25. Sofia
SOFIA
Arman’s club looks different when it’s open.
During the day, it felt expensive and quiet, like a place built for secrets.
At night, it becomes something sharper. Music moves through the floor, low and heavy.
Lights cut across the dark wood and red leather booths.
Men in suits talk in corners with women who know exactly how much attention they are worth.
Bartenders move fast behind the long bar, and the security men near the exits watch everything without looking like they’re watching everything.
Arman walks beside me like he owns more than the building.
Which, to be fair, he does.
“This is the main floor,” he says. “Public enough to keep people comfortable, private enough to make them reckless.”
I glance around. “That sounds like a business model and a threat.”
“It’s both.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Only when it benefits me.”
I look at him. He smiles.
I understand why Anya likes him. I also understand why she warned me not to trust him just because she does. Arman is charming in a way that feels practiced but not fake. He’s easy to talk to, but every answer he gives has a locked drawer behind it.
He takes me past the bar, toward a hallway guarded by a man built like a refrigerator with cheekbones.
“Private rooms,” Arman says. “Meetings, drinks, negotiations, affairs, occasionally all four.”
“Busy hallway.”
“Very.”
“Do I want to know what happens if negotiations fail?”
“No.”
“Wonderful. Puts me right at ease over here,” I say drily.
He laughs softly, and for the first time in three days, I almost feel like a person having a conversation instead of a missing wife hidden in a club while half the city apparently searches for her.
Almost.
Because every few minutes, my mind goes back to Damir.
Damir realizing I had run. Damir standing somewhere, face calm enough to terrify everyone around him.
I still care, that’s the problem.
Arman glances at me as we stop near a side stairwell. “You are thinking about him.”
“No.”
“You answer too quickly.”
“I’ve been told that.”
“By him?”
I look away. Arman gives a small, knowing hum that makes me want to push him down the stairs.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Sound like you understand something.”
“I understand many things.”
“Terrible quality in a man.”
“Damir has it too.”
“Yes, and look how well that worked out for everyone.”
Arman’s smile fades a little. “He is dangerous.”
“I noticed.”
“No. You saw the version he lets you see.”
I turn to him. “And you’ve seen the real one?”
“I have seen enough.”
There’s no fear in his voice. That is interesting. Caution, yes. Respect, maybe. But not fear.
“What exactly is your relationship with him?” I ask.
“Relationship is too warm a word.”
“Fine. Rivalry?”
“That is closer.”
“Why?”
Arman leans one shoulder against the wall, hands in his pockets. The music from the main floor pulses behind us, not loud enough to drown conversation. “Because men like Damir don’t like men like me.”
“Men like you?”
“Independent men.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
His mouth curves. “Useful men who don’t kneel.”
“That sounds like something you say to women at bars.”
“Usually it works.”
“I’m married.”
“I noticed the city-wide panic.”
I glare at him.
He laughs again and starts walking, so I follow. We go upstairs to a balcony that overlooks the main floor. From here, I can see the whole club: the bar, the booths, the dance floor, the guarded hallway, the entrance. I count exits without meaning to.
Damir would notice that.
The thought comes so fast I almost hate myself.
Arman notices too, but he doesn’t comment. “Your uncle helped me once.”
That makes me stop. “My uncle?”
“Sergei Antonov.”
I stare at him. “My uncle did a nice thing? Color me surprised.”
Arman chuckles. “Nice is not the word I would use.”
“Good. I was worried I had entered an alternate universe.”
“He gave me money when I was starting.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because I had something he wanted.”
“Of course. There it is.”
“Information,” Arman says. “A shipment route, years ago. I was young enough to need money and smart enough to know the route was worth more than one buyer would pay. Sergei paid best.”
“My uncle paying well for betrayal. How sentimental.”
“It was not betrayal. I owed no one loyalty.”
“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?”
He smiles. “Maybe.”
I lean against the balcony rail, careful not to look too long at the drop to the floor below. It’s not a cliff, but my body is not interested in technical differences.
“What was he like then?” I ask.
“Sergei?”
“Yes.”
“Same as now, I imagine. Polite. Patient. He asked questions like he already knew the answers and was only checking if you were stupid.”
I laugh once despite myself. “That sounds like him.”
“You were close?”
The laugh disappears. “No.”
Arman waits.
I don’t know why I answer. Maybe because he’s not part of the house. Maybe because he knows Sergei but doesn’t belong to him. Maybe because I’m tired of carrying the story alone and pretending the only thing wrong with my life is a sudden marriage to a Bratva king.
“My parents died when I was young,” I say. “Car accident. Officially.”
“Officially,” Arman repeats.
I look at him. “In our world, that word does a lot of work.”
“Yes.”
“My uncle became my guardian. He didn’t raise me like a daughter. He raised me like a liability he was legally required to preserve until I became useful.”
Arman’s expression changes. Not pity. Good. I would hate pity from him. “How useful?”
“Very, apparently.” I look down at the ring tied to my finger. “He kept me away for years. Schools, tutors, houses that were never quite home. Enough comfort that no one could call it cruelty, enough control that I never forgot who paid for the comfort.”
