Chapter 28
LILA
I'm waking up.
Actually waking up. Which means… I slept?
How the hell did I sleep?
The last I remember, I was sitting on the bed, staring at the concrete. Thinking myself into madness—about Ivan, about Dmitri, about whether love can exist in a world where everything's bought, sold, or broken. Hours of it. Endless loops of what-ifs and worst cases.
I didn't think my brain would ever let go. I figured fear would keep me wired forever.
But exhaustion doesn't care about existential crises. It still drags you under.
I sit up. My shoulders ache from sleeping twisted, my head stuffed with fog, and my throat's dry and raw. The candle on the side table has burned lower since I was last awake.
The red lace is still in place. Still a mockery of clothing. I feel stripped, even while covered. Exposed. Reduced to what someone wanted me to be.
I pull at it, though it doesn't help. There's not enough fabric to cover anything that matters.
That's when I see him again.
Dmitri sits in the same chair as yesterday. Same ugly red suit. But everything else is different. The smirk is gone, replaced by a meaner edge.
And then I see his neck.
Oh my God. His neck.
Bruises wrap it like a map of violence—purple, black, blue. Finger marks memorialized on his skin. He keeps rubbing them and wincing.
"Time to sail, printsessa."
His voice is off, like talking itself is punishment.
"What happened to your neck?"
"Your fucking boyfriend happened." Each word is sharp. "That's what."
Warm and impossible hope stir up in my chest. The stupid, dangerous kind.
The meeting.
Dmitri faced Ivan. And judging by his neck, judging by the rage still simmering in him, it went badly.
Which means Ivan knows. He has to know something. Otherwise, why try to strangle Dmitri?
Ivan's out there. Looking. Fighting.
Did he smell the perfume?
"I said, let's go."
He grabs my arm, fingers digging in hard. Harder than yesterday. Harder than necessary.
I pull back and look at him.
He's furious. The polished predator from yesterday is gone; what's left is pure rage.
"He almost fucking killed me yesterday," he spits. "Hands around my throat, squeezed until I saw stars. Made me realize something."
He yanks me toward the door. My arm screams. My bare feet skid on the floor.
"I’ve been too soft with you. Too… accommodating. Treating you like a guest when you're inventory. Property. A problem that needs fixing."
"He'll finish the job—" I force the words out, voice thin. "Ivan will kill you."
"So fucking what?" He stops and faces me, cold as a blade. "Either way, you'll be on a boat in hours. Moscow by the week's end. Then some oligarch's private collection—where Ivan Petrov can't touch you."
"He'll have your head before we even set sail."
Wrong thing to say.
Dmitri's free hand shoots out and grabs my jaw. He squeezes hard enough that I feel bones shift. So hard enough that tears spring to my eyes involuntarily.
His face is inches from mine. I can smell vodka, anger, and maybe—underneath all of it—fear.
"You cost me respect," he says. "My men saw him strangle me in that warehouse. Saw me gasping on the ground like a dying fish. Powerless. While he demanded to know where you were."
His grip tightens.
"Humiliation requires payment, printsessa. Compensation."
"Then kill me," I manage, muffled. My jaw protests in his hold. "Just… get it over with."
He releases me, shoving me back enough to remind me the world is still his to control.
"Death is too easy. Too quick. Too merciful for what you've cost me."
He starts pacing. Long strides, fists flexing, like he needs movement to process the rage physically. Like he needs it to keep from destroying everything around him.
"No. I want him to know you're alive. Out in Russia, getting used by whoever bought you.
Getting passed around. Getting broken." He stops and looks at me.
"And he has to sit with that knowledge for the rest of his pathetic life.
The love of his life—" he says it mockingly, spits the words "—so close yet so impossibly far away.
That's the price for betraying the Volkov family. "
He moves toward the door and grabs my arm again.
I pull back, planting my feet as much as I can on the smooth floor and looking him directly in the eye.
"So you admit this is love?"
He stares at me.
"Love." He says it like it tastes bad. "Overrated word for a thing that destroys everything it touches. Ruins empires. Makes smart men do catastrophically stupid things."
He's not done. Men like him love their own voice too much.
"Let me educate you about Ivan Petrov's love, printsessa. He loved his parents—they died in a car bomb that was meant for him. Boom. Gone. Because he was careless with who knew his schedule."
He takes a step closer.
"He loved his first lieutenant like a brother. Man named Sergie. Another Sergie. Brilliant soldier. Ivan's right hand for five years. Know what happened? Sergie sold him out to the Italians for half a million dollars. Betrayed him completely."
Another step.
"Everything Ivan Petrov loves turns to ash eventually. Everyone he cares about either dies or betrays him. That's not romance, little girl. That's a curse."
Is he right? Is Ivan cursed somehow? Is loving him a death sentence waiting to happen?
I think about his parents. The way he barely mentions them. The pain in his eyes the few times their names came up. The weight he carries that he never talks about.
I think about Boris. The man who taught him to shoot. Who stood at his father's funeral. Who Ivan had to kill for betraying him.
I didn’t even know about Sergie.
Maybe Dmitri has a point. Maybe everyone Ivan loves does turn to ash.
