By the time I was a young teenager, the Bratva knew our address by heart.
Every time someone showed up at our door, I would curl up in the dark with my hands clamped over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. The smell of mothballs and Dad’s winter coat pressed against my face. I stayed there for what felt like hours after they left, long after the taillights disappeared down the road.
Dad’s gambling didn’t stop. Even after the house was almost lost twice, even after the men came back again and again, he continued racking up debt as if it were a game he could still win. I’ll never understand how he could keep doing it, or how he could look at the fear in my eyes and still roll the dice one more time.
Then Fadir…God, Fadir.
Later, when I was living with him, I learned he quietly allowed my father’s debts to deepen. He never told me, but I once found records of small loans funneled through shell companies, just enough to keep Dad desperate and me dependent. Fadir liked having leverage. He liked knowing I had nowhere else to run.
The gossip at the diner whispered about Viktor’s latest screw-up, about how his daughter’s “big-city dreams” would probably end the same way everything else did in that family… badly. I swore I’d never crawl back. Never let anyone use my past against me again.
Yet here I am, living in a Bratva enforcer’s penthouse, and the past keeps reaching for me.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, needing to move before the memories drag me under completely. The guest suite is quiet and safe with its white linens, soft lighting, and the faint scent of cedar from the closet. Nothing like the cramped, chaotic house I grew up in. I pad barefoot to the window and press my forehead against it, staring out at the park below.
Alexey is only a door away. The thought should scare me more than it does. He’s part of the same world that once sent men to smash our furniture. But he’s nothing like those men. He’s patient and, dare I say, almost compassionate.
Still, the trauma whispers that safety is an illusion. That powerful men always find a way to use you. That one day, the mask will slip, and the monster underneath will look just like the ones who laughed as they destroyed our home.
I close my eyes and let the tears come. They’re hot, silent, and full of anger at myself for still being afraid after all these years. The world I grew up in is losing its edges. Bratva aren’t all monsters.
Alexey isn’t. But admitting that feels like letting go of the only armor I’ve ever had.
What it would mean to let myself believe that the man across the hall might be the first person who sees my past and doesn’t try to use it against me.
The thought terrifies me.
But for the first time, it also feels… possible.
I wipe my face with my hands, then crawl back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The penthouse is silent, and across the hall, Alexey sleeps behind a closed door, steady and present even in the quiet.
I don’t know if I’m ready to stop running.
But tonight, for the first time, I wonder what it would feel like to try.
Chapter 16 - Alexey
After months of flawless teamwork and shared late-night strategy sessions, the tension simmering between us finally snaps.
It happens on a rainy Thursday night when the city lights blur into streaks against the penthouse windows. I am reviewing the latest damage to Fadir’s network about another supplier folding, another account frozen, when Andrei’s urgent call comes through. His voice is clipped, professional, but I hear the edge beneath it.
“Fadir made a desperate play. He dug into Anja’s past. Leaked her real last name, Kuzmin, along with grainy photos from her teenage years and the trail of her father’s old gambling debts. Sent it to the same Sokolov-linked forces who hit her family home when she was just a kid. Also, to a handful of underworld contacts who still remember the ‘Kuzmin girl’, whose father tried to marry her off before she was of legal age. He’s trying to drag her past into the open, make her look like a liability, maybe even set her up for blackmail against us. He wants us to question whether she’s safe to keep around.”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. The cold rage that settles in my chest is sharper than any shout.
Fadir has crossed a line.
I already know Anja’s true identity. I have known from the beginning. My background checks are thorough. Her past doesn’t matter to me. She isn’t a liability. She is mine to protect now, whether the original deal allows for it or not. The thought hits hard and possessive:
She is mine,and Fadir has just tried to hurt what is mine.
I end the call with Andrei and move through the penthouse with deliberate calm, but my blood runs hot. The leak has been intercepted at the final stage, and my team buried every trace before it could spread.
But the intent is clear. Fadir is no longer playing for territory. He is playing dirty, aiming straight for the woman who was once his.
I find Anja in the living room, curled on the edge of the black leather sectional with a mug of tea cooling in her hands. She looks up when I enter, her eyes immediately reading the shift in my posture.
“Fadir made a move,” I say, keeping my voice level but direct. “He dug into your past. Leaked your real name, old photos, and your father’s debts. Targeted the criminals who showed up at your door, and a few other contacts who might remember the Kuzmin family. He wanted to expose you, make you a vulnerability we’d have to question. Force us to see you as a risk.”
