Chapter 21 - Misha
I woke up from the damp coldness that surrounded me. It crept in slow and relentlessly, sinking into my bones until it became impossible to ignore. For a moment, I stayed exactly as I was, suspended between unconsciousness and awareness, letting the sensation settle before I gave it meaning.
Concrete. Metal. Restraint.
My wrists burned first, and I could feel a tight, unyielding pressure where they were bound to the arms of the chair.
My ankles followed, secured just as firmly, the position forcing stillness whether I wanted it or not.
I did not open my eyes immediately. I couldn’t.
They felt heavier than ever before, and my head hurt too much for me to ignore it.
My first instinct was to shout and panic, but even in this state, I knew it would not solve anything.
Right now, wherever I was, the only control was survival.
“Breathe, Misha,” I whispered to myself, trying to find my voice through the darkness.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
I counted the rhythm silently, grounding myself in something that belonged to me.
The air was damp and sharp with the kind of industrial chill that clung to skin and refused to let go.
Then I opened my eyes. The light overhead was harsh and singular, casting everything in stark relief.
The floors were plain concrete, and the room was characterized by exposed pipes that lined the walls.
There were no windows to bring in sunlight or alert me to what time of the day it was.
There was no softness either, and no exits within reach.
This was a room designed for containment, and I had seen many of these.
Except I have never been caught in one. I flexed my fingers subtly against the restraints, testing tension without drawing attention.
They were metal cuffs, and I knew perfectly well that, unlike rope, they were not temporary.
Whoever had brought me here had planned this whole thing properly, and they clearly expected me to try to run.
My gaze lifted when I heard footsteps, and the doors that kept me locked away from the world opened. My eyes landed on him. Anton Sidorov stood a few feet away, watching me with something that resembled amusement and satisfaction twisted into something much uglier.
“Well,” he said lightly. “There she is. Our star.”
His voice echoed faintly off the walls as if it were too loud for the space.
As if he enjoyed hearing himself talk and knowing him, I didn’t even doubt it.
I said nothing and continued to stare at him blankly.
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his gaze dragging over me in open assessment.
It was not hunger but calculation instead.
As if bringing me here had been his plan all along, and he was finally successful.
“I was beginning to wonder how long you would pretend to be asleep,” he added.
“I wasn’t pretending,” I replied, my voice steady despite the dryness in my throat. “I was thinking.”
That earned me a small smile.
“I believe that,” he said.
He began to circle me then, unhurried, hands clasped loosely behind his back as if this were some casual meeting rather than what it actually was.
“Do you know,” he continued, “I almost admire you?”
I tracked him with my eyes, not my head.
His movements were small and controlled as if he were entirely too sure of his body.
Despite that, I could tell that this man had never fought with anyone physically before.
He didn’t have the hands or the mind or the agility for it.
He was just a boss, running the ring with his orders while his minions did the work for him.
If my hands and legs were untied, I would be able to take him down right now.
“That feels like a waste of your time,” I said.
“On the contrary,” he murmured. “You see a Chernykh princess walking into my operation, convinced she could dismantle something that has functioned profitably for years…”
He stopped in front of me again, tilting his head slightly.
“It’s… impressive.”
I held his gaze. Unflinching.
“Then you should be worried,” I said.
His smile widened.
“I would be,” he replied, “if you had succeeded.”
Silence stretched between us for a moment, thick but not suffocating.
I let it sit so he could continue talking. Men like him always did. He moved again, pacing slowly now, his voice taking on a conversational tone that made everything he was saying even worse.
“Do you have any idea how large this network is?” he asked. “How many shipments move through it in a month? How many people do we have? How much money do we make? How the world works for us and around us?”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t need me to. I already knew he would continue asking questions and answering them all by himself. That was the problem with men like him: they just needed an audience to listen because that was how unfulfilled and unhappy they were with the lives they lived.
“Hundreds,” he said anyway. “Thousands, if we count redistribution. We have clients spreading across continents and politicians who were paid off before they even realized what they’re protecting. We have entire ports operating under adjusted priorities that only benefit us.”
Each word landed like confirmation and proof. Like everything I had suspected, it was laid out without hesitation.
“Did you really think,” he continued, glancing back at me, “that passion and a small team of women could collapse something like that? Something that big?”
I let out a quiet breath.
“Yes,” I said simply.
That stopped him just for a second, but then he laughed as if I was making a joke.
His laugh sounded soft and genuine, which was quite an indication of his self-confidence.
He truly believed he had put an end to all of it.
To me and my mission. And he thought he had me here forever, and I would never be able to escape.
He wouldn’t divulge this information before me otherwise.
“You do have an uncanny amount of confidence for someone in handcuffs,” he said. “I admire that.”
My wrists shifted again, subtly testing the give in the metal. There was nothing. They were secure and well bolted. Which only meant I would have to find another way. He stepped closer this time, stopping just within my space, his presence deliberate.
“You caused problems,” he added. “You caused disruptions in our network which were enough to get attention and enough to make this necessary.”
His hand gestured vaguely around the room. “Congratulations, but please remember I didn’t want this to happen. You brought this on yourself with your headstrong behavior and stupidity.”
I met his gaze without hesitation. “So kidnapping me is the solution to all of your problems?”
His eyes sharpened slightly at that, something colder slipping through the amusement.
“No,” he agreed.
I leaned back slightly in the chair, as much as the restraints allowed, letting my expression settle into something almost bored.
“Then what is the plan?” I asked. “Because this feels inefficient.”
That earned me another look, which was much longer and more assessing this time.
“You’re very calm,” he noted.
“I don’t see the benefit of panic,” I replied.
“Most people would panic in a situation such as this.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.”
