21. Sofia
SOFIA
I pace my room until the carpet probably starts praying for death.
This is bad.
Damir is coming with me.
Of course my terrifying, possessive, impossible husband heard the words I want to shop and decided the proper response was to turn a wardrobe errand into a military occupation with tailoring.
I had expected dark cars, silent men, a driver who looks like he has personally strangled three people for breathing incorrectly, and maybe Nikolai or even Grigori lurking near the women’s changing rooms with the haunted patience of a man who has seen too many things.
I had not expected Damir himself. That ruins everything.
If Damir is there, I can’t slip away.
If Damir is there, I can’t meet Anya’s cousin near some side exit.
If Damir is there, I can’t even breathe wrong without him noticing and saying something awful like, You are thinking too loudly, wife.
I stop in the middle of the room and glare at the sea through the window. “This is your fault,” I tell it.
The sea crashes below, unconcerned.
My phone sits on the bed where I left it, screen dark, full of messages from Anya that I haven’t opened yet because I already know what they will say.
Timing?
Exit?
Can you get away?
No.
No.
Absolutely no. Not with Damir there.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, rubbing my hands over my face.
I wanted space. That was the original plan.
Space to think, to breathe, to figure out whether I’m a prisoner, a wife, a pawn, or all three wearing an expensive coat.
Space to understand why my uncle fears Damir, why everyone goes quiet at Elena’s name, why Damir looks at me like he wants to devour me and protect me and ruin me and keep me alive all at once.
Instead, I’m trapped in a house with a man whose hands know me too well and whose silence knows exactly where to hurt.
My thighs still ache from him.
That is not helpful.
I stand again because sitting makes me think, and thinking leads to memories, and memories lead to heat, and heat leads to regrettable softness. I’m not available for softness. I have a plan to fix.
Damir thinks shopping is safe because he controls the place.
Fine. Then I need something he doesn’t control.
Someone.
My eyes go to my phone.
I stare at it. Then I pick it up.
This is a terrible idea. Which, historically, does not stop me.
Dmitri Sokolov has been messaging me since the wedding. I muted him without opening the chat because I have self-respect and because several of his messages arrived as voice notes, which feels like violence before you even press play.
But Dmitri is predictable. Dmitri is vain. Dmitri is wounded, humiliated, and stupid enough to react if he thinks there’s an opportunity to reclaim pride in public.
My thumb hovers over Snapchat.
“This is insane,” I whisper.
Then I open the app. I take a picture of the corner of the room, carefully angled so it shows nothing useful except my hand holding a coffee cup and a sliver of the window. The Volodin ring is visible on my finger, tied with black thread.
Finally!! Shopping day at the Cox. Pray for the Salesman.
I post it to my private story. Then I wait.
My heart starts doing something unpleasant behind my ribs.
Seconds pass.
A minute.
Two.
I refresh the viewer list.
Anya sees it first. Naturally.
A message appears immediately: What the hell is this.
I ignore it.
Three more people see it.
A cousin. A girl from boarding school who once cried because a waiter brought her sparkling water instead of still. Someone named Lera whom I don’t remember but apparently trust with my bad decisions.
Then—
Dmitri Sokolov.
Seen.
My whole body goes still.
There. He saw it.
For a moment, satisfaction blooms in my chest. I have just tossed a match into a room full of men soaked in gasoline and told myself I’m only trying to find an exit.
If Dmitri comes, there will be trouble.
If there is trouble, people may get hurt.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
I message Anya: Change of plan. Something may happen tomorrow. Be ready.
Her reply comes instantly.
Anya: Sofia.
Then another.
Anya: What did you do.
Me: What needs to be done.
Anya: If you get out, go to the service road behind the shopping complex.
Me: Okay.
Anya: Sofia, don’t get yourself killed.
I don’t answer that, because I can’t promise it.
