Page 2 of Savage Truce

Pap – Dad

Svinya – Pig

Tolstukha – Fat woman

Ty moyo vsyo – You’re my everything

CHAPTER 1

Anastasia

Rodian Volkov, 32. Anastasia Donovan, 20.

The sewing machine purrs beneath my hands, while the familiar scent of steam and starch fills the air. Watching the thread weave through the fabric gives me a sense of peacefulness I’ve never been able to find anywhere else.

My workshop, situated at the back of the theater where I’ve been employed since I graduated from school, is the only place I’m truly happy.

Well, normally it’s peaceful, but with the final performance only hours away, every rail is packed with costumes waiting for one last inspection from my boss before they’re sent backstage to the performers.

I lift my foot off the pedal and hold the shirt up to the light, checking the seam while my thoughts turn to my parents and my approaching twenty-first birthday.

A heavy sigh escapes me because in a matter of two weeks my whole life is going to change, and I’m not ready for it. Far from.

Honestly, I don’t remember the last time I saw my parents, or any of my family members for that matter. The rare times Mother has called over the years, her tone has always been clipped, making me feel like she’s doing me a favor by honoring me with a few minutes of her attention. But as for actually seeing them? Being in the same room as them? I only have a handful of vague memories of my time in Russia.

Lowering the shirt, I snip a loose thread hanging from the cuff while continuing to worry about my uncertain future.

When I turned six, my parents shipped me off. Home became one expensive boarding school after another, scattered across the UK. So, even though I’m the granddaughter of a pakhan on my mother’s side and my father is part of the Irish mob, I don’t know the first thing about Russia, the Bratva, or the mafia.

I don’t even speak Russian anymore. I knew a little when I was younger but have forgotten most of it over the years, and attending international schools has left me with a neutral English accent instead of a Russian or Irish one.

Now I’m just Anastasia Donovan. A girl who loves being a seamstress and doesn’t want to leave this little slice of heaven I’ve carved out for myself at the theater.

I set the shirt aside while the thought of being forced to return to Russia ties my stomach in knots.

“Anastasia?”

I nearly jump out of my skin when Charlotte, the head of wardrobe, suddenly comes into the workshop. Like always, her reading glasses are perched low on her nose, giving her a stern look.

Her eyes immediately sweep over the room before settling on me. “How are things?”

Getting up, I take the shirt to the rails and place it on a hanger while saying, “Just finished the last shirt. I’m done.”

Her eyebrows fly into her hairline, and I swear she seems impressed. “Really? Even the last-minute adjustments I gave you three hours ago?”

Nodding, I pick a piece of lint off a dress before straightening a collar. “I just want to tidy my workshop, then I’ll head backstage so I can be on standby for any wardrobe malfunctions.”

Charlotte visibly relaxes, the tension draining from her face. “You’re a godsend. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She walks to the rail of costumes and checks every costume quickly before calling out, “The rack is ready. Come get it.”

“On my way,” Emily, a junior assistant, replies. “Just give me a minute.”

Charlotte looks at me again, her stern expression softening. “I see a bright future for you in the industry, Anastasia.”

Even though the compliment makes me feel uncomfortable, I keep a smile on my face. “Thank you.”

Emily rushes into the room, and taking the rail, she rolls it out into the hallway. Charlotte follows her, and I let out a heavy breath when I’m alone.