I packed one duffel bag and drove until the town disappeared, swearing I’d never let the Bratva world touch me again.
Yet here, at this long oak table, the Sokolovs feel… different.
Loyal and honorable in their own sharp-edged way. They protect their own without making a spectacle of it. Tikhon’s clap on my shoulder felt like acceptance, not ownership. Katya’s gentle questions feel like care, not manipulation. Arina’s relentless teasing of Alexey paints a picture of a younger version of him who was serious, bookish, and already carrying the weight of patience. That clashes so hard with the calm, methodical 34-year-old I know; it makes my head spin.
My old mantra of “all Bratva are monsters” is starting to blur at the edges and almost soften like ink in water. But I keep my guard up anyway. Because Alexey has never once crossed the professional line we both agreed on that first morning.
Even during public appearances, every touch stays calculated. Gentle. Possessive only for show. He treats me with careful distance, never pushing, never taking advantage of the fact that I sleep across the hall from him every night.
Revenge is progressing beautifully. The USB drive. The frozen accounts. Fadir’s growing panic. That’s all this is. A business arrangement. A means to an end.
At least that’s what I tell myself later that night, back in the penthouse, when I lie awake in the guest suite staring at the ceiling. The city lights paint faint patterns across the plaster. Across the hall, Alexey is in his own room with his door closed and our boundaries firmly in place.
I replay the low sound of his voice explaining strategy during our late-night sessions, and the quiet competence that never wavers. The unexpected comfort of knowing he’s only a few doors away, steady and present even when he stays silent.
The heavy pounding in my chest refuses to die. It’s warmer now, more dangerous. Gratitude mixed with somethingsharper. I hate how safe his presence feels. How the black-and-white world I grew up with is losing its hard edges.
I roll over, pressing my face into the pillow.
This is still about revenge. About walking away richer and freer once Fadir is nothing but ash. About proving I’m not the girl who lets men trap her.
But as sleep finally pulls me under, the echo of genuine laughter from the Sokolov dinner table lingers, mixing with the steady memory of Alexey’s brown eyes across the crowded table and Alexey’s protective, never possessive behavior.
For the first time, the mantra feels less like armor and more like a lie I’m still trying to believe.
***
The penthouse library is quiet in a way that still feels unreal to me.
I sit curled in one of the deep leather armchairs, a forgotten book open on my lap, the soft glow of a single reading lamp pooling over the pages. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line two walls, filled with strategy texts, first editions, and the occasional worn novel that looks like it actually gets read. Beyond the tall windows, the city glitters far below, but up here the world feels suspended. Safe. For now.
My mind refuses to stay in the present.
Instead, it drags me back to that night six weeks before Alexey stormed into the warehouse and pulled me out.
Fadir’s apartment is dim except for the single desk lamp in his study. I waited until the elevator doors closed behindhim, counting exactly fifteen minutes on my phone with shaking fingers.
My bare feet made no sound on the hardwood as I slipped inside the study and woke his laptop. The screen lit up, and luckily, it was still logged in, almost arrogant. He never imagined the quiet, grateful girl he’d trapped would dare dig through his secrets.
My heart hammered so violently I felt it in my teeth. I plugged in the cheap USB drive I’d bought with crumpled bills from the corner store and started copying. Passwords. Shell-company folders. Routing numbers.
The secondary ledger. Every coded contact I could reach without setting off any obvious alerts. The progress bar crawled like it was moving through molasses. 34%. 61%. 87%. Sweat prickled along my spine.
Every creak in the building made my stomach lurch. If he came back early…
At 100%. I yanked the drive free, shoved it deep into the waistband of my sleep shorts, and shut the laptop exactly as I’d found it. My legs felt liquid as I hurried down the hallway toward Fadir’s guest room, where I was staying.
I am only three steps from safety when the elevator dinged.
Fadir stepped into the apartment, loosening his tie, hair slightly tousled from the night air. His eyes landed on me immediately. They are sharp, assessing, and highly suspicious. The air thickened until I could barely breathe.
“Anja?” His voice is smooth on the surface, but the blade underneath it pressed against my ribs. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
His skepticism is obvious, and when he begins closing the distance between us, I'm sure I can feel my heart beating out of my chest.
I forced a sleepy, sheepish smile and rubbed one eye like I’d just woken. My voice came out small and tired, the same tone I’d used for months to keep him believing I am harmless. “Couldn’t sleep again. I'm just getting some water from the kitchen. The job hunt stuff keeps spinning in my head.”
I gestured vaguely toward the dimly lit kitchen, praying the lie would land. The USB felt like a burning coal against my skin, hidden, but screaming its presence with every heartbeat.
