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Oskar studies me for a moment, the ghost of a smile dancing at the corner of his lips. "A letter... perhaps that can be arranged."
The very thought feels archaic, a relic of a bygone era. Yet, the idea appeals to me. Pen and paper, devoid of the trappings of technology, might offer me a tangible connection in this intangible world I’ve been forced to inhabit.
As I make my way to my room, the tension in my shoulders seems to ease a bit. A small victory, perhaps, in a sea of battles. The quiet whispers of ink on paper might just be the medium through which I find my voice. The silence of my room welcomes me, the dim light from a single lamp casting gentle shadows on the writing desk. As I sit, the cold touch of the pen against my fingers steadies me.
I think of all the words I could write, tales of my heartbreak, my anger, and my newfound determination. But in the end, it’s simplicity that spills from me—the power of no more than a few poignant sentences.
To the man who believes chains are an acceptable gift for a bride,
You may have me now, but you will regret not letting me go. By year's end, I promise to make freedom my most treasured possession and divorce my fondest gift to you.
Your ever-determined "wife,”
Mariya
A mischievous smile crosses my lips as I finish. With one final flourish, I press my lips against the paper. The soft imprint of my lipstick stain, a deep shade of rebellious crimson, is left behind. A little token, a silent vow, a whispered warning.
As I allow the ink and lipstick to dry, a fire of resolve ignites within me. I’m already planning and plotting. I’ll inspect every corner of this place and weigh every possible exit. I may have been stopped tonight, but the journey is far from over. The desire for freedom courses through my veins, as unyielding as the promise written on that page.
I fold the letter neatly and leave it on the desk, the crimson kiss facing upward like a battle standard. Tonight, rest will refuel my spirit. Tomorrow, the chessboard of escape awaits my next move.
Chapter 4
Damien
The gentle hum of the engine offers little solace as the streets of Moscow zip by. The leather seat beneath me feels cold and unyielding, yet in stark contrast, the paper I hold is warm. I've reread it several times now. It never loses its bite, and each read feels like the first time.
To the man who believes chains are an acceptable gift for a bride...
I chuckle. It's a genuine sound, one of admiration. If anything, Mariya's bold words solidify a truth I've begun to suspect about her. She isn't a wilting flower trembling in the shadows of Bratva's vast garden. She's fiery and tempestuous, and it's both intriguing and frustrating.
You may have me now, but you will regret not letting me go.
I admire her tenacious fire, even if it scorches me from time to time. In another life, under other circumstances, I might have found myself drawn to her, not as a pawn in the Bratva's twisted games but genuinely, authentically. But our reality has left little room for such musings. For now, it's a dance of cat and mouse, and I can't help but wonder who truly is who.
The sudden braking of the car snaps me from my musings. The exterior lights of an upscale restaurant come into view, announcing our arrival. The sign is rendered in elegant Cyrillic lettering, but my attention is caught by something else—the crimson lipstick stain, Mariya's cheeky signature. I fold the letter and tuck it in my jacket pocket. It’s an odd souvenir, perhaps, but one that reminds me of the unexpected challenges of this union.
My driver, Anton, a stout man with a balding head but with eyes as sharp as a hawk, steps out first. I can feel the Bratva's power in the air, its undercurrents pulsing through the night. My thoughts are a whirlwind, a mixture of what will occur in the meeting ahead and the firebrand I've inadvertently tethered myself to.
Anton opens the door for me, and as I step out, the chilly Moscow air greets me. I straighten my suit, inhaling deeply. Tonight is not just about discussing territories, trades, or politics. It's also about asserting my position in this complex hierarchy, especially now, with the added wildcard of Mariya in the mix.
The night ahead promises to be as unpredictable as the letter in my pocket. As I approach the restaurant, I can't help but think that, in our own ways, both Mariya and I are navigating treacherous waters, each trying to find our place in a world that often demands too much.
The rich scent of aged mahogany and leather welcomes me as I step into the restaurant.
Most would find the empty space unsettling, but to us, it's a symbol of power—the ability to shut down an entire dining establishment during peak hours for a private meeting.
Seated around the largest table at the center, I spot my brothers and their wives, all meticulously studying the plethora of papers and screens spread out before them. Sandra's elegant silhouette stands out against the deep hues of the restaurant. Her dark eyes meet mine briefly, and she offers a nod of acknowledgment.
Andrei, who seldom minces words, speaks, "All right, Damien. Settle in. We're just getting to the meat of things." His voice is familiar, grounded, both authoritative and reassuring. Sandra, ever the strategist, gives me a knowing look and prompts, "Leo, give us the numbers."
Clearing his throat, Leo begins. "Moscow and St. Petersburg remain strongholds. The laundering operation has been consistent. As for New York," he pauses to take a sip of water, "we've got a firm grip on our investments. We have multiple income streams, all running without a hitch."
The large screen at the head of the table flickers to life, showing Roman's smirking face. The background noise suggests he's calling in from a busy setting, perhaps his office in St. Petersburg. "We might have a minor issue with the Georgians. I've caught wind of some discontent," Roman mentions with a slight frown, brushing back a strand of hair that has fallen onto his forehead. "However," he adds, confidence evident in his voice, "it's not something that I can't manage. I've got it under control."
As Roman finishes, the screen splits to add another face, that of Samuil's, calling in from New York.
"New York's a gold mine," he begins, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and pride. It took us some time and a bit of persuasion, but we've locked in a territory agreement with the Italians down in Little Italy. They were hesitant, given their recent troubles with the NYPD, but a shared profit approach seemed to ease their worries. We’re good partners for them right now."
