Chapter 1 #3
"I'll find you something to wear. We're about the same size still, even if you're..." He doesn't finish.
Even if I'm twenty pounds lighter and carved into something harder than I used to be.
The shower is scalding hot despite the rundown appearance from the outside. That’s all by design. I know Semyon doesn’t live here full time. It’s his hideaway, but my friend enjoys the finer things in life—like hot showers, comfortable furniture and good food.
I stand under the spray until my skin turns red. Six years of cold water and occasional hose-downs in Georgian winter don't prepare you for the luxury of temperature control. I watch the water circle the drain and try not to think about all the blood I've washed off in prison.
All the blood I'm going to spill now that I'm free.
When I emerge, Semyon has laid out clothes on the bed in the spare room.
Real clothes—jeans, a sweater, and socks.
My God—socks. I will never take such things for granted again.
I dress slowly, my body protesting each movement.
The scars pull tight across my back, my shoulders, and my chest. A roadmap of torture written in raised tissue.
I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the man staring back. Harder. Older. Eyes that have seen things no one should see.
Semyon is waiting in the kitchen with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He pours without asking.
"To survival," he says, raising his glass.
"To revenge," I counter.
And then we drink.
Kira
The dining room feels like a cage the moment I walk into it.
My father sits at the head of the table—his table, in his house, even though I'm the one who paid off the mortgage and kept the lights on for the past six years. Anya is already seated, looking nervous in a way that makes my instincts scream.
She won't meet my eyes.
"Kira." My father gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit. We need to talk."
"I'm not hungry." I remain standing. "Whatever this is, just say it."
"Sit. Down." His voice carries the weight of paternal authority he hasn't earned in over a decade.
I sit. Not because he told me to, but because Anya's hands are shaking, and I need to understand what fresh hell is unfolding.
The food arrives—traditional Russian fare, prepared by the cook my father can't actually afford but keeps anyway because appearances matter more than solvency. Borscht, pelmeni, black bread. My stomach turns at the sight of it.
Food is a necessity. I don’t enjoy it anymore. I’m an angry, bitter woman that survives solely on my pain. I’ve lost weight but I feel stronger than ever. Wrath is my driving force.
"This is nice," my father says, like we're a normal family having a normal dinner. "The three of us together. We should do this more often."
"Cut the shit. What's this really about?"
Anya flinches. My father's jaw tightens, but he smooths his expression back into something resembling paternal concern. He's always been good at masks—right up until his gambling debts ripped them all away.
"I've been in deeper discussions with Roman Belsky," he says carefully.
I glare at him. As if I don’t already know what he’s been doing.
This is for Anya’s sake.
Ice floods my veins. "What kind of discussions?"
"The kind that secure our position. Restore our name." He cuts his meat with precise, deliberate movements. "He's made a very generous offer."
"Generous,” I echo, my voice dripping with mockery.
My father doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know I’ve already reached out to Roman. No one will make deals for me.
I smile at him. It’s a cold, calculating smile meant to remind of his place. "When I spoke to him this afternoon, he gave me until midnight to accept. That was the deal—I marry him, or he takes Anya."
"Actually," my father says with his own smug smile, "I've already agreed on Anya's behalf. She'll marry him instead. The contracts are signed."
The room spins. "You did what?"
"I made a business decision—"
"You sold her!" I'm on my feet, my chair clattering backward. "You sold your nineteen-year-old daughter to a man who kills his wives!"
"Kira—" Anya's voice is small, terrified.
"He doesn't kill them," my father protests weakly. "They died of natural—"
"Three wives, all dead before thirty, all of mysterious causes." I lean across the table, getting in his face. "He's a fucking monster, and you handed Anya to him like she's nothing more than a business transaction!"
"Watch your language at my table—"
"Your table?" The laugh that tears out of me is harsh enough to draw blood. "I paid for this table! I paid for this house, this food, your pathetic lifestyle! I rebuilt everything you destroyed, and this is how you repay me?"
Anya is crying now, silent tears streaming down her face. The sight of it breaks something in my chest that I've been holding together with rage. Even with all the power I’ve gained, I’m still a woman. A daughter. My father still has the final decision over Anya’s future.
