Savage Truce (Heart of Crime #1)

CHAPTER 1

Anastasia

The sewing machine purrs beneath my hands, while the familiar scent of steam and starch fills the air. Watching the thread weave through the fabric gives me a sense of peacefulness I’ve never been able to find anywhere else.

My workshop, situated at the back of the theater where I’ve been employed since I graduated from school, is the only place I’m truly happy.

Well, normally it’s peaceful, but with the final performance only hours away, every rail is packed with costumes waiting for one last inspection from my boss before they’re sent backstage to the performers.

I lift my foot off the pedal and hold the shirt up to the light, checking the seam while my thoughts turn to my parents and my approaching twenty-first birthday.

A heavy sigh escapes me because in a matter of two weeks my whole life is going to change, and I’m not ready for it. Far from.

Honestly, I don’t remember the last time I saw my parents, or any of my family members for that matter.

The rare times Mother has called over the years, her tone has always been clipped, making me feel like she’s doing me a favor by honoring me with a few minutes of her attention.

But as for actually seeing them? Being in the same room as them?

I only have a handful of vague memories of my time in Russia.

Lowering the shirt, I snip a loose thread hanging from the cuff while continuing to worry about my uncertain future.

When I turned six, my parents shipped me off.

Home became one expensive boarding school after another, scattered across the UK.

So, even though I’m the granddaughter of a pakhan on my mother’s side and my father is part of the Irish mob, I don’t know the first thing about Russia, the Bratva, or the mafia.

I don’t even speak Russian anymore. I knew a little when I was younger but have forgotten most of it over the years, and attending international schools has left me with a neutral English accent instead of a Russian or Irish one.

Now I’m just Anastasia Donovan. A girl who loves being a seamstress and doesn’t want to leave this little slice of heaven I’ve carved out for myself at the theater.

I set the shirt aside while the thought of being forced to return to Russia ties my stomach in knots.

“Anastasia?”

I nearly jump out of my skin when Charlotte, the head of wardrobe, suddenly comes into the workshop. Like always, her reading glasses are perched low on her nose, giving her a stern look.

Her eyes immediately sweep over the room before settling on me. “How are things?”

Getting up, I take the shirt to the rails and place it on a hanger while saying, “Just finished the last shirt. I’m done.”

Her eyebrows fly into her hairline, and I swear she seems impressed. “Really? Even the last-minute adjustments I gave you three hours ago?”

Nodding, I pick a piece of lint off a dress before straightening a collar. “I just want to tidy my workshop, then I’ll head backstage so I can be on standby for any wardrobe malfunctions.”

Charlotte visibly relaxes, the tension draining from her face. “You’re a godsend. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She walks to the rail of costumes and checks every costume quickly before calling out, “The rack is ready. Come get it.”

“On my way,” Emily, a junior assistant, replies. “Just give me a minute.”

Charlotte looks at me again, her stern expression softening. “I see a bright future for you in the industry, Anastasia.”

Even though the compliment makes me feel uncomfortable, I keep a smile on my face. “Thank you.”

Emily rushes into the room, and taking the rail, she rolls it out into the hallway. Charlotte follows her, and I let out a heavy breath when I’m alone.

With everything being so busy, I decided to hold off until we’re done with the play before I hand in my notice. Tonight is the final show, which means I’m out of time.

What am I even supposed to say?

Sorry, Charlotte. I have to resign because my Bratva family is taking me back to Russia, where I’ll probably be married off to a complete stranger.

I cringe just thinking about it.

Yeah. There’s no way I’m telling her that.

My gaze sweeps through the workshop as guilt floods my chest.

Charlotte has taught me so much, and I can’t even give her a reason for leaving.

Somehow, I have to find the courage to tell her before they come to get me.

Unfortunately, this is how things work in the Bratva. The kids are shipped off to boarding schools, so they’re not burdens until they become useful pawns.

Useful. That’s something I’ll never be.

Gathering everything I’ll need, I place the items in my sewing kit before leaving the room. As I walk down the hallway, one of the actresses passes me with a look of disdain on her face.

I glance down at my body, and even though I like what I see, I know Mother is going to be very unhappy.

My weight has never been a problem for me, but I’ve always been judged because I don’t meet the high standards of what a woman should look like.

I remember the girls at school who loved calling me a pig and making oinking sounds. The actresses here aren’t much better. They’re all pretty with tiny waists.

After every show, when the staff gathers for the celebratory party, they always make some kind of comment about my weight.

Sofia, the lead actress, once asked whether it’s difficult for me to shop for clothes in my size. The supporting actress, Ingrid, laughed and said it’s probably why I became a seamstress, so I’d have something to wear.

I hate how they think my body is public property and they have a right to judge it. No matter how hard I try to ignore all the cruel comments, they leave cracks in my self-esteem.

Because of it, I prefer to stay away from people and live only for my art. There’s nothing in the world like turning fabric into something beautiful.

Placing my sewing kit on one of the available tables near the costume rails, I glance at all the staff who are running around like headless chickens, helping the performers get ready.

There’s a nervous energy in the air as I walk closer to the wings, and peeking past one of the curtains, I watch as the rows of seats fill with people.

I take in all the beautiful dresses the women are wearing, and my thoughts turn to how most are able to walk into any store and leave with armfuls of clothes, while people like me struggle. We have to settle for unflattering outfits that are mostly made to hide our bodies.

Hell no, I refuse to wear that slop. My closet is filled with gorgeous dresses I’ve made.

My gaze drifts over the auditorium, then a man in the front row grabs my attention. Dressed in a tailored black suit that probably costs more than everything in my wardrobe combined, he looks devastatingly handsome.

Wow.

His warm brown hair with lighter strands here and there is cut in a neat style, and the scruff on his jaw makes him look manly. Broad shoulders strain against his jacket, and my fingers itch to take out the seam just a little so it will fit him better.

Taking in his clearly muscled arms, there’s a fluttering in my stomach.

He’s focused on the program, but then someone moves past him to take the seat beside him, drawing his attention.

No matter how hard I try, my eyes keep finding their way back to the ridiculously attractive man. There’s something very intense about him.

Damn, he’s definitely the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.

I smell Sofia’s sweet perfume right before she comes to stand beside me and notices who I’m looking at.

“You can stare all you want. That man is way out of your league,” she sneers. “But he’s right up my alley. I think I’ll invite him backstage after the show. I’m sure he’d like to warm my bed.”

Chuckling with a triumphant expression, she walks to where Irene is putting on one of the period dresses.

Bitch.

Walking back to where I left my sewing kit, I sigh because she’s right. A man like that will never look at me.

Irene glances at me, then snorts before saying something to Sofia.

They can go to hell. I have bigger problems to worry about.

Like Russia.

I just know it’s going to be a million times worse once I’m back home. A Bratva princess is supposed to be delicate like Sofia and Irene, a beautiful woman who can be paraded in front of some allied family to seal a deal.

Over the years, Mother has always reminded me that I’m a Bratva princess.

Fedorov blood runs through my veins, and my life belongs to the family.

She never misses the chance to tell me I’d better lose weight before Grandfather lays eyes on me.

He won’t be happy if he sees how fat I am, and being on his bad side will not end well for me.

Screw them.

Part of me is actually relieved I’m plus-size. Looking the way I do might be what saves me from an unwanted marriage. The last thing I want is to be handed off to some ruthless man twice my age like I’m nothing more than a pair of shoes.