Chapter 36
Anya
A strange smell hits me from somewhere. Old oil and dirt. It reminds me of when my father tried working at a mechanic shop. That didn’t last long, of course.
The smell turns my stomach. With it comes an intense throbbing in my temples—my head feels like a pressure cooker about to explode.
Then everything I didn’t want to remember floods back: the road, the rollover, Grisha dead, Antoniev sitting on the cold ground firing so I could run, and men grabbing me, pressing a cloth over my mouth.
I open my eyes.
I’m sitting on the floor of a small, filthy room.
The walls are unpainted concrete. There’s a high, narrow window near the ceiling, the glass too grimy to tell if it’s day or night—just a single light bulb hanging from a wire.
On the opposite wall sits an old, thin, dirty mattress I wouldn’t touch if you paid me.
My hands are bound in front of me with a plastic zip tie, but my feet are free.
My feet are free.
I thank God silently for that, but I don’t stop there. I run a complete inventory of my body, the way I used to after every bad fall in rehearsals. My head is pounding, but I can see and I haven’t vomited.
No signs of concussion.
The ribs on my right side are throbbing—probably bruised, but they don’t feel broken. That’s good. One palm is cut from the car glass, and my right knee hurts. But it always hurts, so nothing new.
Last and most important: I run my hand over my belly.
No pain, no cramps, no discomfort or heaviness… nothing. Between my legs, everything feels the same as before—pants clean, no bleeding.
I breathe deeply, relieved.
There’s no way to know for sure if my baby is still here, still okay, but I choose to believe they are. I turned in time, and the punch hit my ribs, not my belly.
You’re there, and you’re okay. I know it.
I take a few more deep breaths, trying not to cry, trying to clear my mind.
When I open my eyes, I see my purse in the corner by the door.
It’s been turned inside out and doesn’t seem to have anything important left except…
I reach out, trying to grab the crumpled paper I know is the envelope with the ultrasound image.
The door flies open, startling me. I yank my hand back and raise my head, ready to face my kidnapper.
The man who enters is utterly ordinary—the kind of person you pass on the street without noticing. Mid-forties, brown hair, average height, stocky the way most men get at that age. No scars, no marks, no visible tattoos. Just ordinary.
The only thing that stands out is the suit. Absurdly expensive—you can tell. Custom-made, fine fabric, pinstripe, and shoes far too clean for this abandoned place.
He brings a chair with him, dragging it across the concrete floor with an irritating scrape. With all the patience in the world, he sits facing me, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees.
“Svetlana Voronova.” He smiles. “Or would it be Nikiforova now? Doesn’t matter,” he waves his hand in the air, “do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused me?”
I don’t answer, irritated by the sick joy dripping from his voice.
“We’ve met before, you know?” He tilts his head. “Well, you don’t know me, but I know you. You were quite the ballerina.”
My body freezes. A name flashes through my mind like a giant neon sign.
“Pavel Demidov.”
His eyebrows rise and his eyes widen. He’s surprised and makes no effort to hide it. This son of a bitch is enjoying himself.
“He told you.” A short laugh, almost delighted. “How romantic.”
“You ordered the hit-and-run on me,” I state, my voice dry.
“I did,” he answers calmly, like someone asking for the check at a restaurant. “Your father owed money to one of my operations in Vysotsk. He’s so useless he didn’t have anything I could take. No house or car good enough to cover the debt.”
“I was never important to my father.”
I answer, not trying to be self-deprecating—just sincere. It’s the truth. Demidov was wrong to try collecting my father’s debt from me. It had no effect.
“That’s where you’re wrong, dear Anya.” He savors my nickname, making sure I know he’s aware I prefer it.
“A useless man like your father with a daughter as extraordinary as you is something rare. He may not be very smart, but he had half a brain cell to understand you were the only thing of value in the world to him.”
He’s right. I know I am. The endless phone calls prove it.
“Look, I was very generous,” he continues, voice calm. “I could have had you killed, but no. You’re here. A living message for anyone in that backwater to know what happens when they don’t pay me.”
I wait for the tears and despair to hit me. That’s what he wants, coming here and telling me this whole story. But I don’t give him the satisfaction. Nothing comes from me but pure determination and growing rage.
I scan the exits, like I always do on any stage. I count the steps, notice every detail, just like I did at the beginning, when I first arrived at Maksim’s house.
Maksim…
Better not to think about him. Focus on gathering information.
