Kidnapped by the Russian Mafia King: My Memory Isn#8217;t Mine

Chapter 001 Isabella

The Chanel clutch weighs exactly three ounces more than it should.

I stand alone on the Museum steps and adjust the cream silk of my Valentino dress. The August afternoon air is heavy, tasting of ozone and coming rain, carrying the distant, brittle sound of champagne laughter from inside. Chicago’s elite are continuing their charity charade without me.

Three weeks.

Three weeks since Emma took a bullet meant for Alessandro. Three weeks of planning while she healed in the sterile quiet of the hospital wing. Three weeks of perfecting this moment.

My driver waited exactly ten minutes after I dismissed him. I gave him a smile, a lie about catching a ride with my brothers, and watched him pull away. My brothers left an hour ago.

I press my palm against the clutch. The blade hidden in the lining pushes back, a hard, flat pressure against my skin. More comforting than a lover’s hand. Next to it, the electronic lockpicks nestle in the leather—tools of a trade my family doesn't know I’ve mastered. In the Moretti family, we keep our secrets close and our weapons closer.

I descend two steps. My heels click against the marble. A deliberate rhythm. Click. Click. The silk of my dress whispers against my legs, a soft, sensual counterpoint to the cold steel in my hand. The sound echoes across the empty plaza. A dinner bell for the predators I know are watching.

I’ve left strategic gaps in my security for twenty-one days. Mysterious headaches that sent me outside for air at precisely the wrong moments. Solitary walks. I have made myself the perfect, vulnerable prey.

All for this. Alone in a designer gown, practically gift-wrapped.

My pulse holds steady at sixty-four beats per minute. I checked.

I’ve trained for this. Not the kidnapping itself—that’s just theater. I’ve trained for the aftermath. For walking into the den of the man who wants me dead and finding out why I dream his brother’s name. The nightmare fragments claw at the back of my mind. Why do I know Russian lullabies? Why does the taste of black tea make me want to weep?

The wind shifts. It brings the scent of expensive cologne.

They’re here.

Three shadows detach themselves from the museum’s ornate columns. They move with fluid precision. No running. No shouting. No waving of guns. They simply appear, cutting off my retreat with an economy of motion that would be beautiful if it weren't designed to terrify.

"Miss Moretti."

The lead man’s voice carries a faint Russian accent. Polished. Hard.

I tighten my grip on the clutch—not enough to draw the blade, just enough to sell the fear I should be feeling. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"We haven't." He steps closer. My eyes scan him automatically. Shoulder holster bulging under the suit jacket. A slight hitch in his gait—old injury, right leg. "But Mr. Sokolov has been wanting to make your acquaintance for some time."

Satisfaction curls in my gut. Finally. The trap I set for myself is springing shut.

"And if I decline his request?"

The man’s smile is thin, almost apologetic. "Then we’ll have to insist."

I glance between the three of them. I calculate the angles. The throat strike on the leader. The knee to the groin of the second. The outcome is certain: I could take one, maybe two. Not three. And definitely not without ruining the dress.

The black SUV idles at the curb. The rear door stands open like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.

"Well." I let a tremor enter my voice. It’s only half-false. The adrenaline is real, even if the fear isn't. "When you put it that way."

I walk toward the car. Chin high. Every inch the Moretti princess too proud to be dragged. The men fall into formation around me, a mobile cage. Close enough to grab, far enough to avoid a desperate strike.

"You can get in yourself, or Boris here can help you," the lead soldier says, gesturing to the open door. "Mr. Sokolov prefers willing compliance, but he’ll accept other arrangements."

"That won't be necessary."

The voice cuts through the humid air. Soft. Measured. More dangerous than a gunshot.

Viktor Sokolov steps from behind the SUV.

My carefully maintained composure fractures. Just a hairline crack.

He is exactly as I remember from the night he stood in my dining room, threatening my family. Tall. Lean. He moves with the reined-in grace of a predator who has never needed to hurry because the outcome is already decided. His pale eyes catch the fading afternoon light, turning them the color of winter ice.

"Sofiya Rozetti," he says.

The Russian syllables roll off his tongue—София Розетти.

Hearing my name—that name—in his voice sends a shockwave down my spine. Not fear. Recognition.

"Printsessa."

Princess. It should sound mocking. It doesn't. It sounds like a claim.

He circles me slowly. He steps into my personal space, close enough that the scent of him fills my lungs—dark amber, smoke, something metallic. He passes behind me. His breath stirs the fine hairs at the nape of my neck. My body reacts instantly. A traitorous spike in heart rate. Heat flushing beneath the silk. A cellular memory that predates conscious thought.

"You know," he says conversationally, still circling. "I expected more fear. Tears, perhaps. Certainly more than this… calm."

"Would tears change anything?"

"No." He stops directly in front of me. He is too close. I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "But they would be normal. And you, Miss Moretti, are being decidedly abnormal."

His hand comes up. He doesn't touch me. His finger traces the air an inch from my cheek, following the line of my jaw. The almost-touch creates a static field, electricity skittering across my skin.

"Your brother's fake wife, Emma, screamed when she was shot. A very normal reaction to bullets tearing through flesh. But you… you didn't even flinch when my men surrounded you."

Emma’s scream echoes in my memory. The wet sound of impact. The blood spreading across white fabric like spilled wine. My fault. Always my fault. The guilt is sharp and sudden, a familiar weight I’ve carried for three weeks.

"Emma survived," I say. My voice is steadier than I feel.

"This time." His pale eyes bore into mine. He’s looking for the crack. "But how many more will suffer for your sins? How much more blood needs to be spilled before the debt is paid?"

