldered and smirking with anticipation. Not random criminals—their stance, their confidence, the calculation in their eyes speak of professional training.
I quickly assess the tactical situation. Two attackers. Confined space. Limited escape routes. My mother's voice echoes in my mind: "Control your breathing first. Fear clouds judgment. Think geometrically—angles, distances, timing."
I mentally map the alleyway—three meters wide, brick walls on both sides, too high to scale. The locked gate behind me stands two and a half meters tall with decorative spikes. The men block the only viable exit. My knife is accessible but requires me to reach into my purse, telegraphing my intention.
"I'm afraid I don't speak Russian," I lie smoothly in French, adopting the posture and accent of a confused tourist. "Excuse me, I need to get through."
The taller one laughs, responding in heavily accented English. "We know exactly what languages you speak, Miss Markov."
So. Not Father's men, but people who know me. Rivals, then. Possibly Sokolov faction, given their territory overlaps with ours in Paris.
"I think you're mistaking me for someone else." I keep my voice steady, sliding one hand into my purse, fingers wrapping around my knife. "I'm Canadian."
"Canadian with Markov face," the second man says, producing a switchblade with practiced ease. "Your father takes from us. Maybe we take from him."
Ice slides through my veins, but I refuse to show fear. Fear paralyzes, and paralysis means death—another of Mother's lessons.
I analyze their positions. The taller one stands slightly forward, clearly the leader. The second, the one with the knife, positions himself to my right, leaving a fractional gap between them. They expect me to cower, to back away toward the dead end. Tactical error on their part.
"My father will tear your organization apart if you touch me," I say, dropping the pretense, voice hardening as I step into my true identity. "Do you really think he won't burn all of Europe to find the men who took his daughter?"
They exchange glances—a flicker of uncertainty. Good. Create division. Make them doubt themselves, doubt each other.
"Perhaps we just deliver message," the first man says, advancing slowly. "Show Mikhail Markov that his princess not so untouchable."
I pull the knife from my purse, the blade catching dim streetlight. "You're welcome to try."
Their momentary surprise gives me the opening I need. I move first—always move first, Mother taught—lunging toward the smaller man with my blade directed at his throat. Not to kill, but to create space, to breach their perimeter, to reach the street beyond.
He blocks my attack with trained reflexes, grabbing my wrist with punishing force. Pain shoots up my arm, but I'm already driving my knee upward, connecting solidly with his groin. His grip loosens as he doubles over.
Not enough. The second man circles behind me, arm snaking around my throat. I slam my head backward, connecting with his face. Something cracks—his nose or my skull, I'm not certain. My knife clatters to the cobblestones as he yanks me off balance.
"Bitch," he hisses in my ear, blood from his nose warm against my hair. "Now we really hurt you."
My mother's voice fills my head: "If your attacker is bigger or stronger, create leverage. Use their expectations against them."
I go suddenly limp in his arms, a deadweight. The unexpected shift forces him to adjust his grip, creating a millisecond of opportunity. I stomp my heel into his instep, twisting in his grasp, fighting with the desperate speed Mother drilled into me. My elbow drives back hard, finding the solar plexus. His breath leaves in a whoosh.
But he's stronger, professionally trained, and now enraged. His fist connects with my ribs, driving the air from my lungs in an explosive gasp.
The first man recovers, approaching with murderous intent. I assess my options with clinical detachment despite the pain radiating through my side. The second man's grip remains firm but his posture has shifted, weight now centered incorrectly. I prepare to drop my weight again, to twist and strike at his knee—when a shadow detaches itself from the darkness at the alley's entrance.
In one heartbeat, the two men are advancing on me. In the next, the newcomer is among us, moving with lethal grace that makes my mother's training look like a child's game.
My first assailant flies backward, skull connecting with the stone wall with a sickening crack. The man holding me releases his grip instantly, turning to face the new threat. Too late. Silver eyes flash in the darkness—the stranger from the boulevard—as he executes a precise combination of strikes that drops my second attacker to the ground, gurgling through a crushed windpipe.
Just like that, it's over. Fifteen seconds of contained violence, executed with chilling precision.
