One of them steps closer, his posture too controlled, too calm. “Miss Marino,” he says, voice even, clipped. “You’re coming with us.”
I blink, then laugh—short, sharp, and disbelieving. “Excuse me?” I ask, trying to mask the spike of panic rising in my chest. “Is this Lev’s new way of torturing me?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even smirk. “You’ve been summoned for official Bratva business,” he says. “You have no choice but to come with us.”
My laugh dies in my throat. I swallow hard, my heart kicking against my ribs. No joking this time. Not with them. Not with this.
“I don’t—look, I have nothing to do with the Bratva,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m just a flight attendant. Leave me alone.”
They don’t answer. Instead, one of them reaches into a leather folder and pulls out a photograph.
I catch my breath. It’s my mother, smiling on a pier in Greece—but not alone. Vassilis Marino stands behind her, hand casually on her shoulder, and next to the photo is a document, official and signed.
My eyes widen. My father…I haven’t thought about him in years. And now his shadow looms over me in this terrifying, inescapable way.
The soldier’s voice is flat, unyielding. “Your father signed an agreement years ago. The debt is still unpaid. You are the repayment. You are to come with us, now.”
I freeze. My legs lock beneath me, my hands gripping my bag strap until my knuckles ache. My heart thunders so loud I’m afraid they’ll hear it.
This…this can’t be real.
“This has to be a mistake,” I insist, my voice trembling despite my best attempt at control. “You’ve got the wrong person. This isn’t me.”
I glance at the photo again—my mother, my father—and I know it isn’t a mistake. The soldiers remain polite, their expressions unreadable, but firm. One gently takes my elbow, guiding me toward a sleek black car waiting a few feet away. I plant my feet, stubborn, but deep down, I know I cannot fight this.
The door clicks shut behind me, the interior cool and unyielding. I fumble for my phone, heart hammering, and try to call Noelle. Nothing. No signal. No connection. Panic coils in my stomach.
My mind races. My parents…the Bratva…a debt. I had no idea my father had relations with the Bratva. I never heard of them until Noelle married a Bratva head. He was sweet to her and everything, but I remember how she was kidnapped and almost killed. It’s a dangerous life, and I vowed never to be involved with them.
Why did my father do this? My father, who always praised my beauty, told me I would make him money one day. Even dead, he’s found a way to use me as a means to an end.
My hands shake as the car starts to move. I hug my bag to my chest, my knuckles white. My body trembles—not just from fear, but from the cold, hard realization that my life has just changed in ways I cannot even begin to control.
The car glides silently through the streets, the city lights blurring past my window. My chest feels tight, each heartbeat loud in my ears. After what feels like an eternity, the car slows and pulls up to a massive gated estate. My stomach knots at the sight; this isn’t just any house. The gates are tall, wrought iron, the mansion beyond sprawling and impossibly beautiful. Marble steps lead up to an entrance framed by glowing lanterns, and the grounds are immaculately manicured.
The soldiers step out first, their movements precise, controlled. I hesitate, swallowing hard. This is not my world. None of it feels real.
One of them opens the door for me, his grip firm on my elbow, and I step onto the stone driveway, my heels clicking sharply against the marble. My eyes take in the mansion again, trying to process its scale, its perfection—but all I can focus on is the inevitability that whatever is waiting inside has something to do with me.
I glance at the soldiers, then at the gates behind me. Running isn’t an option. Not really.
The soldiers guide me up the marble steps, my heels clicking loudly, echoing in the cold night air. I glare at them, but their expressions are unreadable, perfectly trained. And then I see him.
Lev.
He’s waiting at the front door, hands tucked casually into the pockets of a perfectly tailored dark suit. The faint glow from the lanterns catches the sharp angles of his face, and my stomach flips—not with fear, but with fury.
I storm toward him, my bag swinging at my side. “What the hell is this, Lev? Explain yourself!”
My voice cracks on the last word, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough of being kept in the dark, enough of him treating me like some plaything to be summoned at his whim.
He straightens, his expression unreadable for a moment, then lets a small smirk tug at the corner of his lips. “Sasha,” he says, voice calm, almost impossibly composed. “You’re here because it’s unavoidable.”
I want to spit fire at him, to remind him of all the hurt, all the humiliation, all the control he’s had over me—but for once, words fail me. My anger sharpens, slicing right through the fear building in my chest.
“This is insane! You can’t just—” I stop myself, realizing no one here will care about my protests. My hands clench into fists at my sides. “—I have nothing to do with this!”
Lev tilts his head, gray eyes catching the lantern light. “You do now,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.
