Chapter 3
Anastasia
Paris holds its magic in the small side streets.
At least that's what the concierge told me, his accent thick as he traced a route on my map away from the tourist monuments and toward the beating heart of the real city.
I follow his directions now, savoring the narrow cobblestone pathways and buildings with their wrought iron balconies dripping with flowers.
For three hours, I've wandered the Marais district, blending in with locals at a small café, browsing boutiques where no one treated me like Bratva royalty, and visiting a tiny art gallery where the elderly owner spoke passionately about an emerging artist's work.
Such ordinary pleasures, yet entirely foreign to my Moscow existence.
The jazz club still awaits, but I'm reluctant to end this solitary exploration—this unprecedented freedom to move unobserved, unchaperoned, unjudged.
Or so I thought.
The prickling awareness returns, stronger now—that unmistakable sensation of being watched. I've felt it since the hotel, initially dismissing it as paranoia born from a lifetime of surveillance. But I know better. My mother taught me to trust those instincts before she died.
Without changing pace, I scan my surroundings through the reflection of a darkened shop window. There, two men, keeping pace thirty meters behind. Their movements hold the distinctive cadence of men who understand violence intimately.
Not French.
The set of their shoulders, the force of their steps—Eastern European, almost certainly Russian.
Father's men?
No.
He would have told them to maintain complete invisibility. These men are making no effort to conceal their pursuit.
My fingers twitch toward my purse, where a slender tactical knife lies hidden—another legacy from my mother, who insisted I never travel unarmed. "Beauty attracts predators, Nastya," she'd whispered during our secret training sessions. "Never be helpless prey."
Under a false bottom in my bag is a small gun—a legacy from my father, who never shies away from violence.
A memory surfaces, vivid as yesterday. Mother in our private gymnasium beneath the Moscow mansion, dressed in workout clothes so different from her usual elegant attire.
I was fifteen, gangly and uncertain, my body still transitioning from child to woman.
"Come at me," she'd instructed, standing relaxed in the center of the padded floor. I'd hesitated, unwilling to charge at my own mother, the woman who embodied grace and refinement in our brutal world.
"Nastya." Her voice had hardened with unexpected steel. "One day, someone will come for you because of who your father is. Because of who you are. And I might not be there to protect you. Now, come at me."
Something in her eyes—fear, perhaps, or foreknowledge—had compelled my obedience. I'd rushed forward, expecting to knock her down easily with my teenage exuberance. Instead, I'd found myself flipped onto my back, the breath knocked from my lungs.
She had knelt beside me, jasmine perfume incongruous with the ruthlessness of her movements. "Again," she'd said. "And this time, think before you move. Calculate. Find my weakness."
Day after day, for years, those secret sessions continued. How to break a man's grip. How to use your attacker's weight against him. How to target vulnerable points with minimal force for maximum effect. How to scan a room for threats. How to move through public spaces with constant awareness.
"Your father believes a woman's only defense is the men who protect her," she'd told me once, as we practiced knife techniques.
"But men can betray, can fail, can die. This—"she'd pressed the training blade into my palm, closing my fingers around it, "—this never betrays.
Your awareness, your training, your own strength. These are your true protections."
I took the next right turn, deliberately moving toward more populated streets.
The men adjusted their course, closing the distance with newfound urgency.
Not good. I quicken my pace, mind racing through options.
Creating a public scene would draw unwanted attention and potentially expose my identity.
Seeking help from Parisian authorities is equally problematic—the Markov name carries its own diplomatic complications.
I'm on my own.
The silver-eyed stranger from earlier is nowhere to be seen. For one irrational moment, I found myself wishing he'd materialized again, though I can't explain why his presence registered as potential safety rather than threat.
The next alley offers a shortcut back to busier boulevards, according to my mental map.
I take it, heels clicking rapidly against ancient stones.
Halfway through, I realize my mistake. The passage narrows, darkens, dead ends into a small courtyard with a locked gate.
Before I can reverse course, heavy footsteps sound behind me.
"Prekrasnoye mesto dlya progulki, devushka." Beautiful place for a walk, girl. The voice carries the harsh consonants of Moscow streets, not the polished Russian of the Bratva elite.
