Chapter 15 Roran
Roran
Diana is already asleep by the time I get back to my room. She passed out on my bed again, curled toward the wall with her work T-shirt still on, and it doesn’t look like she even showered first.
Our father ‘loves’ us so much, he gave us two old rooms in the basement of his five-floor villa. We sleep down here with the house staff. But honestly? I’m not complaining.
Seeing that shitface in the Konfetki and around the house, too? No, thank you.
Just the thought of him sipping his morning coffee like the smug bastard he is makes me shiver. Every. Single. Day.
I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her.
Diana’s brow is slightly furrowed—she looks restless even in her sleep.
Her lips twitch every few seconds, like she’s arguing with someone in a dream.
She worries about me too much, when she shouldn’t be involved in any of this. Not at her age.
I take a slow breath and gently pull the blanket up over her shoulder, tucking her exposed arms underneath. Her fingers are cold to the touch.
The AC runs twenty-four hours a day. If we turn it off, the other staff won’t get the airflow either. So even if we’re freezing in the middle of summer, we don’t touch it unless they ask.
I’ve already stocked up enough warm clothes and blankets for moments like these—just to stay low and survive until we can finally get the fuck out of this hellhole.
I kick off my shoes, sighing with relief as the ache leaves my feet. My ankles crack softly as I rotate them. The last few days—since Diana told me Solas is dead—I’ve been working overtime. Dodging my father like just the sight of him might kill me.
I sit there for a few seconds, rubbing my palms over my knees.
I know my marriage to Ivan is creeping closer.
Maybe Diana’s right. I don’t like the risks she’s taking, but if I can really get my hands on what I need for the medicine… I could save all three of us.
I lean forward and carefully grab her phone off the nightstand. I hold it for a beat—just staring at the cracked screen—before typing the password: 0414. My birthday.
The screen unlocks.
I scroll to her messages with that filthy bastard—Vlad. My jaw tightens. I flick through their conversation with one finger, breathing through my teeth, trying not to lose it over the way he talks to her. Calls her pet names. Like she’s already his.
He said Maleciandro Spallo killed Solas. The Italians.
That name rings a bell.
I lean back against the cold wall, letting my head thud gently against it. I dig deeper into my memory. I don’t see much of what goes on outside the bar, but inside? Men gossip worse than any old grandma with her knitting circle.
The Italians… I know the Spallo brothers. My father curses their names daily. Especially Luca. Something about his wife, too.
They’re his worst enemies.
Maybe they could just wipe him out and finish the job for me.
I let out a bitter chuckle under my breath. These men are all the same. If my father sees them as a threat, they’re probably even bigger monsters than him.
Never trust a man.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t play like one.
My thumbs hover above the keyboard for a second before I start typing Vlad a message in Russian, asking if there are any updates on the next shipment.
I pause, glance at Diana’s sleeping face. Her cheek is pressed into the pillow now, and one arm has slipped out again. I cover it up gently with the blanket, lips pressed together.
Maybe I’ll sneak one of the emergency guns hidden in the girls’ dressing rooms that day. Once Vlad knows I’m promised to Ivan, he won’t touch me. But Diana? He won’t think twice.
And I’m not taking that risk.
I need to visit Mom.
She’s lying in that hospital bed, unresponsive, tucked under thin sheets in the mental ward.
The air there smells like antiseptic and despair.
Machines beep quietly, marking the slow, steady passage of a day she’ll barely remember.
My monster of a father refuses her the same medicine they dose me with.
We share the illness. But she doesn’t get the drug, and it’s like she’s slipping further away with every passing hour. When she’s awake, she sometimes locks eyes with me—the only person she still recognizes. Diana can reach her too sometimes, but mostly… everyone else terrifies her.
I know what she hears. The same thing I hear when I skip a dose. I’ve felt that terror clawing up my chest, choking, making the world tremble. She feels it every day.
And yet they keep her sedated, drugged to sleep through half the day. Every cent I earn at the club goes there—just to keep her alive, just to keep her contained, under watch.
My father stopped caring about her the moment she stopped making sense around him.
I tighten my fists. My teeth grit. The room feels colder, emptier, as if his cruelty seeps into the walls.
The last time he visited her, she screamed so loud he cursed her out and swore he’d never visit "this dirty whore" again.
The number of times I’ve wished someone would take his life already? I can’t even count.
I’ll get the medicine and take us out. Now that Diana has found a lead, maybe this is our only chance.
Diana’s phone vibrates in my hand.
Vlad sent the location. Says he’ll be there in three days.
Good.
Hopefully, it’s faster than the arrival of my future ‘husband.’
I inhale deeply, take a screenshot of the messages, send it to my phone, then delete the chat from Diana’s. No reason to tempt her into doing more stupid things behind my back.
Shoulders tight, I push off the bed and move toward the door, pausing to steady myself with a hand on the knob. My shirt is smooth beneath my fingers as I brush it down, though the act changes nothing. With slow, practiced care, I step into the corridor, doors lining both sides in quiet shadow.
