Chapter 19 Katya
KATYA
They drag me down a narrow hallway as I stumble to keep pace.
My wrists are raw from the rope, my face throbs where they hit me.
Blood has dried on my cheek, pulling the skin when I move my jaw, and the two men holding my arms don't speak.
They haul me forward, bruising my arms with their grip.
We stop at a door.
One of them unlocks it and shoves me inside.
I catch myself on the edge of a desk before I fall.
The room is warmer, lit by a lamp instead of the bare bulb of the other room.
It smells faintly of coffee which makes my mouth water.
Books line one wall, and a radiator ticks softly near the door.
There’s still no window, but the heat makes my skin prickle.
It feels almost too normal after the freezing cage of a room they kept me in.
I remember the damp air, the concrete walls slick with moisture.
The warmth here feels wrong, as if comfort itself is a threat.
A chair sits across from the desk and they push me into it.
The older man from before enters—the one who cut my cheek.
He’s carrying the same folder thick with papers that he tried to force me to understand the last time he confronted me.
He sets it on the table and sits across from me slowly.
The two younger men stand behind me, blocking the door.
“Ekaterina Morozova,” he says again, opening the worn folder.
His tone carries the same accusation too, as if I'm supposed to just have a lightning moment and remember a past I've never lived.
I hate him for it, but I have to play along long enough for Dimitri to come find me.
My pulse spikes.
“We’ve already done this,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not my name.”
“Still denying it?”
He slides the document across the desk like he’s performing for an audience.
“This is a birth certificate issued in Perm. It lists your mother as Anzhela Volsky and your father as Lyovik Morozov.”
The paper is the same one he showed me before—black ink on yellowed parchment, my birthdate, my mother’s name, and beside it, that same name I can’t make sense of. Lyovik Morozov—Father.
My throat closes.
“I told you before—I don’t know who that is. My name is Katya Volsky.”
“Liar.”
He pulls out the photo again, but I shake my head at it.
The man, the woman who could be my mother’s reflection, and the little girl between them.
I swear it looks like me too, but I don't know that man, and I can't remember if my mother looked like that or if that could be someone who just resembles her.
“You were raised away from Morozov's family,” the older man says.
“Your mother took you and ran before your father died. She didn’t tell you who he was or what you were. But that doesn’t change the truth.”
I tear my eyes from the photo, my hands clenched into fists on the table.
“Even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean anything. I don’t know these people.”
I honestly don't know what they're getting at.
Everything is so confusing.
I was supposed to come here to get information for Dimitri to solve his problems, and whatever this is seems overwhelming and foreign.
“You're the connection.”
He leans back, studying me.
“Your father was Lyovik Morozov, Pakhan of the Morozov family. Before he died, he made a pact with Sergei Vetrov—an alliance to share territory and resources. It shifted the balance in Moscow.”
My stomach churns.
I don’t want to hear this, but I can’t look away.
Sergei must be an older relative of Dimitri and his brother Rolan, but that doesn't mean I know anything about this.
“Your father died when you were five,” he continues.
“His enemies thought the Morozov line would end with him. But it didn’t. You survived. As long as you live, the pact lives. The Vetrovs can claim allegiance with the Morozov family through you. You are what will make my enemies more powerful, and I can't let that happen."
“I don't understand…."
My voice is barely a whisper as I try to reconcile what it all means for me and for Dimitri.
Why they want to harm either of us.
“Your father’s allies owe the Morozovs a blood debt. If you claim your birthright, they will follow you. And if you align with the Vetrovs, they will follow them too.”
He taps the photo.
“You are the last person who could take ownership of that pact. If you live, the Vetrovs will have the strength to destroy us.”
I stare at him, my mind reeling.
This can’t be real.
I’m just a thief, a con artist.
I’ve spent my life stealing scraps and running from danger.
I’m not a Pakhan’s daughter or a pawn in a Mafia war.
But the photo is staring up at me.
The little girl with my eyes.
The man with my cheekbones.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
It feels like I'm in a really bad B movie where the bad guy gives his monologue right before he kills his victim.
“Because you need to understand what you are.” He leans forward.
“You’re not just some girl Dimitri Vetrov picked up off the street. You’re a weapon. A tool. And he’s been using you, Katerina. Do you like men using you?"
His words send a chill down my spine.
It disgusts me to even hear a hint of what he's insinuating.
My stomach clenches.
“He doesn’t know,” I say.
“Dimitri doesn’t know who I am.”
