Chapter 7
Sofiya
SONG: ROMANCE BY VARIALS
Friday nights at Lush pulse with a specific energy—money burning holes in pockets, deals celebrated or losses drowned, people desperate to forget their real lives for a few hours. My favorite kind. The ones who come to forget always talk the most.
I'm bent over my makeup station, blending contour into the hollows of my cheeks, when the dressing room goes silent.
Aleksandr stands in the doorway.
Men don't come back here. Ever. This space is sacred, the only place we exist outside the performance where we're allowed to be something other than what the club demands. His presence violates an unspoken law, which means whatever he wants is significant.
"Sofiya." His voice cuts through the careful quiet like a blade. "Got a moment?"
Every eye in the room tracks me as I follow him into the hallway. Angel's gaze especially, hot on my back, knowing.
All I can think is progress. Finally. The excitement bubbles up despite my attempts to suppress it. Ten years of training, planning, positioning myself and it's working.
We walk to his private office, and Aleksandr gestures to a chair. I shake my head, wanting to remain standing. Standing keeps me ready to move, gives me the advantage of mobility. He raises an eyebrow and gestures again, more insistently. I perch on the edge of the seat. Tense. Ready.
"I have something for you." He pulls out a USB drive, a tiny thing, barely the size of my fingernail, and sets it on the desk between us.
I wait. Don't ask questions even though my nerves scream at me to fill the silence. Nervous people talk too much, and I can't afford mistakes now especially.
"There's a man named Dimitri," Aleksandr continues. "Someone the Pakhan wants to keep on a tight leash. That"—he nods toward the drive—"will help us do it. Video footage that will be very problematic for him if it became public."
The drive feels weightless in my palm. So small. So insignificant-looking for something apparently worth so much.
"Your job is to deliver it to him while he is meeting with the Pakhan. Make contact, hand it over, explain the terms. As long as Dimitri cooperates with certain business interests, the footage stays private. If he doesn't..." Aleksandr shrugs. "The consequences should be obvious."
"Where do I find him?"
"He'll be at the Pakhan's house in about an hour. Simple transaction. Don't worry about your shift tonight, I'll make sure you don't lose any tips."
The Pakhan's house. My house. The house I watched Momochka die in. The house that shouldn't exist in my present, only my past. The house I'm not supposed to be alive to walk back into. My breath catches. I force it steady.
Nothing about this is simple, but I nod anyway. "Why me?" Hoping I'm projecting shy confusion instead of the wild calculation spinning through my mind.
"Because you've proven yourself trustworthy," Aleksandr says. "You saved my life. That buys you my trust. And because Dimitri won't see you as a threat, you'll walk right past his security without raising defenses."
"I’ll..." My voice trails off. I clear my throat and try again. "I’ll be meeting the Pakhan?" How I sound steady, I'll never know.
"Briefly, he’s busy. He mainly just wants someone Dimitri doesn’t know to bring the drive.
Gotta keep people on their toes." Aleksandr reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thick stack of cash.
"For cab fare and delivery. If things go smoothly, there might be a bonus.
Who knows, this could become a regular gig for you.
Imagine being able to keep your clothes on? "
I accept the money, ignoring his sexist bullshit. Those women work harder on their bad days than this man does on his best days. The cash is more than enough to make up for missing my shift.
"Sooner is better," Aleksandr says, pulling out his phone. Dismissing me.
I head back to the dressing room, tucking the drive into my corset. My mind works through logistics—I need to know what's on this drive. I need to understand what leverage Father has over this Dimitri. But something nags at me. The name. Dimitri. I've heard it before. I know I have.
I add a tailored jacket over my skirt and corset, but keeping the sky-high heels on.
I’m dressed just this side of too sexy, walking the line between professional and provocative.
The ride to the wealthy side of town feels endless.
Father's mansion sits on a hill, looking down at the world he considers beneath him. Nothing but desert for miles behind.
In the silence, I practice deep breathing.
Will I recognize any of his security? Probably not, Father cycles through men like they're disposable.
Maybe some of the staff, though. Panic flares hot in my chest. Irina.
She'd recognize me instantly. She spent every day with me before—God, I hope she isn't working tonight.
