Violent Pawn (The Bratva’s Elite #4)

1. Anastasia

ANASTASIA

Men only ever want one thing from a woman: their compliance. To maintain control over them by making themselves the bigger, harsher, stronger ones.

Papa taught me that early on in life through the worst circumstances. Sadly, there hasn’t been a man other than my twin brother, Lev, who hasn’t fit the mold. Papa himself designed the damn mold, and everyone else seems to wear it.

Hell, even my ballet instructor demands compliance in the most teeth-gritting manner.

“That pirouette wasn’t nearly good enough. It must be smoother! More graceful! You’re a swan, not a duck. Make it so.”

Vladimir Egorov is the ballet master of a renowned local dance school.

His last name is a bit too on the mark since his ego is so fucking large, it’s about to make me insane.

Papa hired him to be my private instructor since he’s one of the best, but in doing so, Vladimir kisses Papa’s ass like no tomorrow while hounding mine for the most minuscule things.

It doesn’t take brainpower to figure out why Vladimir is worse this week.

My first-ever performance outside of Russia is mere days away, and Papa is determined to ensure its perfection.

Sadly, his version of flawlessness is about ten levels above everyone else’s—those of us who still live on Earth, anyway.

Most performers enjoy working with their instructor, but I’m an exception. Not because Vladimir’s methods suck—though they’d be more tolerable if the stick was removed from his ass—but because Papa hired him. Anyone working for my father is my enemy.

Is it normal to despise one’s parent?

I’m assuming it’s a Bratva trait, considering Vanessa—a close friend and the Pakhan’s daughter—loathes hers; her cousin Dimitri’s relationship with his own is downright chilling; and even Lev is tormented by ours.

Vladimir snaps his fingers to shift my attention back to the dance studio he’s been restricting me to for hours. Hours where my only form of energy comes from my water bottle. But, oh, I can’t drink too much or else Vladimir will bitch that my bladder is being filled “for no good reason.”

Not dying seems like a decent reason, but what would I know? I’m merely a sixteen-year-old girl without a brain of her own. According to some people anyway.

“Anastasia, pay attention. You will become the laughter of Warsaw if you do not focus.”

At least there’s one positive in this, and it isn’t the performance itself. Warsaw is the capital city of Poland, so getting out of Russia is exhilarating since I’m so infrequently allowed to. I’m almost excited for this experience, if not for the true reason we’re visiting.

Papa wants someone in Poland dead. Rather than be a normal mobster and target the man himself, I’ve been given the “great honour”—his words—of doing it. Exactly as I’ve done to the handful of other sorry souls. Some of which were deserving and others less so.

Papa has been selling this as a whole charade to the media to draw in crowds and give me a decent alibi for being alone with a man who’s probably triple my age.

“Famous Russian ballerina, one of the youngest on the scene, is doing a once-in-a-lifetime performance in Poland!”

On Papa’s orders, the news outlets are selling the story alongside the allure of exclusivity.

He’s been harassing Vladimir to ensure I’m ready, hoping to draw in such a crowd that one day these people will travel to Moscow to see me perform.

By doing so, more money ends up in the Bratva’s pocket because no way in hell do I see a single ruble from the sales.

Lining the Bratva’s accounts is Papa’s entire life goal. No matter who and what he sacrifices to make himself look better to his Pakhan, no one is safe. Lev and I are his usual scapegoats, but occasionally, it’s soldiers in their employ.

Vladimir snaps his fingers again before tossing his hands up in the air with a harsh curse. “Blyat. Pay attention, or you will fail!”

Gritting my teeth, I whirl around. He’s rude and prickly, yet I can’t entirely blame him either. He’s another victim of Papa’s controlling antics and cruelty, so I understand he’s trying to stay on my father’s good side—if such a thing exists—by focusing on his own survival.

If only he’d speak to me a little kinder. Just a bit. Not asking for a ton…

“When have I ever failed? It was one tiny mess-up!”

His nose wrinkles at the implication of my words, drawing attention to his many other age lines. “A mess-up that would be horrible on stage. Try again.”

With a huff, aware that the only way to end arguing is to obey him, I return to position.

Spreading my legs, feet angled outwards, I sweep my left one in front of my right while bouncing onto the tips of my pointe shoes.

My core, arms, and the flat edge of the shoe work in tandem to maintain my balance.

My left leg slides up my right calf until pausing by my knee, and with a slight bounce, I propel myself to the side, letting instincts and years of training bring my limbs into a pirouette.

I spin four times before my leg lowers as I end the last. It stretches out behind me as my arms lift, dispersing my body while dipping into a low bow.

Vladimir claps, but only once. Heaven forbid he show genuine pride in his student. “Much better. Your set will have a lot of pirouettes, so maintaining this is important.”

“You act like I’m a newbie.” It takes real strength to resist rolling my eyes.

He waves my complaint away. “Now, from the top. Let’s see the entire performance.” He turns to his phone, hooked up to a Bluetooth speaker, and streams the music that’s been picked for my set.

With a sigh, I walk to our imaginary stage entrance on the opposite side of the room and begin.

Sweat coats me, muscles throb, and my stomach threatens to eat itself if I don’t get food in me soon, when finally, Vladimir ends training with a near compliment. “I have faith you won’t destroy ballet for the Polish.”

He turns to leave, and I give the middle finger to his back.

The door opens mere seconds after Vladimir shuts it, as though the person was waiting on the other side.

