Chapter 2 #3
The world outside was blinding — loud and overwhelming.
And there was Ruslan, standing before the gate.
I felt hopeless... until several high-end cars drove in.
Men with powerful auras stepped out — six of them.
My brothers.
The ones my father had separated from us twelve years ago.
Six tall figures, exuding danger and authority.
Twelve years had passed.
But I recognized them instantly.
Dario’s steady gaze—older now, harder, but still searching for me first.
Ethan’s quiet intensity.
Luca’s crooked half-smile.
Marco’s squared shoulders.
Nico’s watchful eyes.
Vito’s controlled stillness.
They moved toward me in unison.
Not rushing.
Not crowding.
Just forming that same protective circle from childhood without even thinking.
For one fragile, foolish moment, I believed the nightmare was over.
Until the ambush.
We were already at the airport, approaching the plane that would take us to New York, when several cars drove in.
Black-hooded masked men stormed out with force.
They targeted me.
My brothers fought back, but they couldn’t stop them from tearing me away from their protection and dragging me off.
I remember Dario’s roar.
Then darkness.
Two more months in that warehouse.
Two more months becoming nothing but a vessel for a masked man’s rage and lust.
He never showed me his face.
Just hands.
Gloves sometimes. Bare skin others.
His scent—cheap cologne mixed with sweat and violence—clung to me no matter how hard I scrubbed. Even now, standing in this pristine mansion, I could swear I still smelled him beneath the cedar and cologne.
Knowing he escaped.
Knowing his men died in sprays of blood and screams while he slipped through some hidden exit—
It carved fresh hatred into me every time I inhaled.
The present snapped back into focus as Ruslan shifted in his chair.
He crossed one leg over the other.
Casual.
As if his hands weren’t stained with blood.
As if my life weren’t balanced on a knife’s edge.
“I’ve had enough of your hospitality, Dario Voss,” he said coolly. “Take your brothers and leave my house.”
The dismissal was deliberate.
Calculated.
I gripped Dario tighter, my nails biting into his sleeve. He glanced down at me briefly—checking, always checking—before lifting his gaze back to Ruslan.
“Let her spend one week with us in New York,” Dario said.
A plea wrapped in steel.
“I’ll bring her back myself. You have my word. It’s a plea, Ruslan—not a command.”
The room held its breath.
Ruslan’s fist tightened slowly until his knuckles blanched white beneath the blood.
“My wife stays with me,” he said.
Wife.
Possession.
“Unless,” he continued calmly, “you want war.”
Luca shifted his weight slightly.
Ethan’s jaw hardened.
Ruslan leaned forward, voice lowering into something colder.
“Unless you want me to summon every battalion I have in Greece. In Europe. Unless you want me to turn New York—and this entire stretch of California—into ash.”
The threat was not loud.
That made it worse.
“No mafia family in the States wants to taste the wrath of Ruslan Baranov,” he added. “I didn’t earn the name Greek Legend by playing nice.”
The title hung there.
A reputation carved in blood and fire.
He let the silence stretch.
Then, softly:
“For the last time... get out of my house. All of you.”
Something inside me snapped.
I broke away from Dario and rushed to Ethan.
“What deal did you make with him?” I signed frantically.
My hands moved too fast, fingers stumbling over each other.
Ethan’s eyes flicked away.
Guilty. Reluctant. Painfully honest.
I didn’t wait.
I turned and ran.
Bare feet slapped against marble as I sprinted toward the kitchen. The sound echoed through the cavernous space, sharp and desperate.
Someone called my name—Dario, I think—but I didn’t stop.
The kitchen gleamed under recessed lighting. Stainless steel appliances. Marble countertops. A rack of knives displayed like art.
I grabbed the largest chef’s knife within reach.
The metal was cold.
Solid. Honest.
When I returned to the living room, all six brothers tensed at once.
Ruslan stood up.
“Elena—” Dario started.
I didn’t hesitate.
I pressed the blade to my left wrist.
Hard.
The edge bit instantly.
A thin red line appeared, bright against pale skin.
Gasps. Shouts. Movement.
I pushed harder.
Pain flared.
Blood welled. Warm. Real.
It trickled down my arm in slow rivulets, dripping from my elbow onto the marble floor.
I mouthed the words slowly, clearly, making sure every single one of them understood.
“I would rather bleed out than stay here.”
Chaos erupted.
“Elena!” Dario lunged forward, but Luca caught his arm, stopping him from startling me into pressing deeper.
“Easy,” Luca hissed.
Ruslan froze.
For the first time since I had known him, he looked stripped of control.
“Put it down,” he said.
Not commanded.
Begged.
I shook my head once.