I start running through the list:
One: The door opens inward.
Two: He doesn’t seem to have a gun in a holster—his jacket hangs too straight.
Three: My legs are free.
“You don’t seem surprised,” he says.
“You haven’t told me anything new so far.”
I shrug and his expression hardens. He doesn’t like being contradicted.
“Then let me give you the news.” He leans forward just a fraction. “Imagine my surprise when one of my men told me Aleksei Voronov was drinking on credit and running his mouth. The prodigy daughter I broke is now married to the Man in the Mask.”
Demidov claps his hands and laughs loudly.
“What a wonderful coincidence. What a gift!”
“Gift.” The word reverberates through me.
“The best of my life.” He stands and begins pacing the small space.
“Do you know how long I’ve served the Moscow Bratva?
Twenty-two years. I climbed every rung swallowing shit from people with half my competence, and you know where I am today?
Exactly where I was eight years ago. Brigadier in a shitty little town.
” The word comes out with so much disgust I think he might actually spit.
“Taking care of loan sharking and drunks like your father while men who never dirtied their hands sit at the table with Viktor.”
“What a tragedy.”
My sarcastic mutter makes him laugh. He guffaws so loudly that I immediately regret it.
“You’re funny, girl.” He shakes his head, almost seeming affectionate.
“But look… My determination got me what Orlov never managed. The greatest humiliation of his life is that for thirteen years he’s been fighting a ghost. He’s lost men, shipments, and territories to a man who wears a mask—and no one has ever seen his face. ”
His face radiates pure joy, his eyes wide as if he’s seeing the most beautiful, delicious mirage standing right there in front of him. The man who at first seemed completely ordinary now looks increasingly mad, obsessed.
Insane.
“Imagine the prestige of delivering the name, the face…” He pauses, stares deep into my eyes, and savors the next words. “The head of the Man in the Mask.”
An icy chill runs down my spine.
“You don’t have his face,” I counter.
“Not yet.” He smiles and shrugs. “But I have his wife, and I’m sure he’ll come looking for you.”
Reality crashes down on me with the weight of a building. I’m not here as a mere hostage, someone he’ll trade or even kill for revenge.
No.
I’m the bait to lure Maksim.
“He won’t come.” But it sounds as false in my voice as it did in my head.
“Oh, he will.” Demidov heads toward the door.
“No man builds what he built and then does something as idiotic as actually getting married. He’ll come, Svetlana.
” He knocks twice on the metal door and it opens.
“It was foolish of him not to realize he was signing his own death sentence along with the marriage contract.”
He crosses the threshold, but before leaving, turns to look at me one last time.
“You’re going to lure him here, and I’m going to rip that damn mask off with my own hands.”
The door slams shut with a heavy thud, and I’m left alone, mulling over everything he just told me.
Demidov wants to use me to lure Maksim here. So the only thing I need to do is get out as fast as possible.
The plan is simple: escape.
I don’t have any tactical training to help me, so I’ll have to use what I have: observation, mobility, and rhythm.
From the footsteps in the hallway, I can identify one guard. He paces back and forth, but every fifteen minutes he leans against the wall on the left side of the door and messes with his phone. The imbecile didn’t even bother to turn down the volume while watching videos.
I breathe deeply, concentrate, and curl my legs until I can slide my bound hands down to the side of my right boot. The small rigid protrusion is still there, pressed against my skin beneath my pant leg.
The knife Yelena gave me is hidden in the shaft of the boot, right where I always keep it. They went through my purse, ripped off my coat, took my phone, but they didn’t find the knife.
Imbeciles.
I close my eyes and try to remember her instructions about where to strike while I twist and contort my body to lift my pant leg enough to free the knife.
Inner wrist, side of the neck, and groin.
Any man goes down with a stab to the balls, no matter how big he is.
That’s what she said, right? But it’s useless—I can’t reach the top of my boot with my hands tied. I’ll have to convince him to untie them.
I raise my chin and shout toward the door.
“Hey!”
Silence.
“HEY! I need to use the bathroom!”
The doorknob turns and the door opens. A big guy in his early thirties sticks half his body inside, scowling at me.
“Hold it.”
“I can’t anymore,” I whimper. It doesn’t sound fake, and I wonder if some other part of me wants to cry too. “Please, I’m going to wet myself.”
The tears fall. He narrows his eyes, grumbles, and lets out a sigh before opening the door and coming in.