The next morning, I dress carefully. Marina brings me new clothes: black trousers, a cream sweater, and a coat that still has a tag on it. I check the tag twice.
“These are new,” Marina says quietly.
I look at her. “Really?”
“Yes.”
That small kindness hits harder than it should.
“Thank you.”
She nods and looks away, giving me a moment to recover.
Downstairs, the house is already prepared like we’re going to a war zone instead of a shopping appointment.
Two black cars are waiting outside. Nikolai is speaking to one of the guards.
Marina stands near the second car with a large handbag.
Damir is by the first car, wearing a black coat and looking completely calm.
He looks up when I come down the stairs. His eyes move over me. “You look better,” he says.
I glance down at my sweater. “That’s because I am no longer dressed by ghosts.”
His expression stills for a second.
Then he says, “Good.”
I lift my chin. “Try not to scare the saleswomen.”
“I will behave.”
“That sounds unlikely.”
“It depends on them.”
“Damir.”
His mouth almost curves. “Get in the car, Sofia.”
He takes me up to the very top floor of the complex. It’s a private fashion gallery in a very expensive district, with a discreet entrance, polished floors, and staff who look terrified before we even step inside. There are no other customers. Damir has clearly had the place cleared.
I stop inside the door and look around.
“You wanted clothes.”
“I wanted a normal store.”
“No, you wanted your own clothes.”
I hate when he remembers my exact words.
A woman named Katya comes forward with a tablet and starts speaking to Damir.
Damir cuts her off at once. “My wife chooses. Speak to her.”
Katya turns to me so quickly she nearly drops the tablet.
I glance at him. He gives me nothing. No smile. No smug look. Just that calm face, as if telling people to treat me like a person is the obvious thing to do.
Fine. One point to him.
Not that I’m keeping score.
I start choosing things.
At first, I choose out of spite.
Damir sits on a low sofa while I try on clothes. He doesn’t interfere much. That surprises me. He watches. He says no to nothing. He only looks slightly annoyed when a dress has a high slit.
I step out in it and turn toward the mirror. “You hate this one,” I say.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face said the slit insulted your ancestors.”
“It’s a high slit.”
“It’s fashion,” I counter.
He doesn’t say anything but I can imagine him rolling his eyes.
I try on a blue dress next. It fits well. Simple, dark, soft at the waist. When I step out, Damir looks at me for a long moment. “That one,” he says.
“What about it?”
“It suits you.”
I don’t know what to do with that.
Dmitri’s compliments always came with instructions. Wear this. Stand like that. Smile less. Smile more. Don’t look bored.
Damir just says it and waits.
I look away first. “Thank you.”
His brows lift slightly.
“What?” I snap.
“You said thank you.”
“Don’t make it an event.”
“It may be the first peaceful thing you have said to me.”
“I can take it back.”
“No.”
I go back into the dressing room before he sees me smile.
For a while, it becomes almost normal. That’s dangerous.
Katya brings more clothes. Marina helps with sizes. Nikolai stands near the front like a statue with a gun under his coat. Damir answers a few calls, then puts his phone away when I come out again.
I notice that. I wish I didn’t.
Later, while Marina and Katya are sorting the things I chose, I find Damir near a row of coats. He’s holding a dark green one like he’s deciding whether it deserves to exist.
“You don’t like green?” I ask.
“I like this one.”
“That sounded painful.”
“I am adjusting to your commentary.”
“Wise.”
He hangs the coat back. For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. It’s not awkward exactly. Just quiet.
I don’t know why I ask the next question. Maybe because yesterday I heard too much about Elena and not enough about him from him.
“How old were you when you became Pakhan?”
His eyes shift to mine. “Twenty-five.”
That surprises me. “That young?”
“My father died.”
“In the fire?”
“Yes.”
“And before that? Were you always supposed to take over?”
“No. My older brother was.”
I didn’t know he had an older brother.
I wait for him to continue. He doesn’t.
“What happened to him?” I ask.
