Chapter 1
Chapter One
Katya- Three Days Ago- Rome
The chants grew louder, reverberating through the walls of the tent where we waited.
“Fuori! Fuori! Fuori!” the audience screamed, a demand for us to come out and take the stage.
The noise should have sent a jolt of adrenaline through me, but it only deepened the knot in my stomach.
I wasn’t nervous about performing—that was the simple part.
No, it was what came after the music ended that had me shaking.
Irina, my best friend and former girlfriend, paced in front of me, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “Katya, we can still call it off,” she said, her voice a low hiss. “Think about what you’re doing. Think about your family.”
“What family?”
The words came out more bitterly than I intended.
I sat on the edge of a battered folding chair, adjusting the straps on my guitar, more to keep my hands busy than anything else.
“I haven’t spoken to them in years. They made it clear they want nothing to do with me. I’m a disgrace to them, remember?”
Irina stopped pacing and turned to face me, her expression taut with worry. “Disgrace or not, they’re still your blood. Do you really think the government will just leave them alone after this? After what we’re about to do?”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, but I didn’t let it show.
“Irina,” I said, meeting her gaze. “I can’t keep living like this.
Controlled, watched, silenced. You think I don’t know the risks?
You think I haven’t thought about them every single night?
But if I don’t take this chance now, I might never get another one. ”
She sighed and rubbed her temples, clearly unconvinced but too loyal to argue further. “What about the others?”
I glanced toward the far corner, where our drummer and bassist were leaning against the wall, headphones on, tuning us out. They didn’t know. They didn’t need to know. This was between Irina and me. “They’ll be fine,” I said. “This is my choice. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”
Irina’s lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw tight. But before she could respond, the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers outside. “Signore e signori, Crimson Silence!”
The roar of the crowd was deafening. My heart lurched, not from fear of the stage, but from the reality that this might be the last time I’d ever stand there with my band.
The last time we’d ever play together. I pushed the thought aside and stood, slinging my guitar over my shoulder.
“Let’s give them a show they’ll never forget. ”
Irina’s eyes softened, and she gave me a reluctant nod. “For what it’s worth, Katya, I hope you’re doing the right thing.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I led the way out of the tent, into the blinding stage lights and the electrifying roar of thousands of voices.
As we stepped onto the stage, the weight of what was coming pressed down on me, but I forced it away.
This wasn’t the time for doubt or fear. This was our moment, and I was determined to make it count.
The first notes rang out, and the crowd erupted.
Adrenaline surged through me as I moved to the edge of the stage, my voice joining the crashing chords.
Whatever happened next, I would face it head-on.
But for now, there was only the music, the energy of the crowd, and the fire burning inside me.
If this was the end, I was going out in a blaze of glory.
I held the last note, my fingers trembling slightly on the strings of my guitar as the stage lights burned down on us.
The crowd roared, their voices blending into a chaotic, deafening symphony of adoration.
Sweat trickled down my back, but I forced a smile and threw my fist into the air, shouting into the microphone, “Thank you, Roma!”
The audience exploded, chanting our name, but I was barely listening.
My eyes darted to the edge of the crowd, where two familiar figures stood stone-faced.
The Russian agents. They were hard to miss in their dark suits and the perpetual scowls that marked their presence wherever Crimson Silence went. Always watching. Always waiting.
Irina nudged me as she tossed a drumstick into the crowd, her grin wide and genuine. “You coming back for the encore?”
I shook my head, my throat tight. “No. This is it.”
Her face fell, and she grabbed my wrist as we moved toward the side of the stage. “Katya, you don’t have to do this. Not tonight. Not like this.”
“It has to be tonight,” I hissed, pulling my arm free. “This is my only chance. You know that.”
She hesitated, her brows knitting together. “I can’t go with you. I… I can’t leave my family. What if they…?” Her voice broke, and she glanced away.
I wanted to scream, to plead with her to come with me, but I understood. She still had ties to her family. My own had severed themselves from me long ago.
“Then stay,” I breathed. “But I have to go.”
She nodded, tears brimming in her eyes, and before I could say another word, she wrapped me in a tight hug. “Be safe.”
“You too,” I whispered, my voice cracking.
I slipped past the crew, heading toward the back exit. The trick was to blend in, to disappear before the agents realized I was gone. My heart pounded as I pulled a baseball cap low over my face and shrugged into a hoodie I’d stashed earlier.
Stepping out into the cool night air, I forced myself to walk, not run. Running would draw attention. The streets were alive with festival-goers, their laughter and chatter masking the thudding of my heart. I glanced over my shoulder. The agents weren’t behind me—yet.
I turned a corner and quickened my pace, weaving through the crowd. My destination was clear: the nearest Italian police station, where I could apply for refugee status. But the path there was anything but simple.
A shout in Russian cut through the night, and my stomach dropped.
They knew.
I darted into an alley, my breaths coming in shallow gasps.