He moved again, slower now, more deliberate.
“And you’re not just a Chernykh anymore, are you?” he added.
My focus sharpened. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Rumors travel fast in our world, Misha,” he continued, watching me carefully now. “Even across oceans. Surely you must know that? Given that you were born in this world.”
I didn’t react or give him anything that might be used as evidence to confirm his assumption. But he saw it anyway. The smallest shift in my expression and the tension in my shoulders. His smile returned, much wider this time.
“Kliment Romanov,” he said, almost thoughtfully. The name settled into the room like a weight. “He seems rather invested in you, don’t you think so?”
My pulse didn’t change, and my breathing didn’t shift outwardly, but something inside me tightened.
Despite that, I was not going to let him see it.
I knew exactly what all of this world. Connections to powerful men in the Bratva world were beneficial but dangerous at the same time because they always had enemies.
And Sidorov and Kliment were definitely enemies.
“You’re mistaken,” I said evenly.
“Am I?”
He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering.
“Because from where I stand,” he murmured, “your value in my eyes and the eyes of our several different buyers has certainly multiplied with just this one little detail. Sure, you were valuable as a Chernykh, but do you know how many people in Russia hate the Romanovs? Do you know just how valuable you are to them now?”
There it was. None of this was about power or leverage, but in Sidorov’s and Volkov’s world, everything was about value.
That was all they calculated and measured.
I immediately knew what all of it meant.
They wanted to sell me off. The word formed before I could stop it, and my stomach dropped, but not from fear of pain or the situation itself, but from the clarity in his tone.
This wasn’t personal. This was business.
“The symbolism alone,” he continued, almost amused, “will fetch a record price.”
For a fraction of a second, something cold and sharp clawed up my spine, but I forced it down immediately. Locked it away before it could reach my expression. I didn’t have the time for this. Any of this.
“You’re underestimating what happens next,” I said instead, my voice calm, deliberate.
“Oh?” he prompted.
“My brothers and Kliment will burn Miami down to ashes looking for me, especially now that they know that you have me. Do you seriously think you can kidnap a Chernykh, threaten to sell her off, and live to see the day?”
I held his gaze.
That finally got me a real reaction from him, but where I had expected fear, tension, or concern, I got laughter instead. Completely unrestrained laughter as if I had just cracked the joke of the century.
“Oh, Misha, you are so na?ve. We are not in Miami anymore, my darling,” he said. “Did you seriously think I would keep you there, just waiting for your brothers to come get us?’
The words hit harder than anything else he had said.
We were not in Miami, which meant this had escalated much further than I could have imagined.
I was no longer reachable in the ways I had planned for which meant escaping would not be easy either.
My mind moved instantly, recalculating, shifting, and adjusting, but I felt lost, even if I didn’t allow Sidorov to see it.
“Where are we?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He smiled slow and satisfied. “Saint Petersburg.”
My world tilted internally as I realized we were directly on Volkov’s territory.
For half a second, horror brushed the edges of my mind, distancing me from my own self.
It felt as if everything I had hoped for and accounted for was suddenly gone.
Just like that. I felt it rise, sharp and immediate.
But then I crushed it. Because fear was a luxury I could not afford.
Because the reaction was information, and I would not give him that. So I inhaled slowly and let it out.
“In that case, you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life, Sidorov,” I said quietly.
His brow lifted slightly. “Have I? How so?”
“Yes.” I met his gaze again, steady, unyielding.
“Because now, you’ve brought me somewhere that Kliment knows better than you ever will.
And you were right, he is a little more invested in me than someone usually should be, which only means he will come back stronger and angrier, and that is not going to be very good for you. ”
Something flickered in his eyes then. It was not doubt but something closer to irritation. Good. That meant it mattered.
“You are assuming he will be able to find you,” he said.
“He will.” There was no hesitation or uncertainty in my voice. It was just a plain, simple fact.
He studied me for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether I believed that, and I did. Completely, because I knew Kliment and I had seen what he became when something mattered. And this mattered.
“Confidence again,” he said finally. “I see.”
“I thought you admired that.”
“I do,” he replied. “Up to a point.”
He straightened slightly, stepping back, his expression settling into something colder.
“This time,” he added, “you have miscalculated.”
Maybe. Maybe I had. But that didn’t mean this was over. It just meant that the board had changed. Sidorov turned towards the door, already done with the conversation, already satisfied with whatever he thought he had accomplished here.
“Get some rest,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll need it.”
“For what?” I asked.
He paused at the door, glancing back once. “For what comes next.”
The door opened, heavy and reinforced, and then closed again with a solid, echoing finality.
The lock was engaged, and I heard two sets of footsteps exiting.
They paused but continued moving while I waited and counted the seconds in my head.
Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. And I knew he was finally gone, which only brought back the silence.
Real silence this time. I didn’t move or react immediately and let the stillness settle again, as my breathing evened out completely before I started.
I began testing the restraints, properly this time, with complete tension and pressure. The metal bit into my wrists, unyielding, secured too tightly to slip through brute force alone. Ankles were the same, and even the chair was bolted in place.
Fine.
My gaze swept the room again, slower now, more deliberate.
There was just one door and no visible windows, and the overhead light was the single source of light and had exposed wiring.
There were cameras at the top right corner with the angle slightly downward.
I sensed there were no blind spots, but the placement was not perfect either.
Good.
I shifted slightly in the chair, testing range of motion, mapping out what I could reach and what I couldn’t.
The pipes along the wall were too far, and the floor was clear.
There were no loose objects within immediate range.
Everything was clean. Too clean. I leaned my head back slightly, closing my eyes for a brief second but not to rest. To think.
I was in Kliment’s territory, and I was sure he was coming.