"Kira, please—" My father reaches for me, and I jerk away like his touch burns.
"Don't." The word comes out deadly quiet. "Don't you dare touch me."
I turn to Anya, whose whole body is shaking. She looks so young in this moment—still the little girl who used to braid flowers into my hair and dream about painting in Paris. Still innocent despite growing up in this world.
"Anyechka." I crouch beside her chair, taking her cold hands in mine. "Look at me, baby. Look at me."
She does, her eyes huge and terrified.
"I won't let this happen," I promise her. "Do you understand? I will not let him touch you."
"But Papa said—"
"Papa is a coward and a fool." I don't bother lowering my voice. Let him hear it. "He doesn't get to make decisions about your life. Not anymore."
"The contracts are legal," my father insists. "Binding. I have every right—"
"You have no rights!" I round on him with such fury that he actually flinches back.
"You lost your rights when you gambled away our future!
When you drove us into debt so deep I had to claw my way out with blood and violence!
You're only still breathing because you share DNA with Anya, and I won't break her heart by killing you! "
"Kira!" Anya gasps.
But it's true, and we all know it. My father's face goes white.
"If you refuse to honor the agreement—"
"Oh, I'll honor it." The words are harsh. "But not the way you think."
I straighten, smoothing down my blouse, rebuilding my armor piece by piece. The Ice Queen doesn't break at family dinners. She doesn't show weakness. She calculates and strategizes and finds the path through the fire.
Even if it means walking through it herself.
"I need to speak with Anya," I say coldly. "Alone."
"Now wait just a—"
"Alone." I let every ounce of the woman I've become bleed into my voice—the one who commands respect through rooms full of armed men. The broken, shattered young girl who had to grow up overnight. The one who built an empire from nothing. The woman who doesn't take no for an answer.
My father's mouth opens and closes like a fish. Then he stands, throws his napkin on the table, and storms out.
The moment the door closes, I sink into the chair beside Anya and pull her into my arms. She collapses against me, sobbing in a way that makes my heart crack.
"I'm so scared," she whispers into my shoulder. "Kira, I can't marry him. I can't. He's old and cruel and everyone says his wives—"
"Shh." I stroke her hair like I used to when she had nightmares as a child. "I know, baby. I know."
"But Papa signed the contracts. He said I have to. That it's for the family."
"Fuck the family." The words make her hiccup a shocked laugh through her tears. "And fuck Papa's contracts. You're not marrying anyone."
She pulls back to look at me, hope and disbelief warring in her eyes. "But how? If it's legally binding—"
"Because I'm going to marry him instead."
The words hang in the air between us like a death sentence.
"No." Anya shakes her head violently. "No, Kira, you can't. Roman hates you. Everyone knows he hates you. He'll—"
"He doesn't hate me." I wipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. "He wants to control me. There's a difference."
"That's worse!" She grabs my hands, squeezing tight. "If you marry him, he'll take everything. He'll break you."
"He can try." I manage something that might pass for a smile. "But I'm not the girl I used to be, Anya. I'm not soft anymore. I’ve already broken once before. It will never happen again."
"You're not soft, but you're not invincible either." She's crying again. "What about you? What about your future?"
My future. The concept is almost laughable. What future? The one where I watch my little sister get destroyed by a monster? The one where I lose the only person I still love?
"My future is making sure you have one," I say simply. "That's all that matters."
"But—"
"Listen to me." I take her face in my hands, making sure she sees the truth in my eyes. "I'm going to make a deal with Papa and Roman. I'll agree to the marriage, but only if they send you to Paris. To that art school you've been dreaming about. L'école des Beaux-Arts."
Her eyes go wide. "But that's—"
"Expensive. I know. And far away. Also, exactly the point." I can see the plan crystallizing in my mind. "You'll be safe there. Protected. Away from all of this."
"And you'll be stuck here, married to a man who—" She can't finish the sentence.
"Who wants my organization and my connections more than he wants to hurt me." It's not entirely true, but it's true enough. "Roman is a bastard, but he's a practical bastard. As long as I'm useful to him, I have leverage."
"Until you're not useful anymore." Anya's no fool, despite her gentle nature. "Then what? You end up like his other wives?"
