When I turned twenty, I found Matteo, who runs an underground fighting ring in a warehouse that smelled like sweat and desperation. He didn't ask why a girl who looked like she belonged in college was asking to fight for money. He just saw someone willing to take punishment and keep moving, and he offered me a spot. For three years, I fought in that ring. Turns out men will pay a fortune to watch a girl fight grown men, whether she wins or loses, whether she bleeds or makes others bleed.
I learned more in those three years than in any other period of my life. I learned what it feels like to have your face rearranged by someone's fist, the strange disconnect between the impact and the pain that follows, what a rib breaking sounds like from the inside, that sharp crack that echoes through your chest cavity, and that pain is just information, and if you treat it that way instead of something to fear, it loses its power over you. Then I became proficient with weapons, adding another layer tomy skillset. Guns, knives, garrotes—anything that could kill or incapacitate became part of my education. I found trainers in gun ranges and backrooms, people who worked outside the law and understood that knowledge is power and some people need that knowledge for reasons they won't discuss over coffee. I paid them well with money I'd earned bleeding in rings, and they taught me without judgment.
One particularly helpful group was run by and for women, survivors of domestic violence who understood that sometimes the only way out is through. I still send them money every month, a tithe to the sisterhood of women who refuse to stay broken.
Now, standing at the heavy bag, I throw combinations that have become muscle memory. The bag swings back on its chain, and I move with it like we're dancing, never letting my feet leave the ground—always maintain contact with the earth, always have a foundation to push off from, always have an exit strategy if things go wrong. I throw kicks that make the bag shudder. I throw elbows that would shatter bone. I throw knees that could collapse a ribcage.
Soon I'm sweating so heavily my clothes are soaked through, clinging to my skin. My hands are wrapped in tape and protected by gloves, but even through all that padding, I can feel each strike vibrating through my wrists and up my arms, a pleasant ache that tells me I'm doing this right. This is exactly what I want, this feeling of power and control and readiness. But I also have to be careful not to leave visible marks. I can't show up to Lush covered in bruises. That would make Aleksandr ask questions I'm not prepared to answer.
Then comes the weapons work, my favorite part of the routine. I have knives in several sizes and configurations, each one balanced differently, each one serving a specific purpose. They're my preferred method of dealing with problems becausethey're silent and don't require the annoying paperwork that comes with gun ownership. I practice throwing them at a wooden target mounted in the corner of the room, working on the draw, the release, and the follow-through that makes the difference between a knife that sticks and one that bounces off harmlessly.
I also have a garrote made of piano wire and wooden handles, the most intimate form of killing because it requires you to be close enough to feel death happening, to hear the last desperate gasps, and feel the body go limp in your arms. I've never actually used one on a person, but I've thought about using it on Father more times than I can count. I've fantasized about the feeling of that wire around his neck, about the moment when recognition floods his eyes and he realizes who I am, about the satisfaction of watching his face as he's forced to accept he's dying because of me, because of what he did to a fifteen-year-old girl he was supposed to protect.
Those fantasies are what keep me going when the training gets too hard, when my body screams for rest, when doubt creeps in about whether I can actually pull this off.
With my routine complete, I move into a long stretching session to cool down properly. My body shakes with fatigue, muscles trembling from the effort I've just put them through, but I push through it anyway because flexibility prevents injuries and injuries are distractions I can't afford. Any significant injury would keep me out of work and disrupt the careful positioning I've spent two years building at Lush.
By late afternoon, I'm soaking in a hot bath of Epsom salts, letting my abused muscles recover while my mind continues working. I think about Father and what I've learned about him through careful observation and patient eavesdropping. I've pieced together a picture of a man who's aging, becoming more paranoid with each passing year. I've also learned he marriedhis mistress, whom he apparently already had two children with that he's now made legitimate.
