4. Aurora
4
AURORA
I wake with a gasp, heart thundering in my chest.
For one blissful moment, my mind is blank. A clean slate without memory or pain. Just the soft unfamiliar sheets beneath me and morning light filtering through heavy curtains.
I turn towards the window, expecting to see the familiar sights of the Dragunov estate grounds outside. Instead, all I see is the Las Vegas Strip, neon lights now extinguished, glittering in the morning sun.
Reality crashes down.
I'm not home.
I'm at the Hermitage Casino & Resort. Specifically, Vyacheslav Potyomkin's penthouse.
He'd offered to put me in one of his guest rooms after my rescue. And I, desperate for a safe refuge, accepted.
The guest room in Potyomkin's penthouse is elegant and cold, all marble and gold. Everything about it screams wealth and power. The kind of place where deals are made, and where lives are bartered like chips at a poker table.
I sit up slowly, wincing as my body catalogs the damage. My hand reaches up to feel the tender flesh of my cheek. The skin throbs beneath my touch, and I hiss through my teeth. Kristofer's bruising handprint is branded on my face.
My hand drifts to my shoulder, and finds the angry crescent where his teeth broke skin. The memory of his mouth there makes bile rise in my throat. I close my eyes and shudder, remembering the sound of a belt clinking undone behind me.
If Potyomkin's men had arrived seconds later...
"He didn't." I whisper to myself, thankful for this small mercy. "He didn't."
My legs shake as I push myself to the edge of the bed, and I gasp in pain when I brush against the angry welts left on my breasts, hips, and thighs by Kristofer's sausage-like fingers as he squeezed and touched.
Outside the window, the fantasy world of casinos and excess looks so terribly normal, as if everything didn't completely fall apart yesterday.
"I'm safe," I tell myself, the words hollow. "I'm safe."
But what does safety even mean anymore?
Ruslan is dead.
My protector. My husband. The man who showed me what it meant to feel whole again.
Gone.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the tight knot of despair in my chest. Jamie Fields survived that terrible night seven years ago on her own. Aurora Castellanos found her way to Ruslan.
And now Aurora Dragunov faces a world where she belongs to neither the shadows nor the light.
There's a gentle knock at my door, but I can't find the strength to answer. After a moment, the door opens.
A slender woman steps in, and I recognize her instantly as Potyomkin's young wife. In the soft morning light, without her husband's looming presence, she looks different. Vibrant and alive in a way I hadn't noticed at my wedding.
"Good morning, I am Vera Tikhonovna Potyomkin," she introduces herself, her voice carrying a musical lilt. "I hope you slept well?"
"As well as I could," I manage, my throat still raw. "Given the circumstances."
She nods, understanding in her eyes as she approaches the bed. "Please forgive my Slava for his delay in coming to your aid. When he received your message, he wasn't sure it was true." Her gaze flickers to my bruised cheek. "But after he heard about the death of Ruslan Vitalyevich, he knew he needed to act."
"He's not dead." The words burst from me with unexpected force.
I can't accept it. I won't.
Vera's expression softens with pity. She sits beside me, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. Her wedding ring catches the light. It's massive and ornate.
And it looks impossibly heavy on her delicate finger.
"My Ruslan is not dead," I say again, my voice harsher than before.
"Aurora Markovna," she begins gently. "I know it's a difficult thing to accept. But you must accept it. Please. It's for your own good."
I study her face. She can't be older than twenty-three, with eyes that have seen too much. The gratitude I felt toward Potyomkin for saving me curdles in my stomach. What kind of man marries a girl young enough to be his daughter?
The same kind who keeps a bedroom ready for "guests" in his penthouse, I suppose.
"How long have you been married to your husband?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
Vera blinks, surprised by my change of subject. "Four years this winter."
Whatever gratitude that might've remained in me for Potyomkin vanishes in an instant.
Vera's eyes soften with something like understanding as she watches me.
"I know what you're thinking," she says quietly. "But Slava did what he did to protect me. That is just the way things are in this world."
"It shouldn't be." The words burn in my throat.
I think about Mikayla, about Stella and Sofia. About Tamara who was forced to marry Lev. About Vera who probably never had a chance to be a girl before she was forced to be a woman.
"No, it shouldn't." Vera folds her hands neatly in her lap, the precise movement reminding me so much of Mikayla. "But not everyone can be as lucky as you were."
"Lucky?"
"The way Ruslan Vitalyevich looked at you on the day of your wedding," Vera continues, her voice wistful. "Was the way I wish my Slava had looked at me on the day of mine."
My wedding…
The memory of Ruslan standing tall at the altar, his eyes softening when they found mine. The crown placed on my head. The vows we exchanged. The kiss that felt so real.
