My EX's Mafia Twin

3. The nightmare begins now.

3. The nightmare begins now.

Katarina.

My body feels heavy—so heavy that opening my eyes or moving my pinky finger becomes a challenge I can’t meet.

Despite the constant ringing in my ears and the pounding in my skull, I hear voices.

Russian.

They’re still speaking Russian.

This time I don’t understand what they’re saying; they’re talking too fast for my foggy brain. All I know is that they’re dragging me somewhere cold and damp. I feel them lift one of my arms, hear the click of a shackle, then they do the same with the other until I’m hanging, my feet barely brushing the floor.

My head dangles from my neck, and even though I want to lift it and look around, I can’t.

I simply can’t.

Suddenly, a hand slides up my thigh, touching bare skin.

I tense, fighting to defend myself, but my body still won’t respond.

“Remember, she’s still the boss’s daughter, and he already warned us about her,” a raspy voice says in Russian.

The hand caresses a little more and, just when I think I’m about to be raped, the touch disappears, leaving me in one piece.

“f**k, what a shame.”

Laughter, degrading words, and footsteps walking away.

And I fall back into oblivion.

|…|

I finally manage to open my eyes—slowly and with difficulty, but I open them, blinking bit by bit until I gain some clarity.

At first, I don’t understand what’s happening. All I see is an empty room, damp and covered in mold. The cold seeps into my bones; the evening gown is still on my skin, and when I try to wrap my arms around myself for warmth, I can’t.

I’m hanging from shackles.

I move my arms, only to sway in the air since my feet barely graze the floor. My shoulders feel like they’re about to rip out of my skin from the weight, and little by little, the pain in the rest of my body wakes up, increasing my agony.

What am I doing here?

I twist my wrists, looking for an escape, but all I accomplish is scraping my skin against the metal, making this position even harder.

“Get me out of here!” I shout, but my voice comes out as a hoarse scratch, pained. “Get me out of here!”

I yell a little more, but no one comes.

I jerk violently and feel something tear in my shoulder; my feet lose what little contact they had with the ground and my body swings, back and forth, hanging like an offering—like a sacrifice about to be claimed.

I swallow a scream of agony when the pain shoots through my shoulders, unbearable.

What the hell is this?

I look around, trying to make sense of any of it, but nothing makes sense.

Nothing at all.

My skin prickles when I hear footsteps—heavy footsteps approaching. They echo through what I’m sure is a long, empty hallway; the soles hitting the damp floor send a tremor through me, and the sound grows closer and closer, leaving me with no choice but to wait.

Imposing.

Vulnerable.

Exposed.

I’m at the mercy of whoever walks in.

At the mercy of anyone.

With difficulty, I tilt my head back to move my hair out of my face, and when the tips of my toes barely scrape the ground again, an older man steps inside. He’s big, tall, and his features are dark and dangerous.

As soon as his eyes meet mine, a sickening shiver slithers down my spine.

“You are the spitting image of your mother.”

I slam my wrists against the shackles, ignoring the pain.

I just want to get out of here.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Demyan Ivanov, milaya.”

“I’m not your f*****g darling,” I growl.

A secretive smile pulls at his lips.

“Your mother should’ve taught you Russian, milaya. I’m glad she did.”

The way this man looks at me makes me nauseous. There’s no lust, just a deep, twisted satisfaction. As if he likes what he sees. As if he already has a plan for me.

“Who the hell are you, you son of a b***h?”

I tense when he takes several steps, stopping right in front of me, his body trying to intimidate my much weaker one.

“Be very careful, Katarina Volkov. Do not mistake kindness for weakness. You don’t want to know what happens to men who insult me far less than you just did.”

“Kindness?” I growl, twisting my wrists in the shackles. “You call this kindness?”

“This position is a warning—of how far my reach goes if you disobey.”

I glare at him defiantly when he grabs my chin harshly, making my jaw ache. But I don’t focus on the pain—I focus on the rage boiling inside me.

“Let go of me.”

His black eyes roam my face slowly, examining every feature. It’s unsettling and alarming how attentively he studies me, until he releases the words that flip my life upside down.

“My daughter… isn’t it wonderful how you look exactly like your mother, yet somehow inherited my temperament?”

I blink, staring at him unflinchingly.

“You’re out of your damn mind.”

“Am I?” He raises a brow, releasing my jaw and pushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. There’s no affection in the gesture, only cold calculation that matches the ice in his eyes. “Shortly after marrying Elijah, during a visit to Russia to see your grandmother, your dear mother had an affair with me. She went back to your country carrying a gift of mine in her womb.”