But I already made my choice on that balcony. I chose yes. Chose Ivan. I only ran because I couldn’t comprehend the dark truths behind his vicious beauty. But I’ve seen him now. All of him. And I know that I wouldn’t change a thing.
"Maybe." I meet his eyes, holding his gaze. "But he'll burn you first."
"The only thing burning is his empire," he says. "Once I convince the other families—once they see how weak he's become over you—I'll wipe Petrovs off Bratva history completely."
He pulls my arm again, jerking me forward hard enough that I stumble.
"Starting with you."
I pull back with everything I have.
My eyes land on the side table. The candle that's been burning since I got here. Wax pooling at the base. Flame going strong.
Desperation does something to your body. Gives you strength you didn't know existed. Makes impossible things possible.
I grab it.
The hot wax burns my fingers. The metal holder sears my palm. I don't care. I just throw it as hard as I can at the Persian rug under our feet.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then the flame catches.
The old fabric goes up fast. Faster than it should. The fire spreads like it's been waiting for this moment.
"YOU FUCKING—"
The door bursts open before Dmitri can finish.
Guards rush in. They grab Dmitri and pull him back from the spreading flames. One has a fire extinguisher, but the fire is moving too fast now. To the curtains. To the furniture.
I watch it burn.
I can't help but smile even as guards grab me. Even as rough hands pull me toward the door. Even as I know I just made everything exponentially worse for myself.
I smile because fuck him.
The guards drag us both toward the stairs. Dmitri is shouting. Russian first. Words I don't understand but sound like curses. Then English.
"You fucking bitch! I'm going to sell you to the worst buyer I know. The absolute worst piece of shit in Moscow."
I say nothing as they pull me up stairs I didn't know were there. Stone steps. Narrow. Going up and up and up.
"Makes his girls beg for death," Dmitri continues from behind me, his voice ragged with rage. "Keeps them in cages. Breaks their fingers one by one when they don't perform. Has them for years. Decades sometimes. The ones who survive that long go fucking insane."
My smile falters.
"And when they finally die? Death doesn't stop the bastard. He's not done with them. Not even close."
"Ivan will find me." I throw the words over my shoulder. I don't know if I believe them, but I say them anyway. Anything to rattle him more.
"Will he?" Dmitri's laugh echoes in the stairwell. "Before or after this sick fuck breaks every bone in your body? Before or after you forget your own name? Before or after you're begging—no, screaming—for death and he still won't give it to you?"
I have no answer for that.
I can only focus on climbing. On breathing. On not falling apart completely.
The stairs end at a door.
A guard opens it, and night air hits my face.
Cold. Damp. Smells like lake water and fish. Like the parts of Chicago that normal people don't see.
The docks.
We're at the docks. Hidden right under everyone's noses.
Fog rolls in thick, coming off Lake Michigan in waves. Everything looks gray, muted, and unreal. Dreamlike. Nightmarish.
More women appear from different exits.
A dozen at least. Maybe fifteen. All wear variations of the same degrading lingerie. All with the same terrified expressions. Different ages. Different ethnicities. Different stories.
But the same fear.
The same fate.
A yacht materializes through the fog.
Massive. Luxury. A vessel the ultra-rich use for Mediterranean vacations. White hull gleaming even in low light. Multiple decks. Windows lit from inside, making it look warm and inviting.
It’s the perfect cover. Anyone watching would think we’re models heading to a photo shoot. Or rich people's entertainment heading to a party. Not trafficking victims being shipped to Moscow.
One of Dmitri's men approaches. He’s older with gray hair.
"I'll supervise the shipment personally, Boss." His voice is respectful but firm. "Stay here. Let things cool down with Petrov."
"No," Dmitri replies. "I'm coming."
He looks directly at me when he says it.
Message received. He's coming to make sure I suffer. To make sure Ivan never finds me. To make sure this punishment is complete and permanent.
The guards herd us toward the yacht, single file like prisoners. Like cattle into a chute. Hands on our shoulders keep us moving. Keep us from running even though there's nowhere to run.
The dock is empty other than us. No witnesses. No one to see. Just fog and water.
Dmitri boards first, then we follow, one by one, up the gangway. We pass crew members who don't look at us. Who've learned not to see what they're transporting. If they do, we’re objects, not people with lives and dreams of our own.
Dmitri’s hand finds my arm again as I step onto the deck.
"Can't have you damaged before sale." He squeezes hard.
"Need you looking pristine when buyers come.
But once you're sold? Once you're his property and his alone?
" He leans closer. Breath hot against my ear.
"I hope he makes you scream every single day for the rest of your miserable life. "
I don't respond. I can’t.
The reality is settling in now. Really settling in. Not only knowledge but understanding.
The fog. The yacht. The other women. The way the crew won't make eye contact. The way Dmitri is smiling despite his bruised throat.
This is happening.
This is real.
I'm being trafficked.
The word sits wrong in my head. Trafficking. That's something that happens to other people. To girls in documentaries. To statistics in news articles I scroll past.
Now it's happening to me.
I look back at Chicago.
The city lights are already disappearing into the fog. Distant. Unreachable.
Somewhere in that fog, Ivan is looking for me.
He has to be looking for me.
Right?