Chapter 3 – Sofia
New York is never quiet, especially not at night. But there’s nothing I can do to change that other than install heavy black curtains to block out as much noise as I can.
I can still hear muted traffic below. A distant siren somewhere I can’t place. The soft hum of my fridge reminds me that I should probably replace it soon.
I’m curled up on the couch with my phone pressed to my ear, one leg tucked beneath me, the other stretched out lazily under a blanket I’ve had for too long.
Valeria’s voice fills the space on the other end of the call.
“So anyway,” she says, way too cheerful for someone currently planning logistics, “we’re having the picnic this weekend. The wives are coming, too. You’re coming, right?”
I smile faintly. “Of course I’m coming.”
“Good,” she says, like she’s been waiting for that answer. “Because it’s always a vibe when you’re there.”
“I don’t do vibes,” I reply automatically.
“You absolutely do vibes,” she counters. “You just don’t know it.”
I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me.
The blanket slips off my shoulder as I shift on the couch.
“I’m excited, though,” I admit. “It’ll be nice to get out.”
There’s a soft pause on the line, then Valeria laughs. “Who knew I’d enjoy being married to a Rusnak like this?”
I chuckle. “Not me. I thought you’d fight him and his family every step of the way.”
“I guess it’s easy to love them, you know? They’re not what people think. They’re very… family-oriented. Weirdly normal, considering everything.”
I don’t respond right away.
Because I don’t know what part of that sentence I’m supposed to take seriously.
Family-oriented, yes. I’ve attended a few family gatherings, and I’ve seen how they relate to each other. There’s love and happiness there.
But normal? The Rusnaks? That’s where I draw the line. The Rusnaks are the most powerful mafia family here in the United States, and now in Russia, thanks to Valeria’s role as the ruler of the Petrov family.
So the Rusnaks and normal people don’t naturally belong in the same universe.
“I think your definition of normal is broken,” I say finally.
She scoffs. “How do I make you believe me?”
A small smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
I open my mouth to respond when—a sudden, sharp cry cuts through the end of the call. High-pitched. Immediate. A baby crying. Definitely Valeria’s fifteen-month-old son.
Valeria groans loudly.
“No,” she mutters. “You literally just went to sleep.”
I laugh under my breath.
“Alexei is undefeated,” I say.
“He’s a terrorist,” she replies flatly.
The sound of her moving around fills the line—soft rustling, a sigh, then her voice again, closer to the phone.
“I swear, Sofia,” she says, “he waits for me to relax, and then boom! Like he senses peace and decides to destroy it.”
I smile properly now.
“Sounds like a Rusnak,” I tease.
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “Don’t put that on him. He’s innocent.”
“Sure,” I say, still smiling. “Completely innocent.”
She laughs again, but I can hear her shifting focus, already distracted by the baby.
“Give me two seconds,” she says. “I’ll call you back if he settles.”
“Take your time,” I reply softly.
There’s a pause.
Then her voice drops, warmer now. “You really are coming this weekend, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “I told you I am.”
“Good,” she repeats. “I’ll text you the details.” Another faint rustle. “Bye, Sof.”
“Bye, Val.”
The call ends.
Silence returns to my apartment almost instantly.
I lower the phone slowly, letting it rest on my lap.
For a moment, I just sit there. Still. Thinking about nothing in particular. Or maybe thinking about everything at once.
The apartment is dim now. Evening has fully settled in, wrapping the corners of my space in soft shadows. The only light comes from the street outside—thin strips of yellow and white slipping through the blinds, cutting across the floor like something unfinished.
I should get up. Lock the balcony door. Check the stove. Do something normal.
Instead, I sink a little deeper into the couch.
My eyelids feel heavy. I should go to my room and sleep, but for some reason, I’m extra comfortable on the couch and don’t want to move. Okay, maybe for a minute. Or two.
I don’t know how long I close my eyes, but I’m woken up by a metallic sound cutting through the quiet. My eyes snap open.
A soft, deliberate shake at my front door.
I go still.
No.
That’s not normal.
I don’t move at first. I just listen, forcing my breathing to slow as my brain tries to assign meaning to the sound.
Maybe Ashley.
She has a key.
She comes over sometimes without warning, always insisting it’s “friend privilege” and not intrusion.
But even as the thought forms, I reject it.
Ashley doesn’t arrive like this. Ashley knocks. She calls out. She makes noise before she enters a space.
This is different.