I had no idea I had siblings walking around somewhere, though I always knew Father kept women on the side like most men keep spare change. I wonder if my half brother, the heir apparent to an empire built on blood and lies, would be opposed to expediting the succession timeline. Would he help me when he’s old enough if I approached him correctly? Or would he report me to Father like a good son should?
I think about the moment when I finally get close enough to Father to make my move. I've played out the scenario thousands of times in my head, maybe tens of thousands, refining it like a choreographer perfecting a dance. In my head, I have him exactly where I want him, vulnerable and aware and understanding what's about to happen. In my head, I always win because that's the only ending I can allow myself to imagine. But reality is messier than fantasy, more complicated than the clean narratives I tell myself. Reality has variables I can't control, like Volk, who seem to exist outside the normal rules. Father and Volk have access to resources and experience that most people don't possess.
The uncertainty of what Volk does or doesn't know about me is like an itch I can't scratch, a constant low-level anxiety that never quite goes away.
Feeling restless, I climb out of the bath and find myself standing in front of my mirror again, completing the circle I started this morning. The training is done, and now I can focus on the other part of my daily ritual, the part most would find absurd given how I spend the rest of my time.
I have a skincare routine that would make most people laugh if they knew about it. I use high-end products, the kind that actually work instead of just promising miracles in prettypackaging. My skin is part of my armor, part of the disguise, and I take care of my armor the same way I take care of my weapons.
By the evening, I've completed my daily routine, eaten a protein-heavy meal that tastes of nothing but serves its purpose, taken my vitamins like a good girl, and prepared everything I need for work. Tonight's outfit is simple in concept but calculated in execution—a black skirt, which hugs my curves in ways that feels almost obscene, paired with a teal green corset to bring out the color of my eyes and give my skin an ethereal paleness men seem to find fascinating. And heels high enough to be seductive but uncomfortable enough to keep me alert despite years of practice.
My makeup is carefully applied to enhance my best features while avoiding the kind of perfection that would make me seem too untouchable, too unapproachable.
I look at myself one more time before leaving the apartment, studying the woman in the mirror with the critical eye of someone who knows she's looking at a costume rather than a person. I've built her from the ground up, piece by careful piece. She's not real in any meaningful sense. She's a replica of what a woman my age should be, what men expect her to be, what the world wants from someone who looks like this. The person underneath—the woman who's spent ten years training and planning and waiting for her moment—is hidden so well sometimes I even forget she exists. Sometimes I almost believe I'm just Sofiya, a dancer at Lush with a mysterious past and good reflexes and nothing more complicated than that.
If only I could forget I'm actually a ghost, a girl who was supposed to die in the desert, a weapon someone forgot to destroy before it had a chance to learn how to destroy them back.
CHAPTER 4
Volk
SONG: GLORY BOX BY PORTISHEAD
I'mat Lush again because I can't stay away. That should worry me more than it does. I've brought senior members with me tonight, men who need to see the club is running smoothly after the Volya incident. Men who need to believe everything is under control. They sit with me in the corner booth, Aleksandr's usual spot, discussing business like this is just another meeting in just another location.
But I'm not here for them. I'm here becausesheworks here, and I need to see her again like I need to breathe.
Three days. It's been three days since I saw her, and I've thought about nothing else. Not the jobs I'm supposed to be overseeing. Not the problems I'm supposed to be solving. Not the Pakhan who's counting on me to keep his empire running smoothly.
Just her. Always her.
The moment she walks through the door, everything else becomes background noise. The men talking beside me fade, the music becomes a dull roar, and the entire club shrinks down to just her moving through the space like she owns it.
She's wearing something black and tight, showing off curves that make my mouth dry. Her hair is down tonight, dark waves falling over her shoulders. Her makeup is different too, heavier around the eyes, making them look even darker, more dangerous.
Beautiful doesn't cover it. I need a new fucking word.
I track her movements across the room, trying to be subtle about it but probably failing. She moves with a controlled grace that drives me insane, smiling at men who don't deserve to breathe the same air as her. Dancing for them. Letting them look at her.