I don't look away. I let him see something real. Not fear. Understanding.

"Panic rarely improves any situation, Mr. Sokolov."

Something flickers in his expression. Surprise? Respect?

"No," he agrees softly. "It rarely does."

The moment stretches, taut as a wire. Then he steps back, gesturing to the car with mock gallantry.

"Shall we, printsessa?"

I could run. Even now. One scream would bring museum security. One phone call would bring my brothers and enough firepower to level the block.

I don't run. I don't scream.

I choose to walk to the SUV. Every step is deliberate. Voluntary.

The leather creaks as I slide onto the backseat. Underneath the new-car smell, there is the faint, copper tang of old blood. I don't let myself think about it. I settle in like I’m entering a limousine after a gala, not a hearse.

The voluntary nature of my movements unsettles his men. I see them exchanging glances. Confusion in the set of their shoulders. The prey isn't supposed to climb into the lion's mouth.

Viktor enters after me. The door closes with a sound like finality.

The driver pulls away from the curb. We pass through familiar Chicago streets, but they look different from behind tinted windows. Michigan Avenue’s glittering storefronts give way to the darker territories. I know these routes. I’ve killed in some of these alleys. I’ve left bodies in dumpsters behind these warehouses.

But tonight, I am not the hunter. Tonight, I am choosing to be the prey.

"You’re not what I expected," Viktor says. His voice is barely above a whisper, intimate in the enclosed space.

I turn to look at him. Those pale eyes are already on me. He’s sitting close enough that our knees almost touch.

"What did you expect?"

"Someone softer. More breakable." His gaze drops to my hands, still folded perfectly over my clutch. "Someone whose pulse would be racing."

He can't feel my pulse from there. Yet somehow, he knows it’s steady. Just like somehow I know he isn't going to kill me. Not yet. There is a current running between us, unnameable and thick. This isn't a kidnapping. It’s a dance.

"Moretti training," he murmurs, almost to himself. "They raise their women cold."

Let him think that. Let him think my family made me this way. Let him believe I am simply performing the role of the untouchable mafia princess. It’s safer than the truth.

"I’ve met your brothers," he continues. He’s studying me like a specimen. "Matteo, who kills without expression. Enzo, who signs death warrants between kisses to his wife. I expected their sister to be… protected."

"Protected doesn't mean weak."

"No." There’s a shift in his tone. Interest. "It doesn't."

The silence that follows isn't threatening. It’s assessing. I’ve surprised him. He’s recalculating. Good. The longer he underestimates why I’m really here, the longer I have to find my answers.

The compound gates loom ahead. Industrial. Forbidding.

As we approach, the weight of my choice settles on my chest. Once those gates close, there is no going back. No escape. No rescue. Just me and the monsters I’ve chosen to face.

The gates slide shut behind us with the mechanical precision of a tomb sealing.

Despite everything, I feel more alive than I have in years.

Viktor shifts. The leather groans. He angles his body toward mine. It should feel aggressive, but it feels like recognition.

"Most women would be bargaining by now," he says. "Begging. Offering things in exchange for their freedom."

"I’m not most women."

"No." His gaze traces my face. He’s trying to read a language he almost recognizes. "You’re not."

The silence is charged. Dangerous. I can feel him trying to solve me. Trying to fit me into a box that makes sense. Brave hostage? Broken princess? A girl with a death wish?

I let him wonder.

"You’re either very stupid," he says finally.

I meet his eyes. "Maybe I’m just tired of being afraid."

Something shifts in his face. Acceptance. It’s a plausible answer. He settles back against the seat, but I catch the way his fingers tap against his thigh. Restless. Uncertain.

Good. Let him think I’m reckless. Let him think guilt over Emma has made me numb. Let him think anything except the truth.

My fingers find the clasp of my clutch. I feel the shapes of the weapons beneath the designer leather. Tools I probably won't need, but their presence grounds me. Just like the memories that haunt my sleep ground me. Fragments of Russian lullabies. The taste of black tea with jam. A boy’s laughter echoing through marble halls.

The nightmares always end the same way: with blood and screaming and a child’s voice calling for his sister.

But maybe here, in this compound that smells like danger and secrets, I’ll finally learn how they began.

The SUV slows. Through the windshield, the main building grows larger. It’s a fortress disguised as a mansion. Clean lines. Bulletproof glass.

"Everyone wants something, Mr. Sokolov," I say.

"And what is it you want, kotyonok?"

The endearment—kitten—slips out. I see him catch himself, his jaw tightening.

The truth burns on my tongue. I want to know why I dream in Russian. I want to know why a silver bracelet with half a heart makes me cry. I want to know why your brother’s name feels like a prayer and a curse wrapped in guilt I can't explain.

Instead, I give him a different truth.

"I want freedom."

His laugh is soft. Humorless. "Freedom comes with a price."

"Everything does."

The SUV stops. This is it. My last chance to reveal this as the trap it is. To signal the men my family certainly has watching. To end this charade. The moment feels heavy, like stepping off a cliff’s edge knowing you can't fly.

I reach for the door handle myself. I step out into the Chicago night. The air here feels different. Charged. Full of possibility instead of peril. The compound stretches before me, and somewhere inside are the answers I’ve been seeking for eleven years.

Behind me, I hear Viktor exit the vehicle. His footsteps are deliberate on the gravel.

"Welcome to your cage, Sofiya Rozetti," he says.

The way he says cage makes it sound like a promise rather than a threat.

But cages only hold things that want to escape.

And I’m exactly where I want to be.