I reach the elevator at the end. Of course, there’s no light down here at night. Why would there be? We’re just cockroaches to him. But at least I have a roof over my head. A place to keep Diana safe.
The elevator doors open. I step in quickly, eager to see her. I need to talk to her about the plan. When we’re alone, she mostly makes sense. I need to know that she wants to come with us.
I press the button for the entrance floor, just one level above. The door closes, then opens again less than a minute later.
Bright light floods in from the villa’s grand foyer, making me flinch as my eyes adjust after the dark below.
Quickly pulling out my phone, I delete the alert from the screenshot I just sent to myself. I don’t want to think about any of that right now. I need to reach Mom first.
I call for an Uber and walk through the entrance hall—my black boots, jeans, and cheap T-shirt clashing hard with the palace my father built for himself.
The white marble floor glints under the chandelier light, inlaid with gold trim like something out of a tsar’s dream.
Massive cream leather sofas with carved dark oak legs line the sunken sitting area, flanked by gold-flaked columns.
A samovar sits on the polished tea cart beside the fireplace.
Untouched. Just there to look expensive.
A velvet curtain, deep burgundy with heavy gold tassels, hangs tied back beside a wall of floor-length windows.
An antique display case filled with hand-painted icons takes up an entire wall.
Next to it? A massive oil painting of him—smirking, posed like a royal.
I roll my eyes and sneer again at the joke of it all.
The expensive carved wooden tea table comes next—etched with double-headed eagles and florals—my father’s idea of subtlety.
And then I reach the doors.
Imported from Russia. Oversized. Arched. Gilded. Big enough to swallow you whole.
I press one open and step out. A chill wraps around my arms, raising goosebumps beneath the thin fabric of my shirt. My jaw clenches against it, but I welcome the sting. It’s the first thing that’s made me feel real all night, breathing deeply as the early morning air meets my face.
No one needs a door that size.
Unless they want the whole world to know how small they used to be…
“Roran,” my father’s deep growl sends a chill down my spine. I freeze in place, struggling to keep my breath steady.
“What did I do now?” I mutter under my breath, not daring to look back, but it comes out louder than intended.
My body locks up, eyes squeezed shut, bracing for another slap or that iron grip he loves to leave across my arm—just as the last bruises from his office the other day were finally beginning to fade.
But nothing comes.
I open my eyes and turn slightly toward his voice from inside the house. He’s standing just outside the open doors of his special guests’ dining room, posture stiff, one brow raised in that signature look of cold judgment.
Like my instinct to flinch is some kind of character flaw. Like he didn’t spend years beating it into me.
“What are you doing?” His voice is low, annoyed—like I embarrassed him somehow just by existing in the wrong place.
And then I realize—he’s not alone.
My heart thuds harder, a familiar surge of dread rising up my throat. Something worse is coming. I can feel it.
Shiny black leather shoes step out of the dining room, each click against the polished tile sharp as a ticking bomb. My gaze rises slowly. Expensive blue tailored suit. A black branded necktie. Cold, ice-blue eyes.
Ivan.
My breath catches.
Every instinct in me screams to run. But I know better. If I run, I’ll be dead in five minutes—either by him or by my father for ruining the deal.
My hands tremble, but I clench them into fists, grounding myself. I will not show weakness.
I straighten, force the panic down, and shove everything else behind the mask my father trained into me. That cold, detached look I wear for the clients at Konfetki.
“Ivan,” I say, nodding in acknowledgment. “I didn’t know you were here. I apologize, I didn’t give you a formal welcome.”
The words come out robotic. Distant. But that’s what my father expects. So that’s what I give him—for now.
Ivan’s smirk spreads slowly. His dark brown hair is slicked back perfectly, like he just stepped off a red carpet instead of out of a crime syndicate's late dinner. Or breakfast by now.
“I never wanted to marry an annoying minor like your sister…” he says, stepping forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes dragging down my frame as he closes the distance.
I stay still. Focus on my breathing. One inhale at a time.
“But look at this treasure,” he growls, eyes gleaming as he stops in front of me. His tall frame towers over mine. One hand reaches out—his fingers wrapping around my chin, tilting my face up like I’m a prize on display.
Maybe I am…
A line of curses races through my mind, but I hold my stare. His eyes are cold. Empty. There’s no humanity in them. Just the sick thrill of control.
This isn’t a man. This is a psychotic predator playing with his next meal.
“Looks like I’m going to have a new toy to enjoy,” he says with a grin, turning to my father mid-sentence, still gripping my chin like I’m property.
Fucking piece of shit.
My father smiles back at him. Pleased.
Of course he is. To him, I’m just the whore who manages his club. He has no idea what’s going to happen to his precious empire if he gives me away.
Let it fall.
I stay quiet. Just like I’m supposed to. I won’t tempt fate. Not yet.
“So…” Ivan draws out the word slowly. “When can I take her?”
His question slices the air like a knife.
Heavy. Final.
Or maybe it’s just me, feeling like I’ve been carved open and handed off.