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My thoughts are interrupted by the soft ping of a text message. I discreetly pull out my phone, eyes scanning the words. It's from Oskar.
The Nightingale has flown the coop.
Damn it. The girl. Mariya. She was supposed to be the least of my worries, a simple debt repayment. Yet she’s turning out to be a pain in the ass I hadn’t anticipated. I stifle the surge of irritation I feel. Now's not the time.
I pocket my phone, hoping the brief interruption hasn’t cost me any leverage. "Apologies, Mr. Sahin. Where were we?"
He raises an eyebrow but continues the discussion, evidently intrigued enough to overlook the momentary distraction. The two of us negotiate, discuss, and eventually agree on preliminary terms.
But as our meeting concludes and Sahin's footsteps fade into the distance, I can't shake the weight of Mariya's escape. The Nightingale, the code name we’ve given her, fits her delicate appearance but apparently not her aptitude.
The irony isn't lost on me. I am trying to prove my worth to the Bratva and my family, and yet I can't even keep a young florist confined within the walls of my home. I sigh, knowing that while the potential success of this deal might bring me closer to gaining my family's respect, this misstep with Mariya could set me back in their eyes.
I need to find her. The Nightingale may have taken flight, but I'll be damned if she's escaped for good.
The familiar, pulsing heartbeat of Moscow under the cloak of night welcomes me as I exit the building. Neon lights cut through the darkness, casting vivid splashes of color onto the wet asphalt below. The hum of distant music from late-night clubs drifts through the air, and the city feels alive, the urban atmosphere thriving in the twilight hours.
My driver stands rigidly at attention next to a sleek black car, its contours reflecting the city lights. Our eyes meet and before I give him any direction, he opens the door for me, understanding the urgency without the need for words. As we drive, I watch the streets of Moscow blur as they pass. Buildings adorned with glitzy billboards and modern skyscrapers contrast sharply with the elegant gold-domed churches and historic architecture. Even at this hour, the traffic is thick, but my driver weaves through it with practiced ease.
Once I arrive at my apartment, I head straight to my office, where I’ve set up a discreet command center. Walls of screens display live footage from various cameras scattered throughout the city, and it doesn't take me long to locate Mariya's image on one of them.
I was prepared for any possibility. There's a good reason behind the old adage, “trust but verify.” I’ve made sure Mariya is always within the scope of my watchful eyes. I’m aware that the optics—this surveillance, this encroachment upon her privacy—borders on obsession. But Andrei made it clear that the importance of this union outweighed personal discomfort. Our world thrives on alliances and power dynamics; emotion has no place here. The cameras, the undercover agents blending seamlessly with the crowd, the microphones picking up whispers and footsteps… all of it is necessary. A part of me wonders if Mariya, intelligent as she is, knows just how closely she's being monitored.
Leaning against the cool surface of my desk, I can't help but focus on the small screen showing Mariya's progress through the city. Each step she takes symbolizes her defiance, and though I hate to admit it, a begrudging respect takes root in my chest. The irony isn't lost on me; in our world of power struggles and dark dealings, this delicate florist could very well be my undoing.
A beep interrupts my musings. It’s a message from Andrei, no doubt seeking an update on the situation. With the Tarasovs holding considerable political sway and a pivotal development deal on the horizon, Mariya is the lynchpin in our plans. This is simply a marriage of convenience, of strategy. I don't need to love her, though considering her spirit, I suspect that might be a challenge in and of itself. My job is simple—keep her close, keep her controlled for the sake of the Bratva and the power we've fought so hard to maintain.
The ghostly glow from the bank of monitors provides the only illumination in the apartment, casting a blue-tinged hue over everything. The lavish house that Mariya thinks is my residence is more of a ruse. This apartment is my sanctum, a place in the dense heart of Moscow where I retreat when the weight of the Bratva world grows too stifling. Here, there are no pretenses, only the bare truth.
A camera feed shows Mariya boarding a train, her silhouette easily distinguishable among the throngs of passengers. She’s heading to Finland, a wise move. The security on trains is more relaxed than at any airport. For a brief moment, I can't help but marvel at her resourcefulness. The realization that this spirited young woman sees her life with me as a prison from which she must escape stings a little.
I key in a quick message to Oskar, instructing him to shadow her and bring her back unharmed. There’s no pride in this command, only the hard tug of responsibility and loyalty to the Bratva.
Leaning back in my chair, I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the first tendrils of a headache creeping in. In some twisted way, I thought that by granting her freedom, by not suffocating her with my presence, she might find a way to coexist with the peculiar circumstances of our union.
However, now I question the wisdom of such a decision. Maybe I should've been clearer and stricter. But deep down, the thought of truly imprisoning her, of caging that spirit, is abhorrent to me.
Our worlds couldn’t be more different. The Bratva, with its layers of shadows and intricacies, is no place for a soul like hers. I've seen the toughest men crumble under its weight. Mariya, with her floral dresses and eyes full of dreams, doesn't belong in this gritty reality. It’s not that I doubt her strength, but I fear the things she might be exposed to, the darkness that could taint that luminous spirit.
With a sigh, I turn away from the screens. I never intended to know her, to integrate her into my life. It was simpler that way. The more she knew, the more she could get hurt, and there was enough blood on my hands without adding hers to the tally. This distance, this aloofness on my part, isn't cruelty. It's protection, a shield I erect around her to keep her from the harshest truths of my existence. If she resents me for it, so be it. I’d rather she feel resentment than the pain of our world.
As the hours roll by, and the anticipation of her return grows, a thought surfaces, one that I had pushed deep into the recesses of my mind—if she truly wanted to run, to break free, could I blame her? Could I honestly begrudge her that freedom when every fiber of my being screams to protect her from the very world I’m part of?
With a heavy heart, I pour myself a drink, hoping that the burn of the alcohol might provide some clarity. But the only thing that remains clear is the uncertainty of our intertwined fates.
Chapter 3
Mariya
The thrum of footfalls echoes throughout the vast expanse of the Yaroslavsky Railway Station. Bright overhead lights cast stark shadows on the marble flooring as hundreds, if not thousands, of souls weave their way through, each with a destination and a purpose. In this tidal wave of humanity, I feel like a singular droplet swallowed by the ocean's vastness.
Every step feels strangely magnified, each breath a tad heavier. I've always found solace in solitude, but this? This is a chaos I never imagined. Here, among the swirling mass of commuters, travelers, and fleeting faces, I'm both lost and conspicuous all at once.
I catch glimpses of families with children, businessmen in crisp suits, and students in lively chatter. Yet amidst this pulsating heart of Moscow, a surge of panic rises, making my chest tight. The oppressive feeling of being watched, of being recognized, sits heavy in my gut. A restroom sign beckons and I quickly take refuge.
The intermittent flashing of the lights in the bathroom mirrors reflects my own tumultuous feelings. I approach the sink, the cold metal pressing against my fingertips. My own pale face stares back, a stark contrast to the woman who was just a day ago in a pristine garden surrounded by roses. Today, there's no floral dress or perfectly styled hair, just a plain-looking girl in a nondescript hoodie, coat, and jeans.
I let out a huff of amusement. Here I stand, looking the polar opposite of a Bratva trophy wife. No finery, no ostentatious display of wealth, just a girl. I smirk at my reflection. There's power in such simplicity, a camouflage that the gaudy opulence of my recent past would never afford.