“We know.”
He smiles, cold and cruel.
“We’ve known since the moment you walked into that card room. We let you play your little game to see what the Vetrovs would do. Would they realize what they had? Would they use you? Turns out, they’re as ignorant as you are.”
My chest squeezes.
Dimitri has no idea what I am, and now these men will use that against him.
“If I’m so valuable, why am I still alive?” I ask.
"Wouldn't killing me just end that pact so you can take over?"
He looks as cruel and vindictive as they come.
The older man’s smile widens.
He reaches across the table and scrapes some of the blood from my cheek with his thumb.
I flinch but don’t pull away.
“Because you’re more useful alive,” he says. “For now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’ll use you to draw Dimitri out. We’ll let him know we have you. We’ll make him come for you. When he walks into our trap, we’ll reveal what you are. Then we’ll slit your throat in front of him.”
The words hit me hard.
Not because I’m afraid to die—I’ve been afraid since they dragged me in here—but because of what it will do to Dimitri.
The look on his face when he realizes what I am.
What I could have been. What he lost.
“He won’t come for me,” I say, but the lie tastes bitter.
“He will.”
The older man stands, closing the folder.
“He’s already in love with you. We’ve been watching him. The way he looks at you. The way he reacts when you’re in danger. He’s tied himself to you, and that makes him weak.”
I want to argue, but I can’t.
Because I’ve seen it too.
The way Dimitri’s eyes follow me.
The way his hands linger when he touches me.
The way he promised to protect me.
He does care.
More than he should.
And now that’s going to get him killed.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say.
“Dimitri's smarter than you think. He won’t walk into your trap.”
“He already has.”
The older man moves toward the door.
“The moment he let you into his operation, he sealed his fate—and yours.”
He leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, but the two younger men stay.
One grabs my hair, yanking my head back.
I cry out and claw at his wrist.
“You should’ve stayed in whatever gutter you crawled out of,” he says, his breath hot against my ear.
“Now you’ll die for a family you never knew.”
He releases me, shoving my head forward.
I slump in the chair, my vision blurring with tears of rage and helplessness.
It doesn't seem fair at all.
I didn't even know who I was.
I’m going to die in this warehouse, and Dimitri will walk into a trap thinking he’s saving a thief.
He's going to be murdered because of me.
I bend forward, folding my arms on the desk and resting my chin on them.
I'm so heavy now I can't even cry.
When the men walk out, locking the door behind them, it's a small relief, though I hold no illusion that I'm safer or better off.
They'll return, and they'll do exactly as they've told me they'll do.
My thoughts turn to my mother and what she's doing, how she's feeling.
She didn't even know I was leaving when I took off and never looked back.
No doubt, she tried to find me, probably even reported it to the police at some point when she got worried.
But I was angry and independent—and stupid.
So fucking stupid.
I never had any business leaving her there.
Sure, she could fend for herself, but she's all alone now, and I'm going to die here and she'll never even know what really happened to me.
It almost brings me to tears, but I've cried them all, so all I can do is sit with the heaviness and try not to think about what other shit might happen.
When I hear shouting, it pulls me from my dark thoughts.
A thunder of footsteps rushes past the door, then more shouting erupts and I swear I hear gunshots.
I scramble to my feet and press my ear against the door.
My heart is racing so hard it makes it difficult to hear anything over the whir of my pulse in my ears.
But when I strain to listen and I take deep, calming breath, I know I hear gunfire—loud booms echoing back and forth with the pepper of an automatic rifle.
Someone is here and there's fighting going on.
My heart pounds.
Is it Dimitri?
Did he come for me?
"Help!"
I scream, smacking the door with my open palm until it hurts.
Then I ball up my fist and bang harder, hoping to be heard over the crack of the gunshots.
"Someone help!"
My imagination runs wild now, thoughts of them capturing Dimitri and making him watch as they slit my throat.
It brings tears to my eyes now as a fresh wave of adrenaline and emotion surges.
"Dimitri!"
I shout, almost pleading with him to hear me and run away.
I will die for him if I have to, but I don’t want him to come closer.
I can't stand the idea of their capturing him and killing him.
"Please, oh my God," I whimper, pressing my forehead to the door.
"Please, God…"
My soft prayer is the only tether I have to the last hope of rescue.
If it's Dimitri and he's not successful, that's it.
I don't want to die.
And I don't want him to die.
All I can do is stand here sobbing and shaking, praying somehow, those things don't happen.