The town car pulls up to the gate , and after a brief conversation with the intercom, we're through. Rolling up the drive toward the house that holds too many ghosts.
I take a moment. Just sit there. Breathe.
The mansion looms—all dark stone and imposing architecture, designed to intimidate. It works.
Two armed men I don't recognize escort me inside, watching with suspicious eyes. They frisk me, hands impersonal and efficient. Thankfully they miss the USB drive secured in my corset.
They lead me through hallways that smell like old money and darker things.
Familiar hallways, though I study them like they're new.
Checking for cameras, changes, anything significant.
The mansion screams power and control in every expensive piece of art, every piece of statement furniture.
Father owns everything and everyone in it and he wants you to know it.
We stop outside the study. One guard opens the door without hesitation, and I'm pushed inside. The past is being mirrored, and I feel the beginning of a panic attack building in my chest. The tightness causing my breath to stutter.
A man sits behind a mahogany desk, reviewing documents. Shadows obscure most of him—I can only see his knuckles clearly; covered in the typical Bratva tattoos I've memorized from surveillance photos.
He looks up, and my entire body goes rigid.
I know his face better than my own. I've seen it a thousand times in my nightmares, burned it into my memory so thoroughly that even with my eyes closed I could trace every line, every cruel angle.
Father.
Ten years of preparation, and I'm still not ready to see him again.
He studies me, expression unreadable. "You're the girl Aleksandr sent over?" His voice is gravelly, cigarettes and age weathered to something that scrapes against my nerves. "The one who saved him."
"Yes." My voice is steady. Inside, I'm screaming.
"Good. Then you aren't new to keeping your mouth shut.
" He gestures to someone in the shadows to my left.
A man I hadn't noticed when I entered, which is sloppy, dangerous, the kind of mistake that gets you killed.
A man with brown eyes and familiar features.
A man who looks like Father. A man who looks just like me with darker features.
"This is my son." Father's words coat my body in ice. My brother? I knew he remarried but this is a grown man. Older than me. Which means—He didn't just kill Momochka. He killed her for doing something he'd done himself.
"Dimitri has been problematic lately. Acting like he has a voice in how this organization operates."
Dimitri steps forward, and I see him clearly for the first time. No darkness in his expression. No anger or aggression. Just resignation. Boredom, almost. The look of someone who's been expecting this moment but doesn't give a fuck that it's arrived.
"Sofiya," Father continues, "I want you to deliver your message to Dimitri. Make clear that I know things. That I have leverage. That I can destroy him if I choose to."
So unnecessarily dramatic. I could've just handed Father the drive. Anyone could have. But that's Father. Always making a performance of his power.
My hands tremble slightly as I pull the drive from my corset. Father's eyes follow the movement, leering. My stomach turns, and I fight the urge to gag.
Please, God, no.
"I'll let you two have a nice chat alone," Father says. "Have a nice little talk and understand what your lack of respect could mean." He sends Dimitri a scathing look. He dismisses us with a wave, returning his attention to his documents like we've already ceased to exist.
The men escort us to the library. Books line the walls that have probably never been read. especially not since I left. This room has been redesigned for privacy, not reading. Everything here is for show.
The door closes behind us and we're alone. But not quite. Something prickles at the back of my neck. The sensation of being watched. I scan the shadows, the corners, the spaces between bookshelves , seeing nothing. But I know that feeling. I’ve felt it before.
Volk. I just know he's here somewhere. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it settles something in my chest. A strange comfort I don't want to examine.
"I'm sorry," Dimitri says before I can speak. "I know you're just doing your job. Go ahead and show me whatever Father thinks will serve as good blackmail material, then you can go."
"I have a drive to for you." My voice comes out wooden, rehearsed.
"This drive contains footage that will cause problems for you if it becomes public.
As long as you cooperate, the footage stays private.
" I hold out the drive, feeling like a moron for repeating what Father said and for not even knowing what is on the drive.
This is a humiliating ritual for both of us and such a typical move by Father I want to punch a hole in the wall.
Dimitri doesn't take it. Instead, he moves closer, studying my face with an intensity that makes me even more uncomfortable. "What's your name?"