Chapter 22
VIVIKA
The bathwater has been scented with something expensive, oils that leave my skin soft and fragrant as I climb out and wrap myself in a thick white robe that one of the women holds open for me.
The warmth of the bath still clings to my muscles, loosening tension I'd been carrying, and I take a moment to breathe deeply and center myself before the transformation begins.
Three of them arrived at the farmhouse this morning in a black SUV loaded with garment bags and cases full of supplies, and they've been treating me like royalty ever since they walked through the door. Because they think I am royalty. Lev told them I'm Ana Veche.
"This way," says the oldest of the three, a severe-looking woman with silver streaks in her dark hair and a hunched posture. "We'll start with your hair."
I follow her into what used to be the farmhouse's master bedroom, which has been transformed into a makeshift salon overnight. A styling chair sits in front of a large mirror that one of the women must've brought, surrounded by cases of makeup and hair products and tools.
Garment bags hang from the closet door like presents waiting to be opened, and a small table holds an array of nail polishes in shades ranging from deep burgundy to classic nude to shimmering champagne.
I settle into the chair and meet my own eyes in the mirror, forcing myself to sit straighter, to lift my chin, to embody the woman I'm pretending to be.
Ana Veche wouldn't slouch or look uncertain or overwhelmed by three women who exist only to serve her.
She'd accept this attention as nothing more than the baseline respect owed to a woman of her standing.
"Your hair is lovely," the stylist says, running her fingers through the damp strands and examining the color in the light from the window. "But we'll help bring out the richness with some dye, how do you think that sounds?"
"Do what you need to do," I tell her with a flick of my wrist, though I'd rather not have my appearance changed that much.
Lev promised me this makeover he set up for me would feel like pampering, though I'm not the sort of woman who typically does this type of thing.
I feel uneasy with all of it, so I guess it's good practice for later when I'm forced to meet with Luka Kolar.
She nods and begins mixing something in a small bowl, the sharp chemical scent of ammonia filling the air and making my nose wrinkle slightly.
Another woman—younger, with nimble fingers and a collection of silver rings that click together when she moves—takes my left hand and begins examining my nails, clicking her tongue.
"These will need work," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
"The shape is good, but we'll extend them slightly and do a French manicure.
" When she looks up at me, I keep my chin erect so the hairdresser can keep working as I look down my nose at her.
I'm sure it makes me look haughty, but she smiles. "Is that alright?"
"Hmm… good," I say curtly, as I imagine some spoiled rich princess might say to her stylist. I almost feel bad treating people like this, though they seem used to it.
I let her work, watching in the mirror as the stylist begins applying the dye to my hair with a brush.
The color's darker than anything I've ever worn, and I find myself wondering if I'll recognize the woman staring back at me when they're finished.
I know Lev isn't trying to make me into the real Ana Veche, but sometimes it feels like Vivika is vanishing. I don't like feeling like that.
The whole time, all I can think about is those women at the bus station.
I see them every time I close my eyes—the hunched shoulders, the downcast gazes, the way they shuffled onto that bus like cattle being herded to slaughter.
I can't let myself imagine it in too much detail or I'll break down crying.
And here I am, being pampered and perfumed and transformed into a Mafia Donna, all so I can help stop the machine that feeds on their suffering.
I look at the woman doing my nails, at her bent head and her careful concentration, and I think about how easily she could've been one of them.
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong circumstances—that's all it would've taken.
The line between serving a Donna and being sold by one is thinner than anyone wants to admit.
"You're fortunate," I say quietly, and she looks up with surprise in her eyes. "All of you… You have skills, a trade, a way to support yourselves that keeps you safe. There are women in this world who aren't so lucky."
The stylist pauses with her brush halfway to my head, and the third woman—who's been organizing the makeup cases—turns to look at me with wide eyes.
"She’s right," the older stylist says after a moment.
Her eyes meet mine in the reflection on the mirror ahead of me as she continues.