The question hangs heavy between us. I don't have a good answer—or rather, I have an answer I can't share with her. That I'm planning to kill Roman before he gets the chance to kill me. That this marriage is just the first move in a longer game.
"Then I'll handle it," I say instead. "Like I've handled everything else."
Anya looks at me and I see her piecing it together—all the things I'm not saying. She's smarter than people give her credit for. Gentler, yes, but not stupid.
"You're planning something," she says quietly. "Something dangerous."
"I'm always planning something dangerous." I stand, pulling her up with me. "But right now, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
She nods, even though I can see the fear still swimming in her eyes.
"Good." I kiss her forehead. "Now go pack. Start thinking about Paris—the museums, the galleries, the life you're going to build there. Let me handle the rest."
"I don't want to leave you alone," she protests.
"You're not leaving me alone. You're giving me a reason to survive this." I turn her toward the door.
"Go. I need to talk to Papa."
She hesitates, looking back at me with an expression that's far too old for nineteen. "I love you, Kira."
"I love you too, Anyechka. More than anything."
When she's gone, I take a moment to rebuild my defenses. To lock away the softness and fear and replace it with the cold calculation that's kept me alive for six years.
Then I go find my father.
He's in his study, predictably, nursing a vodka and looking like a puppy that’s been kicked.
"We need to talk," I say, closing the door behind me.
"Kira, you have to understand—"
"I understand perfectly. You sold Anya to save your own skin. Whatever debt or pressure Roman's applying, you chose the easy way out."
"It's not that simple—"
"It's exactly that simple." I straighten. "But we're past that now. Here's what's going to happen: I will agree to marry Roman. I will be the dutiful bride he wants. But Anya goes to Paris. To L'école des Beaux-Arts. Full tuition, living expenses, everything she needs."
My father blinks. "That's a very expensive school."
"I'm aware." I've looked into it before, dreamed of sending her. “It'll be part of the marriage settlement."
"He's not going to agree to—"
"He will." I allow myself a cold smile. "Because what he really wants is my organization. My connections. My reputation. He wants to absorb everything I've built. Sending Anya away is a small price to pay for that."
My father takes a long drink, and I can see him calculating. "And if he refuses?"
"Then I refuse. And we'll see who blinks first when his bride disappears and takes half of Moscow's underworld connections with her."
It's a bluff. Mostly. But my father doesn't need to know that.
"You've thought this through," he observes.
"I've thought about nothing else since his ultimatum."
"If I agree to this," he says slowly, "if I help you negotiate these terms with Roman... what do I get?"
The audacity nearly makes me laugh. "You get to keep breathing. You get to watch your youngest daughter live a life free from this world. Isn't that enough?"
"I meant financially. For the family."
"The family." I taste the word like poison. "You mean for you."
"Someone has to maintain our position—"
"I've been maintaining our position!" The rage breaks through my control. "For six years, while you sat in this study and pretended you still mattered! I rebuilt our name from the ashes of your failures! I turned us from a joke into something people respect!"
"And now Roman wants to elevate us even further—"
"Roman wants to absorb us. Eliminate us as competition while looking magnanimous.
" I cross back to his desk. "But fine. You want to know what you get?
You get a stipend. Enough to maintain this house and your lifestyle.
You get to keep your dignity. And you get to tell people your daughter married into the most powerful family in Moscow. "
"That's it?"
"That's more than you deserve." I lean in close. "And if you ever—ever—try to use Anya as leverage again, I will end you. Father or not, blood or not, I will put a bullet in your head and sleep like a baby afterward. Are we clear?"
The color drains from his face.
"Crystal clear," he whispers.
"Good." I straighten. "Now call Roman. Tell him I've agreed to the marriage. But Anya goes to Paris, all expenses paid, and she leaves before the wedding. Those are my terms. Non-negotiable."
"He's not going to like demands—"
"He'll like them better than the alternative." I head for the door. "And Papa? When you talk to him, remember that I'm the one with actual power here. Not you. If you try to undercut me or change the terms, I'll know. And we'll have a very different conversation."
I leave him there, small and pale and finally understanding that his eldest daughter isn't someone he can control anymore.
If she ever was.