chapter two
729 Words
As she sat down at the dining, looking at each and everyone of their faces,she could remember vividly how she got caught up in this in the first place.
It started with the death of her father and the day of his funeral was where she met the devil in disguise
The sky hadn’t cried the day her father was buried.
It was a strange detail she remembered too well — a Moscow winter so bitter it numbed her fingertips, but the clouds remained dry, unmoved. No thunder. No tears. Just silence.
She had stood there beside a closed casket, wearing black velvet gloves that felt like someone else’s hands. Her mother hadn’t shown up. Not because she didn’t care, but because she knew better.
You didn’t defy the Bratva once it made a decision. Not even in grief.
No one ever confirmed how her father died.
No autopsy. No investigation. Just a phone call in the dead of night, followed by the appearance of men in dark coats who said everything would be handled.
“It was sudden,” they told her.
“It was clean,” they reassured her.
“It was necessary,” one man whispered when he thought she wasn’t listening.
She was twenty-two. And her life had already ended.
Three days after the funeral, Konstantin Baranov came to her home—not as a suitor, not as a lover, but as a solution.
“I made your father a promise,” he said, voice sharp as the cufflinks on his sleeves. “I’m here to keep it.”
"What kind of promise?" She had asked not knowing where this spark of confidence came from.
The details were vague. A security arrangement, he called it. An alliance. Something about debts, enemies, old rivalries resurfacing. All Anya heard was the steady tick of the clock behind him, the weight of inevitability pressing against her chest.
“I don’t need your protection,” she’d said, proud even in mourning.
“You’ll want it soon,” he replied coldly.
She’d laughed. Then he’d shown her the names. The ones on the hit list. Hers included. Along with her mother’s. Her cousins. Her father’s remaining loyal men.
“You marry me, they live. You don’t…”
He let the silence answer for him.
The wedding was held two weeks later.
No family. No photographs. Just a priest with a trembling hand and a guest list made entirely of dangerous men with expensive shoes.
Anya didn’t cry. Not then.
She wore white. Signed papers. Said “I do” in a voice that didn’t belong to her.
That night, Konstantin didn’t touch her. He didn’t look at her, either. Just walked into the bedroom, unbuttoned his cuffs, and said, “I’ve kept my word. You’re safe now.”
She wasn’t.
She never would be.
Two months after the wedding,he still didn't touch her but he did use her for his entertainment and anytime she refused to do what he asked of her,he would lock her up without food and water for the whole day and as time passed,he skipped the locking up and just used his fists instead.
Back in the present, Anya had excused herself and stood alone in her dressing room, staring at the edge of a silver hairpin between her fingers. It had belonged to her mother. She wasn’t allowed to wear it — Konstantin said it made her look “too soft.”
But tonight, she held it like a weapon.
Not because it could save her.
But because it reminded her of who she used to be.
Of a time when her father’s laugh still echoed in the hallways. When she had choices. When love didn’t come wrapped in bloodstained silk.
A knock came at the door. A sharp one.
“Ten minutes,” Mila said on the other side.
Anya placed the pin carefully back into the velvet box, and for a moment, let her eyes drift shut.
One day, she promised herself, I’ll bury this house the way they buried him. But first she had to leave this place. She had already mastered the exits and guards from her last attempted escape.
Hopefully this time,she could actually get out from here but where would she go?
"I'll worry about that later,I just need to get out of this hellhole" she muttered to herself
- Writer
