“Got business, Myshka.”

“Where? And for how long?” I asked, immediately wishing I hadn’t, as Alik’s face turned to stone.

His grip on my chin strengthened to ensure I understood I’d overstepped my boundaries. My jaw ached and I winced at the dull pressure and pain.

Alik tutted, shook his head slowly, then said, “Business is business. It takes as long as it takes. It happens where it happens.”

I lowered my eyes in submission and tried to nod in understanding, but my intended movement was inhibited by his unyielding hand. Alik sighed long. Next thing I knew, my mouth was latched to his, his teeth biting at my lip, causing me to whimper. He ripped his lips away a second later.

“Fuck! I can’t stay mad at you, Myshka. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

I cautiously lifted my trembling hand to stroke Alik’s stubbled cheek. “I love you, Alik,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. He was all I had. He was my only future. And I did love him in a fashion… he needed me. And I wanted to belong to someone. I wanted to be loved.

Alik’s eyes softened, but only a fraction. He couldn’t show any weakness. But I knew he loved hearing those three words from my lips. They calmed the monster inside.

Pressing another hard, bruising kiss to my lips, he stood and made his way to the bathroom.

Heart beating and fighting back nerves, I asked, “Can I give charity with Father Kruschev tonight? He’s distributing care packages to the homeless.”

Alik halted. He turned to look at me, a patronizing smirk on his face, and joked, “Have at it, my good little Myshka. Go serve God! Go rescue the scum on the streets.” His condescending laughter followed him into the bathroom, but I ignored the humiliation and the curt dismissal. I simply felt myself breathe… normally.

At church, my father and fiancé didn’t send their men to spy on me. No one would dare fuck with the Bratva at their sacred church. It was the one place I felt truly free. The one place I could live in my head with my past, with the memories I held so dear.

Rising from the huge bed, I stared at my reflection in the gold-plated ornate mirror. I hardly recognized the girl before me anymore. She got lost somewhere over the years, hiding away, running for her life. Her blue eyes were dead, her usually tanned skin, pale, and her long light brown hair, limp.

I was a shell of the girl I’d once been.

Small bruises were already forming on my neck. This meant I would be wearing turtlenecks for the next few days, in summer. Since my teen years, turtlenecks had been a staple of my wardrobe—a necessity after being ‘owned’ by Alik and all-too-quickly learning of his brutal sexual practices and high expectations of me as his girlfriend.

Dressing quickly, I ran my fingers through my hair, making sure I looked presentable. Alik wouldn’t like it if I didn’t look perfect.

Moving to the living room, I sat on Alik’s great-grandmother’s antique chair, which dated back to the Revolution. There, I waited dutifully to say good-bye.

I surveyed the mostly early twentieth-century opulent furnishings in the room. This place screamed status and wealth. My stomach clenched in dread. In under twelve months’ time, this would become my home. I would be queen of this penthouse, gaoled in a cell of Tsarist luxury. Bratva convention demanded I couldn’t live with Alik until we were married. Ordered directly from my deeply traditional and faithful Russian Orthodox father. I thanked God every single day for that fact.

My father approved of the marriage. It suited our way of life. He didn’t see the bad side of Alik, and if he did, he ignored it. He only saw the strong and ruthless man Alik had been molded to be by his father. To my father, Alik’s stern and violent side only proved he was a perfect soldier of the Bratva, the perfect man to take the reins and be a good leader to his daughter. My mama died when I was fifteen. My papa had fallen apart, and Alik became my crutch, the boy to look after me when everything had gone to hell. Papa loved him for that.

I clung to the thought that I still had a year until we were married, which offered fleeting moments of freedom, before, of course, adopting the mantle of the perfect Bratva wife to the sole remaining heir of the Bratva. Alik, before long, would control all of the Russian underground, a position he thirsted for, something for which he’d been groomed his entire life.

Hearing the shower turn off, it didn’t take a minute for Alik to boom out my name and rush through the living room’s double doors to search for me.

His tense face slackened as he saw me sitting, dutifully waiting, in his grandmother’s chair. His head cocked to the side as his eyes narrowed.