Chapter 16 Sofiya
Sofiya
SONG: ME AND THE DEVIL BY SOAP&SKIN
Nothing.
My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel, circling back to Lush for the fourth time today.
The parking lot stretches empty under the brutal afternoon sun, heat waves distorting the asphalt into something liquid and unstable.
Of course I know she won’t be there during the day, but I can’t help myself.
I should call someone. The police, maybe, except what would I tell them?
My best friend, well the closest thing I have to one anyway, disappeared.
And oh, by the way, we both work at a Bratva owned strip club that launders money and hosts all kinds of seedy criminals?
That'll go well. We all know the few cops that are not in the Bratva's pocket will not help a stripper.
It's a high risk lifestyle. We don’t deserve their attention when there are normal, non-stripping pretty white girls to look for.
Brad doesn't answer when I call, neither does Jack. Aleksandr's phone goes straight to voicemail. Even the day manager, who usually picks up on the first ring, because he's perpetually anxious about everything, lets it ring out.
The silence speaks volumes I don't want to hear.
Something in my gut twists, that same animal instinct that kept me alive in the desert all those years ago. The one that screamed stop right before I walked into Father's office and watched my world end. It's screaming now, and I'm done ignoring it.
Because I know where Angel is. Father's men have her. And there's only one reason they'd take her.
Me.
The realization settles like lead in my stomach. This is my fault. Every decision, every step closer to revenge, has painted a target that apparently extends beyond just me. Father must know. Or Volk told him. Which would explain why he’s ghosting me.
I drive to my apartment on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me while my brain spins through possibilities.
Inside, I clear every room twice, checking corners and closets.
The security system shows no breaches, but that means nothing.
These men are professionals. They've been doing this longer than I've been alive.
In my office, I stare at the wall covered in photographs, news clippings, schedules. Red string connecting faces to locations to dates. Ten years of research mapped out like a spider's web, and I'm the spider at the center, waiting to strike.
Except now I'm the one caught.
Anatoly’s photo stares back at me, he still makes my skin crawl even in two dimensions. The way he smiled while I screamed. The particular pleasure he'd taken in every violation, every cut, every moment of my humiliation.
Ivan's photo sits slightly apart. He'd been brutal but mechanical, following orders without the sick enjoyment Anatoly displayed. That doesn't make him less guilty. Just less enthusiastic about his evil.
And Father. Central to everything, his photo the largest, taken at some charity gala where he'd smiled for cameras like he was a legitimate businessman instead of a monster wearing human skin.
Volk's section remains notably empty. No photos, just a blank space with a question mark. I'd never managed to capture his image, had stopped trying after our encounter at the club. Now I know why. He'd been a ghost even before that night in the desert. After? He became smoke.
Where is he now? How could we have shared all the things we did, only for him to disappear when it matters most? Did he tell Father? Is that why Angel's missing?
The betrayal cuts deeper than it should.
I'd been so careful not to trust him, not to let that one moment of mercy ten years ago mean anything.
But somewhere between then and now , I'd felt it when I was in his arms. Recognition, yes, but something else.
Something that felt almost like... No. I slam that door shut.
Hope is a luxury I cannot afford, and feelings are weapons people use against you.
I'd learned that lesson already, watching Momachka's mutilated face as Father pulled the trigger.
I tried so hard to stay away from Angel but failed, and look what that got her?
My phone rings. Unknown number. I stare at it for three rings before answering.
"Yelena." The voice is familiar, dripping with malice I recognize from nightmares. Anatoly. "Did you really think you could hide? That we wouldn't figure out that perfect little Sofiya was really the bitch who should have died in the desert?"
My throat closes. I can't breathe, can't think past the roaring in my ears.
"We have your friend." He laughs, the sound wet and ugly. "Pretty thing. Screams real nice. Reminds me of someone."
"Touch her and I'll—"
"You'll what? Kill me?" More laughter. "You're welcome to try. In fact, we're counting on it. The Pakhan wants you alive, but accidents happen. Especially in our line of work."
"Where?" I growl more animal than human.