I turn slowly, measuring the distance back to the main
street. Too far. Two men block the alley's entrance, broad-shouldered and smirking with anticipation. Not random criminals—their stance, their confidence, the calculation in their eyes speak of professional training.
I quickly assess the tactical situation. Two attackers.
Constrained space. Limited escape routes. My mother's voice echoes in my mind: "Control your breathing first. Fear clouds judgment. Think geometrically—angles, distances, timing."
I mentally map the alleyway—three meters wide, brick walls on both sides, too high to scale. The locked gate behind me stands 2.5 meters tall, with decorative spikes.
The men block the only viable exit.
My knife is accessible but requires me to reach into my purse, telegraphing my intention.
"I'm afraid I don't speak Russian," I lie smoothly in French, adopting the posture and accent of a confused tourist. "Excuse me, I need to get through."
The taller one laughs, responding in heavily accented English. "We know exactly what languages you speak, Miss Markov."
So. Not Father's men, but people who know me.
Rivals, then. Possibly Sokolov faction, given their territory overlaps with ours in Paris.
"I think you're mistaking me for someone else." I keep my voice steady, sliding one hand into my purse, fingers wrapping around my knife. "I'm Canadian."
"Canadian with Markov face," the second man says, producing a switchblade with practiced ease. "Your father takes from us. Maybe we take from him."
Ice slides through my veins, but I refuse to show fear. Fear paralyzes, and paralysis means death—another of Mother's lessons.
I analyze their positions. The taller one stands slightly forward, clearly the leader. The second, the one with the knife, positions himself to my right, leaving a fractional gap between them. They expect me to cower, to back away toward the dead end. Tactical error on their part.
"My father will tear your organization apart if you touch me," I say, dropping the pretense, voice hardening as I step into my true identity. "Do you really think he won't burn all of Europe to find the men who took his daughter?"
They exchange glances—a flicker of uncertainty. Good.
Create division.
Make them doubt themselves, doubt each other.
"Perhaps we just deliver a message," the first man says, advancing slowly. "Show Mikhail Markov that his princess not so untouchable."
I pull the knife from my purse, the blade catching dim streetlight. "You're welcome to try."
Their momentary surprise gives me the opening I need. I move first—always move first, Mother taught—lunging toward the smaller man with my blade directed at his throat. Not to kill, but to create space, to breach their perimeter, to reach the street beyond.
He blocks my attack with trained reflexes, grabbing my wrist with punishing force. Pain shoots up my arm, but I'm already driving my knee upward, connecting solidly with his groin. His grip loosens as he doubles over.
Not enough.
The second man circles behind me, arm snaking around my throat. I slam my head backward, connecting with his face. Something cracks—his nose or my skull, I'm not certain. My knife clatters to the cobblestones as he yanks me off balance.
"Bitch," he hisses in my ear, blood from his nose warm against my hair. "Now we really hurt you."
My mother's voice fills my head: "If your attacker is bigger or stronger, create leverage. Use their expectations against them."
I go suddenly limp in his arms, a deadweight.
The unexpected shift forces him to adjust his grip, creating a millisecond of opportunity.
I stomp my heel into his instep, twisting in his grasp, fighting with the desperate speed Mother drilled into me.
My elbow drives back hard, finding the solar plexus.
His breath leaves in a whoosh.
But he's stronger, professionally trained, and now enraged. His fist connects with my ribs, driving the air from my lungs in an explosive gasp.
The first man recovers, approaching with murderous intent.
I assess my options with clinical detachment despite the pain radiating through my side.
The second man's grip remains firm, but his posture has shifted, with the weight now misaligned.
I prepare to drop my weight again, to twist and strike at his knee, when a shadow detaches itself from the darkness at the alley's entrance.
In one heartbeat, the two men are advancing on me. In the next, the newcomer is among us, moving with lethal grace that makes my mother's training look like a child's game.
My first assailant flies backward, skull connecting with the stone wall with a sickening crack. The man holding me releases his grip instantly, turning to face the new threat.