I blink back tears, but one escapes down my cheek anyway.
"Slava wants to talk to you," Vera says softly. "You should get dressed."
She walks to a nearby closet and slides it open to reveal a panoply of clothes.
"It's not fair," I whisper, more to myself than to her.
Vera turns, something fierce flickering in her eyes for just a moment.
"Of course it's not fair," she says. "But such is our lot in life as women in a world shaped by violent men."
Then, as softly as she came in, Vera walks out the room, closing the door behind her to give me privacy.
I slowly stand up from the bed, my body aching in ways I didn't think were possible.
Each movement sends sharp reminders of yesterday's struggle, of Kristofer's hands and teeth, and of how terrifyingly close my worst nightmares almost came true.
The closet Vera opened is filled with clothes for all sorts of occasions, ranging from casual to formal. All of them expensive brands without labels.
I select a high-necked sweater in a soft cream color that will hide the bite marks on my shoulder, and a pair of long dark slacks to hide the welts on my thighs.
As I dress, I catch glimpses of myself in the full-length mirror. The bruise on my cheek is turning a sickening shade of purple-yellow. My eyes look sunken and haunted.
"Ruslan isn't dead," I whisper to my reflection. "He can't be."
The attendant waiting for me outside has the same hardened look as most of the men I've seen in the bratva world: an impassive face with calculating eyes.
In silence, he leads me down a long hallway lined with artwork that must've cost thousands if not millions.
I look for Vera as we walk, hoping to see her gentle face among the stern-looking men we pass.
There's something about her that reminds me of myself—that I'm a woman caught in a life she never chose, playing the cards she was dealt.
But she's nowhere to be found.
We stop at an imposing door of dark wood, intricately carved with what looks like hunting scenes. The attendant raps sharply before opening it.
"Aurora Markovna Dragunov," he announces, stepping aside to let me enter.
The office is massive. All wood paneling and leather furniture, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. Vyacheslav sits behind a desk that could double as a small boat, his severe expression unchanged from yesterday.
And standing beside him, with her shoulders curved inward like a wilting flower, is Vera. Her eyes meet mine briefly, then flutter back to the floor.
The perfect, obedient bratva wife.
A fate that might have been mine if Ruslan had been a different kind of man.
"Sit, please." Potyomkin gestures at a leather chair across from his desk.
I lower myself gingerly, wincing as my bruised body protests the movement.
"I thought I would give you the courtesy of a good night's rest," he says. "Especially given everything that happened yesterday."
"Hmph."
It's all I can manage. The gratitude I should feel is smothered by the knowledge that objectively, he's not so different from Kristofer.
Potyomkin's mouth curves into what you might call a smile. But there's nothing warm about it.
"You are an outsider who has no idea how our world works," he says flatly. "Because your husband is dead, you have no right to expect anything from us." He spreads his hands on the polished desk. "In other words, I had no obligation to save you last night."
Potyomkin turns to look at Vera, who stands silently beside him, her posture perfect in her subservience.
"It was my wife who persuaded me otherwise."
I look at Vera with new eyes, keeping my surprise carefully hidden.
So this delicate girl who seems to fold in on herself whenever her husband is near, somehow persuaded one of the most terrifying man I've ever met to rescue me?
Perhaps I've underestimated her.
Beneath her demure exterior, there might be steel I hadn't recognized.
"She told me that by rescuing you," Potyomkin continues, turning back to me, "I now have a favor that I might be able to extract from the Dragunov bratva in the future."
The calculation is so cold, so transactional, that I almost laugh.
Of course. Nothing in this world is free. Not safety, not kindness, not even basic human decency. Not from the men, nor from the women.
But suddenly a thought occurs to me. If everything in this world is negotiable, then I have cards to play too.
"A favor?" I ask, studying Potyomkin's impassive face. I straighten my spine despite the pain shooting through my body. "Vyacheslav..."
I pause deliberately, mimicking what he did to me last night, waiting for him to supply his patronymic.
His eyes narrow, but something like approval flickers in them. "Vyacheslav Petrovich," he says after a moment.
"Vyacheslav Petrovich," I continue, proud that my voice remains steady. "What favor would you ask of the Dragunov bratva?"
He leans back in his leather chair, fingers steepled. "I know Ruslan's marriage to you was meant to deny the Dragunov bratva to Semyon and the Triads." His voice is matter-of-fact, as if discussing a business transaction rather than my husband's life. "With Ruslan dead, this becomes much more complicated."
My heart clenches at his casual mention of Ruslan's death, but I force myself to focus.
"Your marriage has already thrown much of the Vori into vehement disagreement," he continues. "And I would like to negotiate for greater influence should Gregor Belov be unable to hold the rest of the Vori together."