The handle shifts again. A faint metallic scrape.
My pulse changes instantly.
I sit up slowly on the couch, the blanket slipping off my legs and pooling at my feet. The apartment is darker than it should feel. Shadows are heavier now, pressed into corners I hadn’t noticed before.
I swallow once.
My fingers hover near the edge of the couch.
The sound comes again.
Faster now.
More insistent.
Not a key. Someone trying to force it.
My throat tightens.
I move carefully, standing without making noise. Every instinct I have is suddenly alert, sharp, awake in a way I didn’t choose.
I step closer to the hallway.
My apartment feels smaller than it did five minutes ago.
The lock gives a faint, final sound.
Something inside it breaks.
My stomach drops.
The door swings open. Cold air rushes in from the hallway. And then, strange men swoop in. Black clothing. Masks covering their faces completely. Too many to process at once.
My body reacts before my mind can fully catch up. I step back instinctively, my heel hitting the edge of the rug.
A scream builds instantly in my throat, but it never makes it out.
One of them moves first. Fast.
My breath cuts off as hands close around me before I can even understand distance or direction. Another grabs my arm, firm enough that panic spikes through me instantly.
I struggle—pure instinct, not thought.
“Let go—!” I try, but it breaks halfway, swallowed by the chaos.
Someone pulls my wrists behind me.
Another voice—low, unfamiliar—cuts through the room, but I don’t understand the words.
Everything is happening too fast.
Everything blurs as I’m pulled forward, my feet stumbling to keep up, fear flooding so fast it makes my vision sharpen painfully.
The last thing I see clearly before they move me fully into the hallway is my apartment light flickering against the wall and the door swinging shut behind us.
Darkness swallows everything immediately after.
A bag is pulled over my head.
My vision disappears.
Sound changes.
Space changes.
Even breathing feels different, like the air has been replaced with something thinner, colder.
I don’t scream again.
I don’t fight blindly the way instinct tells me to.
I force myself still instead.
That’s what Papa always used to say.
Think first. React second. Never waste energy on panic.
My wrists are still held tightly behind me, but I shift slightly—not resisting for the sake of force, but for information. Grip strength. Number of hands on me. Direction of movement.
Three points of contact. At least. Maybe more.
I’m lifted suddenly. Off my feet. Strong arms under me. My stomach drops as I’m carried forward, and then the air shifts sharply—cold night air hitting my skin for a fraction of a second before I’m lowered again.
A car. The sound of a door opening. Leather seat. Then I’m dropped inside. Very gently. The door shuts. The world seals itself in.
For a second, I sit completely still in the darkness under the bag, listening.
Doors open and close outside.
Footsteps.
Low voices I can’t distinguish.
Another door shuts.
Then—
The engine starts.
My body tightens instinctively.
The car moves.
Forward first.
Then faster.
The road is smooth beneath us as the vehicle merges into motion.
I keep my breathing even.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Panic is noise. Noise gets you killed.
So I stay quiet.
I shift slightly, just enough to feel where I’m seated. Leather. Expensive. Clean smell beneath the fabric of the bag—something faintly metallic mixed with cologne I don’t recognize.
My hands are still restrained.
My wrists ache slightly.
I test the tension again, but there’s no give.
This isn’t a robbery. Robbery is messy.
The thought lands cold in my chest.
I swallow.
The city outside is reduced to muffled motion—distant sirens, tires on wet roads, faint echoes of life I can no longer see.
Where are they taking me?
The question forms slowly in my mind, careful not to spiral into fear.
Where? And why? Another thought follows immediately after: Is this how I die?
The car slows eventually. My body stiffens as the vehicle comes to a stop. Doors open. Cold air brushes against my skin for barely a second before hands are on me again.
Firm, controlled hands. I’m pulled from the car, my feet scraping against pavement before I regain balance. No one speaks to me. That somehow makes it worse.
The bag remains over my head as they guide me forward. I force myself to pay attention. One… two… three steps. Smooth flooring beneath my feet. A brief pause. Then an elevator.
I hear the soft chime. Feel the shift in pressure as we rise. High. Very high. My pulse beats harder once. Then steadies again. The elevator stops. Doors slide open. More footsteps. Then stairs. Not many. One flight, maybe two. A door opens somewhere ahead.
Warm air spills against my face. Different from outside. Cleaner. Expensive. I’m guided forward again before hands press against my shoulders, easing me down into a seat. The bag is finally pulled off my head.