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I nod, recalling the endless white that had blanketed Moscow, transforming the streets into a frosty labyrinth.
"There was that day when the power went out in half of the city. Most of us were content to wait it out, but not you. You decided to trek across town to ensure our operations there weren't compromised."
His smile grows wider at the memory. "You came back, frozen half to death, but with a full report that not only helped us secure our operations but also exposed a leak we hadn't even suspected. You were half your size back then, but your determination was twice the size of any of us."
I remember that day vividly now—the biting cold, the challenge of navigating through the snow-choked streets, and the satisfaction of delivering that report.
Andrei's expression becomes more serious. "You see, Damien, it was never about doubting if you were one of us. You've always been one of us. You've always had the same heart that we do. We've seen your loyalty, your strength, your dedication. You've proven yourself, not just back then, but time and time again."
I feel a shift inside me, a loosening of the knot of resentment I've carried for so long. Andrei's words, his acknowledgment of my struggles and my victories, are what I've yearned to hear.
"You've always worked twice as hard, Damien," Andrei adds, his tone earnest. "And maybe we should have said it more often but know this—we've never doubted you. We think of you as a part of this family, just like the rest of us."
The room remains silent, but it's a different kind of silence now, filled with understanding, perhaps even a hint of regret for not having voiced these truths sooner.
I nod, a simple gesture, but it carries the weight of years of unspoken feelings. "Thank you, Andrei," I say, my voice steadier than it's been all night.
Andrei steps forward, his presence commanding in the quiet moment. "We'll be here, Damien, holding down the fort," he says with a firm resolve. "I know you have helped us in the past, and we are all grateful, but I also know that you can save Mariya without us. You’re fiercer than all of us combined when it comes to your family. We will be with you, offering any support we can from here. But you know as well as I do that Moscow can't afford to be left unguarded, not with the chaos Oskar and Vadem have stirred up."
His words, meant to be reassuring, are a stark reminder of the solitary path that lies ahead. I nod, accepting the mantle of responsibility they've placed upon me.
"Keep the home fires burning," I reply, offering a tight, humorless smile. "I'll get her back. You can count on that."
With a final glance at each of my brothers, I turn and stride out of the room. I may be going into this alone, but I carry with me the strength and persistence of my lineage, of my place within the Bratva.
My strides are purposeful, each step a physical manifestation of the determination building within me. Mariya, the woman who inadvertently found her way into the deepest recesses of my heart, is out there, scared and alone, possibly hurt. I need to save her and bring her home. I will keep my promise to her—I will always protect her.
Chapter 26
Mariya
Three weeks later…
Every day in this lavish prison brings a new lesson in patience and observation. I've turned my captivity into a meticulous study. The guards, with their routine patrols and shifts, are like clockwork, predictable to a fault. I note their patterns, their pauses, and the subtle shifts in their attention.
The compound itself is luxurious despite my situation. The room they've given me is bathed in sunlight, furnished with plush sofas and a bed that could comfortably fit four people. But no matter how soft the pillows or how rich the curtains are, they can't mask the reality of my confinement.
My eyes have become sharper, catching every detail. The types of weapons the guards carry—mostly handguns and the occasional rifle—give me an idea about the level of security here. I've even started learning a few Turkish words, eavesdropping on conversations, hoping to pick up something useful, anything that might aid in my escape.
I gaze out the windows, imagining myself scaling the walls, sprinting across the open grounds to freedom. I fantasize about finding the nearest Russian embassy, pleading my case, and sending an urgent message to Damien. My heart aches with the need to see him, to be back in his protective embrace.
But fantasies are just that—fleeting and insubstantial. The reality is that I am alone in a foreign land, surrounded by people who see me as nothing more than a bargaining chip.
Yet, in these weeks of captivity, I've learned more than just the guards' routines and the layout of the compound. I've learned about my own strength and my resilience. I refuse to be just another victim, a damsel in distress waiting for her hero to arrive. Damien may be out there working to save me, but I'm not going to sit idly by.
I strategize, waiting for the perfect moment. Each day is a step closer to freedom, each observation a piece of the puzzle that will lead me back home. And when the time comes, I will be ready to seize my chance, to fight for my escape with everything I've got.
As night falls and the compound settles into a quiet lull, my mind races with plans and possibilities. I know the risks are high, but so are the stakes. I won't let fear hold me back. I will get out of here, and I will find my way back to Damien.
The shadows of the night cloak my movements as I wait, every muscle tensed for action. I've memorized the guard's routine down to the minute. As predicted, he pauses at the end of each hallway round to check his phone, a brief distraction that has become my window of opportunity.
The vent cover comes off with a soft click, a move I've practiced to make as silent as possible. Dropping into the hallway, I feel a surge of adrenaline. This is it, my moment of escape. But as I move, a wave of nausea washes over me, sudden and unexpected. Gritting my teeth, I press on, slipping past the second guard's back as he turns the corner.
But the nausea hits again, more intense this time. I stagger into a side hall, barely managing to keep quiet. My hand clutches at my stomach, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. What's happening to me? I can't escape like this. The realization sinks in with a heavy dread.
With a frustrated, muffled groan, I force myself to return to my room, every step a battle against the sickness churning inside me. I make it back just in time, the contents of my stomach expelled violently into the porcelain bowl of the restroom.
Sitting back on my heels, I wipe my mouth, my mind racing. What's wrong with me? This isn't just stress or fear. It's something else, something physical that I can't ignore. The thought of being incapacitated in this crucial moment is infuriating.