Damir looks toward the windows. “He died before the fire.” His tone is flat, but the subject is closed.
For once, I don’t push. Instead, I ask, “What were you like before?”
His gaze returns to me. “Before what?”
“Before all of this.”
He considers me for a moment. “Louder.”
I blink. “You?”
“Yes.”
“You were loud?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you laugh?”
“Sometimes.”
It’s hard to imagine. Not impossible, though. For one second, I see it: a younger Damir, still dangerous but less locked away. I wonder if Elena knew him like that.
That thought brings back everything I’m trying to ignore. The fact that I’m standing here shopping with her husband while planning to run from him.
Then a raised voice comes from the front of the gallery. Everyone reacts at once.
Nikolai turns.
One guard moves toward the door.
Katya goes still.
Damir’s expression changes so fast it scares me. One second he’s standing beside me, almost normal. The next, he’s gone behind that cold, controlled face.
Then Dmitri Sokolov walks in. He looks pale and angry. He’s limping, though he’s trying to hide it. Two men come in behind him. Both are armed. I know it even before Nikolai moves.
Dmitri’s eyes find me first. Then the ring on my finger.
Then Damir.
His mouth twists. “There you are, Sofia. Did you miss me?”
I did this. I posted the story. I made sure he saw it. I wanted a scene.
Now he’s here.
Damir steps in front of me slightly. Not fully. Just enough. “Leave,” he says.
Dmitri laughs. “You clear out a store and bring her here like a prize, and you think no one will hear about it?”
“This is your warning.”
“Warning?” Dmitri takes another step in. “You shot me in a church.”
“You are still alive. Don’t make me correct that.”
The air goes tight.
I move before I think. “Dmitri, go.”
His gaze cuts to me. “You speak now?”
“I said go.”
He looks me up and down, and I immediately wish I had stayed silent. “Already trained, then.”
Damir moves half a step forward.
One of Dmitri’s men also shifts.
Nikolai’s hand goes under his coat.
Everything is seconds away from becoming ugly.
Dmitri sees it and smiles. He wants this. He came here wanting this.
“You’re pathetic, Volodin,” he says. “Marrying a girl young enough to be your daughter. What are you now? A husband or a creep with money?”
My face burns.
Not because I agree with Dmitri. Because he says it like I’m not even in the room. Like I’m just another insult he can throw at Damir.
Damir doesn’t react immediately.
Dmitri keeps going. “Was that the point? You couldn’t keep your first wife alive, so you picked someone younger? Someone easier?”
I see Damir’s hand close into a fist.
I step toward him. “Damir—”
One of Dmitri’s men reaches inside his coat.
Nikolai draws first.
Then everything falls apart. A saleswoman screams. Marina grabs my arm and pulls me back. Damir catches the wrist of Dmitri’s man before the gun fully comes out. He twists hard. The man screams, and the gun hits the floor.
Dmitri lunges forward, shouting something I can’t hear properly. Nikolai slams into him from the side. Dmitri crashes into a display table, sending glass and metal pieces across the floor.
The second man draws his weapon. A Volodin guard tackles him into a rack of coats. The rack falls. Hangers scatter. Someone shouts for everyone to get down.
Marina pulls me behind a shelf. “Stay here.”
I nod. Then I look at the side corridor.
This is the opening. This is what I wanted. But now that it’s happening, I feel sick.
Damir turns during the chaos, and his eyes find me immediately. For one second, I almost stay. Then Dmitri screams Damir’s name, and Damir looks away.
I run.
I duck behind the fallen rack and move into the side corridor. My boots slip once on the polished floor, but I catch myself and keep going. Behind me, there are shouts, a crash, and another scream from one of the staff.
I see a door at the end of the corridor.
Service exit. Almost there.
I reach for the handle.
A hand clamps over my mouth. Another arm locks around my waist and yanks me backward.
I try to scream, but the sound dies against the glove pressed over my face.