The alley opened onto another street, and I merged with the flow of people, trying to lose myself in the sea of faces.
My cap cast shadows over my eyes, but I felt exposed, vulnerable.
The agents were trained for this; they wouldn’t give up easily.
Spotting a small café, I ducked inside and headed straight for the restroom. Locking the door behind me, I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. “You can do this,” I whispered to myself. “You have to.”
A banging on the restroom door jolted me back to reality. “Open up!” a man’s voice barked in Russian.
Panic surged through me. I scanned the room for another exit and spotted a small window high on the wall.
Without thinking, I climbed onto the sink and pushed the window open.
It was a tight fit, but adrenaline drove me through.
I landed in a heap in the alley behind the café, my knees scraping against the pavement.
“Shit!”
The sound of footsteps echoed nearby. I scrambled to my feet and took off, my legs burning as I sprinted toward the faint glow of streetlights ahead. The police station wasn’t far now—just a few more blocks.
A black car screeched to a halt at the end of the alley, and an agent stepped out, his eyes locking onto mine. “Stop!” he shouted.
I bolted in the opposite direction, weaving through narrow streets and alleyways. My lungs screamed for air, but I couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when freedom was so close.
Finally, the police station came into view, its sign glowing like a beacon in the night. I barreled through the doors, startling the officer at the front desk. “Help,” I gasped, clutching my side. “I need asylum. The United Nations website said to come to a police station.”
The officer’s eyes widened, but he nodded, gesturing for me to sit. “You’re safe now,” he said in halting English. “I hope.”
“Step inside, and we’ll begin the interview.”
The room was small and bare, the type of space meant to strip away any sense of comfort.
I sat on one side of the table, across from a man whose tailored suit and well-practiced air of neutrality screamed “bureaucrat.” A small recorder sat between us, its tiny red light blinking steadily.
Outside the door, Italian officers stood guard, their presence both reassuring and unnerving.
The man cleared his throat, glancing at a clipboard. “Name, please. Full legal name.”
“Ekaterina Vladimirovna Romanova,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
His pen stopped mid-scribble. He looked up, his professional mask slipping for a moment. “Romanova?” His tone betrayed his surprise. “As in... the Romanovs?”
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. How many times had I heard this question? Too many to count. But here, miles away from home, I hadn’t expected it.
“Yes, those Romanovs,” I replied, letting a hint of irritation seep into my voice.
“My family comes from a lesser-known branch. Minor aristocrats, not the immediate royal family. But if you trace the bloodline far enough, I suppose I’d be...
what? A princess?” I smiled wryly, trying to mask my discomfort. “Not that it means anything anymore.”
His eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, he forgot his professional demeanor entirely. “A princess?”
“Well,” I added quickly, “I would be, if there were still a monarchy in Russia. But there isn’t, and my title holds no weight. It’s just a relic of a past no one cares about anymore. Trust me, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”
He blinked a few times, clearly trying to recalibrate. “I... see.”
I leaned forward, placing my hands flat on the table. “Look, I didn’t come here to discuss ancient history. I came because my life is at risk. I need asylum.”
The shift in my tone brought him back to his task. He glanced at his notes, then looked me in the eye. “All right, Ms. Romanova. Please tell me why you are seeking asylum.”
I drew in a deep breath, organizing my thoughts. This was my chance—maybe my only chance—to make him understand.
“The Russian government imprisoned me multiple times,” I began, struggling to keep my voice steady. “For my politics, and for speaking out against them. For speaking the truth about LGBTQ rights in Russia. And not just imprisoned. Harassed. Followed. Threatened.”
He nodded, encouraging me to continue.
“I’m a musician, a public figure,” I said, the words spilling out now.
“My platform gives me a voice, but it also makes me a target. They labeled me a danger to society simply for being who I am—a strong, opinionated lesbian woman. The Russian government doesn’t tolerate dissent, and they certainly don’t tolerate people like me. ”
His pen moved quickly across the paper as I spoke, but I didn’t stop.
“I can’t go back,” I said, my voice faltering slightly. “Or live like that anymore, looking over my shoulder, wondering if this is the day they finally decide I’ve gone too far. I need freedom, and safety. I need... a chance to start over.”
He paused, his pen hovering above the paper. When he looked up, there was something in his expression—a flicker of understanding, maybe even sympathy.
“You’re very brave,” he murmured.
“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I’m not brave. I’m desperate.”
For a moment, there was silence between us, broken only by the faint hum of the recorder. I wondered if he truly understood what I was asking for—what I was risking just by being here.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly. “Thank you for your honesty, Ms. Romanova. We’ll review your case carefully.”
I nodded, though I knew the process wouldn’t be quick or easy. Nothing in my life ever was.
As he stood to leave, I allowed myself a moment of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I was finally on the path to freedom.
But as the door closed behind him and the weight of everything I’d said settled in, one question echoed in my mind:
What happens if those agents somehow find me before I’m granted asylum?