I ignore the newcomer, preferring not to deal with who I wish would fuck off, and cross to the far bench to retrieve my water bottle.

Mercifully, I’m able to chug the cool liquid I now won’t get yelled at for filling my bladder with.

“Vladimir feels you are ready.” My father’s voice comes from the doorway, deep and ominous with his usual threat.

Swear he practices that voice.

“Always am,” I reply, facing away. I stare at the bottle in my grip rather than the mirror in front of me where he’ll reflect in the background.

I slowly pack, still without looking up.

Too soon, leaving becomes unavoidable, and hiking my bag up onto my shoulder, I turn to face the man who should be my entire world.

Instead, he’s the asshole whose blood I unfortunately share.

My jailor. The only parent Lev and I have, though I hope for his death often enough. I’d rather be orphaned than have him.

His eyes, the same shade of brown as mine, stare unblinkingly. “This is your chance to make a name for yourself outside the country.”

Which only goes back to his determination to line the organization’s pockets.

“Our Pakhan is very pleased with the funds brought in from your performances,” he continues. “He’s excited by the prospects of Poland.”

You mean, he’s thrilled there will be one less enemy. Papa will sell this off as his work, and no one but Lev will even care that I’ve ripped my soul apart with yet another murder. Other sixteen-year-olds are out with friends, but me… My childhood was gone the moment Papa realized my usefulness.

“Your target’s name is Jakob Nowak. He’s a new businessman on the market. Word is, he prefers them young, and given his seat is front and centre, I believe he’ll be eager to get you alone.”

If I felt he wouldn’t slap me across the face for vomiting on his shoes, I would.

Because gag. Sometimes I don’t always despise the jobs.

While being a businessman is no reason to be murdered, Papa has a knack for pulling out the disgusting ones.

The ones who deserve death for their illegal preferences.

It makes ripping my soul apart a bit more manageable.

With my knife, at least women—and probably underage girls—will be saved from his attention.

It speaks to the kinds of people Papa interacts with, except seeing what I have, he and Ursin Volkov—the Bratva Pakhan—are hypocrites. In another life, one where I controlled my destiny, I’d save all women. Every single one would be free.

“Point him out when we’re there.” My flat tone is a well-practiced skill to end our interactions with minimal bloodshed—mainly mine—and I go to inch by him before he dismisses me.

My legs are like jelly from practice, my muscles begging for a hot, soothing bath, and for once, hopefully Papa can find a speck of compassion and let me go without an argument.

When he snatches my upper arm, it’s probably asking for too much. His voice hisses ice down my spine. “Drop the fucking attitude and appreciate the star I’ve made you into. You know very well where your future can end up. Don’t assume you’re exempt. You’re this close, Anastasia.”

Not only do I know, but I’ve witnessed it. Once, when Papa was pissed and making a point, he dragged me into literal Ad—Hell. It’s what I nicknamed the place, and I’m sure the people in there would agree.

Cages line the walls, all filled with women.

Some hold only one or two, others a small group.

They’re all practically naked, their ripped and dirty white shifts doing nothing to warm them nor conceal any dignity they’re fighting to cling to.

The warehouse is so dark, it’s hard to make anything out, but I’m grateful too.

I don’t want to make any of this out. This…

this…horror. There’s no prettier word for women in cages.

Papa shoves me against the nearest cage, hands slapping the metal poles as my cheek digs into another. Though I try my hardest not to look, I can’t help but meet the eyes of the woman curled in the farthest corner. She’s the only one of the four locked in this cage watching the drama.

She’s been beaten and undoubtedly raped.

Probably starved and who knows what else my sixteen-year-old mind can’t envision, yet her eyes tell a different story.

They’re expectantly sad, but for me. Me, dressed in fine silks with my hair curled.

Me, who lives under a strict rule. But even Papa’s insanity is better than trafficking.

Blyat. Knowing the Bratva, and what Lev and Dimitri have mentioned, this shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. Seeing them is different. Real. A cruel reality, and fuck, if only I could save them all.

“Piss me off one more time, Anastasia, and this will be your life. Want to join her in there? Because I’ll make it happen, and I know a lot of men who’d love to get their hands on you. Take this as your one and only warning.”

It was the only warning that was required. A normal teenager might call her parents’ bluff because they don’t fully mean it, but knowing Papa, the risk wasn’t worth it. Given what he does to Lev, I don’t doubt he’d toss me into one of those cages himself.

“I’m aware, and I apologize, Papa.” Gritting my teeth, I force myself into submission—voice genteel, head down, eyes averted. “I was thoughtless with my words. I’m tired. Practice went on for a while, and I’m sorry.”

Acid burns my tongue with the lie.

He sneers, probably seeing right through my apology, but it must work to a degree since his fingers lift from my skin. “You will continue to practice every single day until Poland. Understood?”

“Da.”

At his leave, I skitter through the studio’s doorway and across the parking lot to my car. Thankfully, an entire lot is between our vehicles, so once I’m sure he’s unable to make out my features, hatred seeps into my vision. Every way he could meet a painful death consumes my mind.

If only life were different.

As I start my car, I wonder at what point I’ll give up pretending to be okay with Papa ruining ballet. Give up everything and end it all. If I wasn’t alive, no man could use me. No strangers would fuck me in their hotel rooms.

Papa giving the orders.

Ursin praising Papa while winking at me.

Users, all of them. Consumers of my soul, my mind, my body.

Death would be kinder than surviving beneath a man’s law.