“And then he brought you back.”
“When he needed Dmitri.”
“Ah, the infamous Antonov-Sokolov alliance.”
“Yes.”
“And you invited Damir Volodin to the wedding.”
“I was having a difficult week.”
Arman laughs, but softly. “That is one way to describe it.”
“I thought Damir would create a problem. I didn’t think he would become the problem.”
“Is he?”
I don’t answer. Because the answer keeps changing.
He is a problem. He’s also the only man who ever looked at me and seen a human with her own agency.
Arman watches my face. “That was not a no.”
“I hate perceptive men.”
“You married one.”
I don’t like that. I change the subject. “So my uncle gave you money. How does that become a rivalry with Damir?”
“Damir hates men he can’t place on a board.”
“Board?”
“His board. His city. His rules. Men who work directly under him, men who oppose him, men who owe him, men he intends to kill. He likes clear categories.”
“That sounds accurate.”
“I refuse categories.”
“Very brave.”
“Very profitable.”
“Until he kills you.”
Arman smiles, but there’s less humor in it now. “He has had chances.”
That surprises me. “And he didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I remain useful.”
“To him?”
“To the city. Sometimes even Damir understands that breaking a tool creates more work than using it.”
“That is a grim way to describe your life.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
We stand there for a moment, looking over the club. A woman in a gold dress laughs near the bar. A man leans too close to her, and one of Arman’s security men steps forward just enough that the man immediately leans back. Efficient. Quiet. No drama unless needed.
Damir would approve.
God, why am I thinking that?
I push away from the railing. “Can I look around?”
Arman studies me. “You are not a prisoner here.”
“Everyone keeps saying versions of that while standing near exits.”
“You may look around the club. Stay on the main floor or the balcony. Don’t go into private rooms. Don’t leave through any door without telling me.”
“That sounds like prison rules with music.”
“It sounds like I’m trying not to get murdered by your husband.”
I can’t really argue with that.
He gestures toward the stairs. “Rafi will stay near you.”
“The one I kicked?”
“Yes.”
“Is he still offended?”
“Deeply.”
“Good. I need consistency.”
Arman’s mouth twitches. “Sofia.”
“What?”
“Be careful.”
I don’t make a joke this time. Something in his face stops me.
“I will,” I say.
I go downstairs alone, though not really alone because Rafi is twenty feet behind me, pretending he’s not following. He’s bad at pretending. Damir’s men are better at it, which is not comforting.
The club feels busier now. More people have come in.
The music is louder, though still controlled.
No one is drunk enough to be sloppy. No one looks poor enough to be harmless.
I move through the room slowly, pretending to admire the space while actually looking for exits, staff doors, faces, weaknesses.
I don’t know anymore.
Near the bar, I order water because I may be reckless but I’m not going to get drunk in a room full of men who trade secrets for sport. The bartender serves it without asking questions.
I take the glass and turn.
That’s when a man steps into my path. He’s tall, blond, expensive-looking in the way men are when their clothes cost money but don’t make them less ugly inside. His smile is too familiar for someone I have never met.
“You’re new,” he says.
I look past him. “No.”
His smile widens. “No?”
“No, as in no conversation. You can leave now.”
He laughs like I have flirted. “I only wanted to introduce myself.”
“Tragic. You’ll have to recover privately.”
I move to step around him, but he shifts with me. Annoyance prickles at the back of my neck.
I glance toward Rafi. He’s watching, but another man has stopped him near the edge of the bar. Not obviously blocking him. Just speaking to him. Standing in his way.
My stomach tightens.
I look back at the blond man. His smile has changed.
At first, I thought he was just a creep. Now I’m not sure.
“You should not be here alone,” he says.
“I’m not alone.”
“No?” His gaze moves over my shoulder. “Looks like you are.”
I set the glass down on the bar carefully. “Move.”
“Come on. Don’t be rude.”
“I am very rude. Move.”
His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
I react immediately. I twist the way one of my self-defense instructors taught me years ago, turning toward his thumb, breaking the grip before he expects it. His eyes flash with surprise, then anger.
I step back. “Touch me again,” I say, “and you’ll regret it.”
He smiles. Then he moves too fast.
One second he’s in front of me. The next, his arm is around my throat from behind, hard and tight, cutting off my breath before I can scream.
Panic hits instantly. I claw at his forearm, digging my nails into skin. He drags me backward, away from the bar, using his body to block mine from view. The music is loud enough that the first few seconds vanish into the room.
No. Not again.
I slam my heel down on his foot. He grunts but doesn’t let go. I try to drop my weight, but he adjusts, stronger than he looks, pulling me into the narrow gap beside the bar where the lights don’t reach properly.
My lungs start to burn. I can’t breathe. The edges of the room blur.
I see Rafi shove the man in front of him aside, finally noticing.
Too far. Too late.
The arm around my throat tightens.
“Stop fighting,” the blond man says against my ear.
I try to answer, but nothing comes out. My hands claw at him. My body jerks. My vision spots and there’s only one thing I can think—I’m going to die now.