"The old meatpacking plant, you know the one. Come alone, unarmed, and maybe your friend lives long enough to watch you die. You have two hours."
The line goes dead. I sit motionless, phone still pressed to my ear, mind racing through scenarios. It's obviously a trap. Going alone is suicide, but its the only choice I have.
Angel's screams echo through my mind, mixing with my own from that night. I can't abandon her. I won't let her suffer for my mistakes, my obsession, my need for revenge that's consumed everything else.
Two hours.
I dress quickly, black jeans, heavy steel-toed boots with hidden blades, a black long-sleeve shirt that will hide blood and provide some minor protection to my arms. The Sig goes in my waistband, a backup pistol in an ankle holster, three knives distributed across my body.
The garrote from tonight's planned outfit wraps around my thigh.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and see a ghost wearing my face.
Ten years of training, preparation, and single-minded focus on this moment.
Except this isn't how it was supposed to happen. This wasn’t my plan.
The meatpacking plant looms against the dying light, all rusted metal and broken windows.
Abandoned for years, it's exactly where Father's men would choose for this. Father had it remodeled years ago as the perfect hideout location. It’s remote, soundproof, plenty of space for the things they do in shadows.
They even added small apartments for the torturers to rest in between their dirty work.
I park three blocks away, approach on foot, every sense screaming danger. No guards visible outside, which means they're all inside. Waiting.
The door hangs half-open, an invitation. I slip through, gun drawn, eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The smell hits first: old blood, decay, and underneath it something fresher. Recent violence.
"Right on time." Anatoly steps from behind a concrete pillar, grinning.
He's aged badly, face bloated from vodka and excess, a pot belly where he once had abs and muscle. But his eyes retain that same sick gleam. "Drop the gun. And whatever else you’re carrying. We all know you wouldn’t come with just one weapon. "
I hesitate.
"Drop them or Ivan to starts cutting pieces off your friend." He pulls out his phone, showing me a video feed. Angel, bound to a chair, face already bruised, Ivan standing behind her with a knife.
My weapons clatter to the concrete.
"Good girl." Anatoly moves closer, circling like a predator. "You know, I've been looking forward to this." He reaches out, running a finger down my cheek. I flinch. "You grew up nice. Real nice. Shame we didn't get to finish what we started."
"The Pakhan wants me alive."
"The Pakhan,” he says the title like its a slur, “doesn't always get what he wants." His smile widens. "Besides, by the time we're done, you'll beg me to finish it. Just like last time."
Movement behind me, and I spin, but I’m too slow.
Ivan emerges from the shadows, arm wrapping around my throat, cutting off air.
I struggle, but he's stronger, bigger, trained in the same brutal efficiency I've spent years trying to match.
Anatoly produces zip ties and binds my wrists behind my back with practiced ease.
"The Pakhan’s birthday party starts in six hours.
We have plenty of time for fun first. Then I'll tell him you tried to escape, fought back and lost. An unfortunate accident.
" Anatoly’s face is a mask of mock contrition.
They drag me deeper into the building, through corridors stained with decades of slaughter. Animal blood, I tell myself. Just animals. But the distinction feels meaningless now.
We stop in a large room, hooks still hanging from the ceiling and drains set into the floor. Angel sits bound in the center, head hanging, blood trickling from her nose. Her eyes widen when she sees me, filling with tears.
"Sofiya," she whispers. "You shouldn't have come."
"Touching." Anatoly shoves me forward, and I stumble, barely catching myself before face-planting. "The whore and her pet stripper reunited. Too bad it won't be a happy ending."
Ivan hauls Angel up, forcing her to watch as Anatoly advances on me. His fist connects with my stomach, driving air from my lungs , and I double over, gasping.
He grabs my hair, yanking my head back. " You should have never come back.
Never have crawled out of hell to find me.
Well, here you are. And you know what? You were right to be afraid.
Because everything we did to you before was mercy compared to what's coming. Igor was weak, but me? I’m ready for you.
" He hits me again. And again. Methodical, brutal, each blow calculated for maximum pain without killing me or knocking me unconscious.
Ivan watches, holding Angel's head, forcing her to witness every moment, though I see her close her eyes often.