Page 58 of Claimed By the Pakhan

“Doesn’t matter,” says Emil, staring through the window.

“And you want to turn a blind eye to your problems, drinking away your sorrows? That’s not fair. All I’ve wanted to do since waking up from that coma is drown in mine for a while with a few glasses of red wine.”

“You’re right,” says Emil, still staring out of the window. “I’ll stick to the sparkling water with you tonight.” He turns from the window, catching my eyes across the kitchen. “I know things are tense at the moment, but that’s even more reason to show strength. Alexander Kuzmin thinks he weakened us last night, which is why we need to walk into the charity gala withour heads held high, rising from the ashes. Showing weakness motivates the enemy, inspiring them to keep destroying.”

Déjà vu suddenly takes me for a ride, spinning me around, causing the room to disorientate. Those words sound oddly familiar, spoken by a previous version of myself.

Intermittent banging welcomes me home after a long day at college.

My stomach churns, all the usual symptoms coming to the surface as I return home, hearing the sounds of my father beating up my mother.

I wish I could count the number of times this has happened on my fingers and toes, but I have lost count. This has been an ongoing issue for years.

Being rich isn't about buying the nicest house in the block, wearing expensive watches and clothes, spending money without worrying about the price tag. It’s about power, and my father has always had too much of that.

Unlike my father, my mother grew up with nothing. She leached onto my father as a way to survive, and now pays the price with her life more each day.

I step in, my heart shattering as I see the tears forming in my mother’s eye. She has been left alone on the kitchen floor, my father upstairs somewhere.

I yank her up, pulling her outside around the back of the house.

“Showing weakness motivates Father to keep destroying. He thrives from your tears. Promise me you’ll get out of here and stop giving this man so much power.”

Horns blare as we drive through downtown Seattle. Emil rests his hand on the leather steering wheel, focused on the road ahead.

Red taillights distort in the rain as it falls down heavy, another storm on its way. I bring my fur shawl closer, goosebumps raising on my arms for several reasons.

Power has levels. Emil gives off the impression that he has it all, but the man has layers, and he buries those layers behind stoic faces and clenched jaws.

I remember my conversation with Luka from a few nights ago.

“Be careful around him, Fia. Your love for him is all consuming and your feelings will return, but at what cost?”

I’m wearing a dazzling yellow dress, sitting in a Porsche on the way to a party instead of solving cases behind my desk at work. Is this the cost Luka was talking about? I sacrifice my own freedom for my husband’s piece of mind?

I nibble on my lip, wondering if being a wife and a mother will cause the past to repeat as I find myself trapped next to a man I can’t escape.

Is love meant to feel suffocating?

I roll down the window, nitrogen and city smog permeating the air. The smell is unpleasant, but it reminds me of the times I was free. Will I ever get those times back?

The car rolls to a stop outside of the charity gala, which is apparently being held in a museum. I frown, glancing up at the intimidatingly high building before me, shining gold in the night.

I roll up the window, a bodyguard there to immediately greet me, opening the door, placing an umbrella over my head.

“Mrs. Volkova,” says the bodyguard, bowing his head professionally, like I’m more priceless than his life. “It’s an honor to see you again, and congratulations on the pregnancy.”

“Thanks,” I say, my voice trailing up at the end, like I’m asking a question.

Emil joins me around the other side of the car, taking the umbrella from the bodyguard, who appears to be one of his Bratva employees. The tattoos inked across his arm are a big giveaway, the scolding look another sign that these two know each other well. “I’ll take it from here,bratan.”

“Everyone is excited to see you both tonight,” says the bodyguard, leaving Emil and I to our own devices.

Emil raises the umbrella higher, so we’re huddled under the same one.

“You never told me you were a celebrity,” I scoff.

“Not a celebrity as such,” says Emil, pondering the right word. “More like an inspiration to other young successful entrepreneurs in the city.”