The silver-eyed stranger stands motionless, not even breathing hard, assessing the fallen men with clinical detachment. Meanwhile, I assess him. He is handsome, to say the least. And when I catch a longer glimpse of his face, it makes my heart jump in my chest. Wicked thoughts of that face leaning in to mine… those lips pressing against my own… startle me. I am a Markov, not allowed to give in to passing fancies.
Then those unsettling eyes lift to mine, and something electric passes between us—recognition of kindred darkness, perhaps. Or perhaps that lingering gaze on me means he is into me as much as I am into him.
"You're bleeding," he says, voice deep and accented with what I recognize as St. Petersburg refinement beneath careful neutrality.
I touch my temple where pain pulses steadily, fingers coming away red. "I've had worse."
"I'm sure you have." Something like respect flickers across his face as he retrieves my knife from the ground, examining its quality before offering it back to me, handle first. "Good choice of weapon. Poor choice of allies."
"They weren't my allies." I accept the knife, our fingers brushing momentarily. Unexpected heat blooms from that brief contact, startling in its intensity.
"Evidently not." He glances at the men on the ground. The first is unconscious, the second still struggling for breath. "They'll live. Unfortunately."
Rain begins to fall, fat droplets quickly becoming a deluge, typical of Paris in spring. Within seconds, my hair is plastered to my face, blood diluting to pink as it trickles down my cheek.
"We should go," he says, suddenly urgent, gripping my elbow. "Their associates will be looking for them soon."
I should pull away. I should thank him politely and return to my hotel. I should call my father and inform him of the incident. I should do anything except what I actually do: allow this dangerous stranger to guide me away from the scene, his hand firm against the small of my back.
"You know who I am," I say as we emerge onto a boulevard, rain sheeting down around us.
He flags down a taxi with imperious confidence. "Yes."
"And you know who they were."
"Yes." He opens the cab door, gesturing me inside.
"But I don't know who you are." I remain on the sidewalk, rain soaking through my dress.
Something like amusement touches his lips. "No. You don't."
"Why should I go anywhere with you?"
The rain intensifies, thunder rumbling overhead. He steps closer, close enough that I can see droplets clinging to his eyelashes, can smell the subtle notes of his cologne beneath the rain-washed air.
"Because whoever sent those men will send more," he says, voice low and intimate despite the thundering storm. "Because you're injured and need medical attention. Because your hotel is being watched." He pauses, silver eyes holding mine with hypnotic intensity. "And because you want to."
The last words hang between us, accurate in ways I refuse to examine.
"I have a secure location nearby," he continues. "You can clean up, make whatever calls you need to make, and I'll ensure you return safely to your hotel afterward."
I should refuse. Every instinct my father instilled screams to reject this offer from an unknown variable.
But my mother's voice whispers something different: Sometimes safety lies in the most dangerous places, Nastya.
Thunder cracks overhead, the storm fully unleashing its fury. In that moment of chaos, I make my decision, sliding into the taxi's backseat. He follows, closing the door on the stormy night.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he gives the driver an address in rapid, perfect French.
"My penthouse." His eyes meet mine, something predatory and protective warring in his gaze. "Don't worry, Anastasia Mikhailovna. If I wanted to harm you, I would have simply let those men finish their work."
My name in his mouth should terrify me. Instead, it sends an inexplicable thrill down my spine.
"You have me at a disadvantage," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."
Rain streams down the windows, transforming Paris into a watery impressionist painting beyond the glass. His profile is sharp against this blurred backdrop, jaw clenched as he appears to debate his answer.
"Viktor," he finally says, offering nothing more.
One name. A first step into unknown territory.
The taxi pulls away from the curb, carrying me deeper into the Paris night, deeper into mystery, deeper into danger. I should feel afraid. Instead, as the storm rages outside and this dangerous man sits beside me, I feel more alive than I have in twenty-three years of protected captivity.
Mother would understand. Father would kill us both.
"Viktor," I repeat, tasting the name, committing it to memory. "Thank you for the rescue."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Don't thank me yet, Anastasia. The night is still young."