Blood slid over my fingers, making the knife slick.
“I am not your prisoner,” I signed one-handed, the other still holding the blade firm. “Not again.”
Ethan translated, voice breaking.
Ruslan shot to his feet.
The movement was so sudden the chair scraped violently against the marble behind him. For the first time since he had walked into the room, something cracked across his face.
Not anger.
Panic. Raw. Unfiltered.
“Stop.”
His voice cut through the space like a gunshot.
I didn’t hesitate.
I pressed the blade harder against my wrist.
Pain exploded up my arm.
Red dripped onto the white marble in heavy, uneven drops.
The room seemed to lurch around me.
Ruslan’s gaze locked onto my wrist.
“Fine!” he barked suddenly, the word ripping from him as if dragged out by force. “You can go with them.”
I blinked.
The words hit harder than the knife ever had.
He agreed?
Just like that?
I had expected resistance. Threats. Another display of power. Another attempt to trap me inside this house with contracts and control.
Not surrender.
Not so quickly.
He shifted his attention to Dario.
For a long second, something passed between them.
It wasn’t spoken.
It wasn’t visible to anyone else.
But I saw it.
Two men measuring each other.
Assessing leverage. Calculating consequences.
Whatever silent negotiation happened in that exchange remained locked behind hardened expressions.
Then Ruslan sank slowly back into the chair.
His shoulders were rigid.
His jaw tight.
His hands—still stained with blood—rested loosely on his thighs like he was forcing himself not to reach for me.
The moment his weight settled, I dropped the knife.
It hit the marble with a sharp metallic clang and spun once before coming to rest.
I didn’t even look at it.
I ran.
Straight to Dario.
My fingers grabbed his sleeve, trembling, blood smearing across the fabric.
“Let’s leave,” I mouthed urgently. “Now.”
I repeated it.
Again.
And again.
Dario nodded once—no hesitation.
He lifted his hand and signaled the others with sharp, precise movements that belonged more to battlefields than living rooms.
Move. Protect. Form up.
They reacted instantly.
Ethan stepped to my left.
Luca positioned himself behind me.
Marco and Nico flanked my sides.
Vito brought up the rear, scanning the room one last time before turning toward the exit.
They moved like a trained unit.
A fortress built around one fragile body.
As we approached the double doors, I allowed myself one breath.
Freedom.
Almost.
Ruslan’s voice sliced through the air before we reached the threshold.
“Should I kill your father?”
Every muscle in my body froze.
I turned slowly.
He was still seated. Leaning forward now. Elbows resting on his knees. Hands clasped loosely together.
But his eyes were locked onto mine.
“I need your consent.”
The words were deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous.
My father.
No.
Not my father. Not anymore.
He stopped being my father when he let me believe he was dead and left me to rot in a system designed to destroy me.
He stopped deserving that title long ago.
I lifted my hands.
My fingers moved slowly.
He is no longer my father.
I made sure the gesture was clear—even if Ruslan’s sign language wasn’t perfect.
I signed, “Do whatever you want with him.”
Ethan translated automatically.
I continued.
“Kill Harris. Kill the man who calls himself my father.”
My chest tightened as memories collided—his absence, his betrayal, his silence while I suffered.
“But remember this.”
I stepped forward one small pace so Ruslan could see my face clearly.
“None of it erases what you caused.”
The room was silent. “None of it brings back my baby.”
My hand instinctively moved to my abdomen.
The motion was subconscious.
Protective. A phantom instinct. “None of it stops the daily bleeding.”
My fingers trembled. “None of it removes the nightmares.”
My gaze sharpened. “None of it stops the way I flinch at every shadow.”
Ruslan’s jaw tightened.
“You sent me to prison,” I signed.
Ethan continued translating.
“You let me starve.”
“You let me bleed.”
“You let me carry your child while they crushed my body.”
Ruslan’s breathing changed.
He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t defend himself.
I kept going. “And then I was kidnapped.”
My throat burned. “Violated.”
The word tasted like acid. “Broken.”
My eyes burned now—but I refused to cry. “Over and over.”
Silence stretched.
It felt heavier than shouting.
I signed the final blow slowly. “Forget about me, Ruslan.”
My hands lowered.
I locked eyes with him. “I would rather be six feet under than ever be yours again.”
Ethan translated.
The words hit like bullets.
Ruslan’s face didn’t change immediately.
For half a heartbeat, it remained controlled.
Then something fractured.
Pain. Real pain.
Not the kind that came from wounds or bullets. The kind that came from loss.
I didn’t wait for his response. I turned away.
Dario’s arm immediately came around my shoulders—steady, grounding.
He guided me toward the exit without hesitation.
The others followed in formation.