It clicks instantly. "You want the Dragunov bratva's guns."
Vera's gaze flicks to me, surprise evident in her eyes before she lowers them again.
"But you're in Las Vegas," I point out, gesturing toward the window. "If you want guns, you can just go buy them yourself."
Potyomkin's lips curve into that cold smile again. "You see exactly what I want without me having to mention it. Very good." He nods approvingly. "The beauty of the Dragunov bratva's organization is that Ruslan's production company is what allows advanced weapons to be smuggled in."
He leans forward, his voice dropping slightly. "Without a next of kin, and to keep bratva and legitimate businesses separate, Ruslan's production company will go to his wife in the event of his death."
The implication is clear.
"Are you asking me to be the weapons smuggler of choice for the Vori ?" I ask slowly. "Or just for you?"
Potyomkin's smile widens slightly. "Just for me."
"And if I say no?"
Potyomkin shrugs. "Then I will simply find another."
I study his face, detecting the bluff immediately. If this were truly so simple, I wouldn't be sitting here.
"No you won't," I say calmly. "Because if you were going to, you would've done so already."
Potyomkin's lips curve into a thin smile. "You see things with remarkable clarity for someone who's been in our world for such a short time."
I match his gaze, refusing to look away despite every instinct telling me to shrink back. "I've had to learn quickly."
"Indeed." He drums his fingers against the polished desk. "So, Aurora Markovna. What are your terms?"
This is my chance, perhaps my only chance to carve out some form of safety in this brutal world.
"If Ruslan is truly dead, I want protection," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Your trusted men. Your best."
Potyomkin's eyebrows shoot up, genuine surprise flickering across his face. "You would ask me for my men?"
"You're asking me for my guns," I counter without hesitation.
The silence stretches for a heartbeat. Two. Then something unexpected happens.
Potyomkin throws his head back and laughs.
Not the cold, calculated chuckle I'd expect, but genuine, belly-deep laughter that fills the cavernous office.
"I see why Ruslan Vitalyevich married you," he says when he recovers, wiping at his eyes. "Very well. My men for your guns. Fair exchange."
He extends his hand across the desk, but I don't take it.
"One more thing," I say, feeling a strange power I've never experienced before.
Potyomkin, still riding his amusement, spreads his hands. "Name it."
"Vera comes with me."
His face darkens like a thundercloud, and I fight the urge to recoil.
"You have no right to take my wife from me," he growls, all trace of humor vanished.
I study Potyomkin carefully, feeling a dangerous calm settle over me despite the tension in the room.
"Is that so?" I say, letting my gaze drift to the men standing at attention behind his desk. "Because I noticed something interesting last night when your men burst in to save me."
Potyomkin's eyes narrow. "And what might that be?"
"A tattoo on one of your men's hand," I say. "One I've seen before."
The room grows impossibly still.
"The kind of tattoo found on Mikonov men," I continue, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "An interesting choice of personnel, Vyacheslav Petrovich."
His face hardens into granite. "You're mistaken."
"Maybe," I shrug, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at my bruised shoulder. "But what happens if word gets out that the lord of Las Vegas is in bed with Mikonov men? Do you think Gregor Belov would take kindly to that knowledge? Especially now, with everything that's happening?"
"Are you threatening me, girl?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper.
"I'm stating facts," I reply. "The Vori might be fracturing, but they're still together for now. And I imagine Gregor would be very interested in what you've been doing with your staffing choices."
Potyomkin leans forward, his massive hands flat on the desk. "I could kill you where you sit."
"You could," I agree, surprised by how calm I sound. "But then who inherits the Dragunov production company? One of Ruslan's nieces, perhaps? Under Semyon's control?" I tilt my head slightly. "That won't get you what you want either."
"You have much to lose, Aurora Markovna," he says, voice dangerously low. "Including your life."
"If my husband is truly dead, then I have nothing left to lose." I meet his gaze unflinchingly. "And there's nothing more dangerous than a woman with nothing left to lose."
The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire. I can hear Vera's shallow breathing beside him.
Finally, Potyomkin's mouth twists into a snarl. He thrusts his hand toward me. "You have a deal."
I reach out and grasp his hand, his massive palm swallowing mine completely.
"You're an able negotiator," he says grudgingly, "for an outsider."
As we release our grip, the office doors swing open. The same attendant from earlier enters, walks swiftly to Potyomkin, and whispers something in his ear before departing again.
To my surprise, Potyomkin begins to laugh again, deep and bitter.
"What's so funny?" I ask, suddenly wary.
"It would seem," Potyomkin says, lips curving into a smile that's almost genuine, "that God has a cruel sense of humor." He leans forward. "Because you do have something to lose: Ruslan Dragunov is alive, and he's looking for you."