"We've heard stories of what happens to women who fall into the wrong hands…
" She trails off, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence because the horrors and atrocities in this world are so dark, no one wants to think of them, let alone speak openly of them.
"That's why I've come back, and I'm fighting my brother," I say, and I'm surprised to find that I mean it completely. "Those women deserve someone who will burn down the systems that profit from their pain."
The nail technician's eyes have gone wet, and she blinks rapidly as she returns her attention to my hands. "We are honored to serve you, Ms. Veche, truly honored."
I don't know what to say to that, so I remain quiet and let them continue their work.
But something has shifted in the room, a new energy that feels almost like worship, and I realize that these women would follow Ana Veche into fire if she asked them to.
The real Ana, I mean—or at least the version of her that exists in their minds, the powerful Donna who might have protected them if she were still alive.
And I realize I have to be worthy of that. This little charade I'm putting on has to be so incredible that it moves mountains the way Ana Veche would, because if not these women pampering me, the ones on that bus are counting on me. I get to make a difference, and that thought boosts my confidence.
The dye processes while the nail technician finishes my manicure, each nail now perfectly shaped and gleaming with a subtle French tip that makes my hands look more elegant than they've ever been in my entire life.
Then the stylist leads me to a basin to rinse, and I watch dark water swirl down the drain as she massages conditioner through my newly colored hair with strong, sure fingers.
When I look in the mirror again, I don't recognize myself.
The woman staring back at me has hair the color of rich espresso, several shades darker than my natural brown, and it makes my skin look porcelain and my green eyes more striking than they've ever been.
The stylist blow-dries it smooth and then begins working with a curling iron, creating loose waves that frame my face and cascade over my shoulders elegantly. I could never do this myself.
"Beautiful," the makeup artist breathes, stepping forward with a case that opens to reveal more products than I've owned in my entire life. "Now let's enhance what nature gave you."
She starts with primer and foundation, smoothing my skin until it looks flawless and luminous, like something from a magazine advertisement.
Then comes concealer beneath my eyes to hide the shadows from too many sleepless nights, contour along my cheekbones and jawline to sharpen my features, highlighter on the high points of my face to catch the light.
I watch in fascination as she transforms my features, making them sharper and more defined, more like the photographs of Ana that Lev showed me weeks ago when this all began.
"Your eyes are your best feature," she says, selecting a palette of neutral shadows with hints of bronze and champagne. "We'll keep it classic but dramatic. You'll be memorable."
She blends and layers like an artist, building depth and dimension on my lids until my eyes look larger and more dramatic.
Liquid liner creates a subtle wing at the outer corners, elongating my eyes and giving them a feline quality that commands attention.
And three coats of mascara make my lashes look impossibly long and full, fanning out like dark feathers.
When she steps back to examine her work, even she seems impressed by what she's accomplished. "Lips," she announces, selecting a shade of deep berry. "This will complete the look."
She lines my lips and fills them in with the rich color, then adds a clear gloss on top that makes them look fuller and more inviting. I press them together and examine the result in the mirror, and the woman looking back at me is someone I've never met before.
She's powerful.
She's beautiful.
She's the kind of woman who walks into a room and commands attention without saying a word.
She's Ana Veche—I'm Ana Veche.
And it's shocking.
"Now the clothes," the older stylist says, unzipping the first garment bag to reveal a suit that makes my breath catch.
It's charcoal gray, clearly custom-made from expensive fabric.
It's the kind of material that whispers money and power, but it's intimidating.
Paired with the silk blouse, this is a power suit, something I've never tried on, let alone owned.
It's exquisite, and I drop the robe without hesitation—Ana wouldn't be modest—and I let them help me into the outfit piece by piece.
The silk against my skin feels luxurious, and the slacks fit like they were made for me, hugging my hips and lengthening my legs. When I shrug into the jacket and turn to face the mirror, I feel something fundamental shift inside my chest.