“That’s not true.”

“Why do you think your father hates you so much?” he asks slowly. “Elijah Campbell is not your real father. I suspect, deep down, you always knew, didn’t you, Katarina Volkov?” He laughs when he says my mother’s maiden name. “He didn’t even give you his last name. What was his excuse?”

“Katarina Volkov would have more impact in the world than Katarina Campbell,” I recite robotically.

“And you believed him?”

I just stare at him, while he looks back with fake pity.

“Why would he raise a daughter that isn’t his? It makes no sense.”

“He saw you as a business,” he says simply. “I also suspect he used your unhappiness as revenge against your fragile mother. And what famous man wants to expose his wife’s infidelity? A man’s ego is very easy to break.”

He steps closer.

“A dozen more excuses come to mind—choose whichever makes you happiest.”

None of this makes me happy.

“And what’s yours?” I ask, turning my face toward him. “What’s your excuse for letting another man raise your daughter?”

“Disinterest.” He steps back, towering over me while I hang there like the object he believes I am.

“Just say it—what do you want from me?”

“You will give me the connections I need—the alliances to expand my empire.” He spreads his hands. “Welcome to your new world, Katarina Volkov. Welcome to the Bratva. You will never leave this place again.”

I laugh, turning my head aside before looking back at him.

“You said it yourself: I’m Katarina Volkov. You think the world won’t notice I’m gone?”

“Katarina, Katarina… my milaya,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “Who would notice you when your career is already six feet under?”

“What?”

He laughs— the son of a b***h laughs.

“You thought your lack of leading roles was a coincidence?” His face shifts into pity—toward me—which makes me clench my jaw in rage. “I’ve been planning this for almost three years, and now that all the cards are in place, you’ll begin playing your role as my daughter.”

“You’ll have to kill me first.”

“Or your mother,” he replies, raising his eyebrows with a smile.

“My mother?” This time, I’m the one who laughs. “The same woman who looked the other way while I was being kidnapped? What makes you think I’d give a damn what you do to her?”

He doesn’t answer—as if he knows my words are a lie.

He sees through my act.

Knowing he has me in the palm of his hand, at his mercy… only makes me hate him more.

My father?

I have no father.

I never did.

And I’m beginning to understand I never had a mother either.

At least, not the mother I expected her to be.

“Come here,” Demyan Ivanov says to someone—a man I hadn’t noticed, hidden in the shadows the entire time. “You know what to do. You’re the only one I trust to train her.”

And stepping back, Demyan leaves me in the hands of a stranger; not that anyone here feels familiar. They’re all threats, and hell will freeze over before any of them get their way.

But with his departure, my body remembers the weight of the last day and my head falls, hanging from my neck with no strength left.

The strength I tried to hold in front of Demyan fades—and all that remains is my battered body and the emotional weight of his revelation.

“Don’t you f*****g dare touch me,” I warn the bastard as I hear and see his steps approaching. His feet are all I can see; I can’t lift my head.

It’s like I’m not even speaking—he walks forward and slowly begins to undo the shackles, one by one. My feet try to kick, but the effort only makes my shoulders cry out in agony. I bite down, swallowing a torn sob when one wrist is freed.

Without meaning to—and hating myself for this weakness—my body falls forward. My face crashes into a hard chest, and a scent too familiar, the same one that haunts my nights, invades my lungs.

Katarina, you’re losing it.

My other wrist is freed and I grit my teeth again, swallowing the searing pain ripping through my body. I wobble and, as I begin to collapse toward the ground, a strong arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against a warm body.

I feel myself fading—my back and head tilt backward. His arm around my waist tightens like a shackle, solid and muscular enough to hold me effortlessly.

And with my eyes about to close… I see him.

I blink, fighting to stay conscious.

Not now.

Thick beard covering his jaw and cheeks, but not enough to hide the scar slicing across his face—from the corner of his brow downward, diagonally, across his cheekbone.

His thick lashes frame the brown eyes that haunt me every night—darker, emptier than I remember, but the same pair of eyes I could never escape even if I tried. Eyes I’d recognize among a million others.

His brown hair, more unruly than I remember, is tied back in a bun—though a careless strand falls over his forehead, brushing his scar and shadowing his eyes even more.

For a moment, I doubt it.

I doubt it’s him.

It’s impossible for it to be him.

“You…”

“Shhh, Ice Princess,” he murmurs in his deep, rough voice. “Rest. The nightmare begins now.”

And with his face swimming behind my closed eyelids, I fall into another nightmare.