Chapter 1: Afanasy

“Please, show mercy,” Kolya begged, his voice cracking as he knelt before me, locking his eyes—wide with desperation—with mine.

His hands were zip-tied behind his back, his skin covered in bruises, swellings, and lacerations. With a heaving chest, he struggled for breath, knees trembling, barely supporting his weight.

He stared at me with his left eye, as his right was puffed shut. His nose was crooked, most likely broken. Above his eyebrow, a gnash expelled blood and trickled down his cheek.

I stooped to his level, the gentle night breeze rustling my dirty blond hair as my green eyes held his gaze.

“I'm begging you, Afanasy….” His words tumbled out a frantic rush, his tone dripping with desperation. “Please, show me mercy, and I swear to God, you'll never see me again—I'll disappear from the face of the Earth,” he vowed, a fevered plea bursting forth like a dam breaking.

I watched him quiver in fear as I reached out to raise his head by the chin, my tongue clicking in disappointment. “Make me understand, Kolya, because I don't seem to get it,” I began, my gaze unwavering, my voice steady and calm.

His bleeding brows narrowed, accentuating the puzzled expression etched on his swollen face.

I continued, “How do you do it? How do you switch from bold to pathetic the moment you get caught trying to steal from the Bratva, hmm?” My eyes roamed his body, taking in his torn clothes and battered form.

His slit lips twitched at the corners, shoulders shrugging slightly as he groped for a response but found none.

“You know the consequences of stealing from the Bratva, yet you go ahead and do it,” I said, never losing my calm.

He blinked rapidly, his battered face contorting in agony.

I continued, my tone tinged with curiosity, “But as soon as you get busted, you lose that confidence, that bravery that pushed you to steal in the first place. Why is that?” My eyes squinted, studying his crumpled form.

Beads of cold sweat trickled down his cheek, mixing with dried blood as his eyes dropped to the floor, shoulders slumped.

Kolya's lips parted as if to reply, but instead, he stumbled on his words, producing no sound.

“Did I stutter?” My head tilted to the side, eyes narrowing below knitted brows.

“Please….” He managed to find his voice, a low whisper that infuriated me.

My jaw clenched, and I grabbed him by the collar with a swift move, slamming his back against a wall. A pained growl escaped his lips as he fidgeted in my firm hold, his legs too weak to carry his weight.

I grasped his neck with one hand, choking him as I stretched out the other.

Yakov stepped forward and placed a dagger in my hand, my fingers wrapping around the hilt.

“No, no, please….” Kolya squirmed against the wall, his left eye widening in fear.

I raised the glinting dagger, its shiny blade inches from Kolya's face as he winced at the pain of the razor-sharp edge kissing his skin. His body continued to tremble, the dagger traveling down to his chest, directly over his heart.

With an unwavering gaze, I said, my tone a deadly whisper, “One push and you're gone.”

His pleas were silent but relentless.

Killing him now would be merciful, and I had something better in mind.

My expression softened for a minute yet my gaze lingered. “Do you know the story of Cain and Abel, Kolya?” My tone lost its seriousness for a moment.

He swallowed hard, shaking his head.

“No?” My brows furrowed. “I’ll tell you,” I began, my voice calm and casual, leaving him confused about my mood or what I'd do to him. “You see, after Cain killed his brother, Abel, God didn't kill Cain. No.” I tapped the blade against his skin. “He gave him a mark and sent him off wandering the Earth. I personally find that interesting.” My expression turned stern, solemn in a jiffy. “Don't you?”

His thick groans filled the air as I sank the blade into his skin, dragging diagonally across his face. Blood welled up in the wake of the wound as the blade's passage left a glistening scarlet like a painter's stroke.

His groans turned to shrieks as he unleashed a crimson tide, shuddering at the anguish jolting through his body.

The cut was deep, revealing the pink flesh beneath. This would leave a lasting scar on his face for the rest of his miserable life—a constant reminder of the consequences of his foolishness.

I stepped away from him, and he thudded to the concrete, trembling and wailing in agony. Ideally, his hands would fly to his face even though he'd dare not touch the wound. But he didn't have that luxury, considering both hands were zip-tied behind his back.

“Get him out of my sight before I take off his ear also,” I growled, handing the blade back to Yakov.

Two of my men swiftly bundled him up and tossed him into the trunk of their vehicle.

“You should've just killed him,” Yakov said, his voice thick like gravel and laced with bluntness as he wiped the dagger with a white handkerchief.

Yakov was my right hand man, my confidant, my enforcer. He'd earned my respect through years of unrelenting loyalty to me and the Bratva. The man was one of the selected few that I ever really trusted.

He was tall with an imposing frame and a muscular build that accentuated his rugged features. His signature black outfit always seamlessly blended with the shadows, undetectable unless he wanted to be noticed.

It was a skill he'd honed over the years, coupled with his ability to move with silent footsteps. This made him the perfect candidate for espionage and assassination.

The man was a fucking Russian ninja, and he answered only to me.

I turned to face him as he stood sentinel by my sleek black car, his dark siren eyes watching the other men drive away with Kolya in the trunk.

“He doesn't deserve your mercy,” Yakov hissed, his tone dripping with contempt and disdain.

“He mostly doesn't,” I replied, toiling with my cufflinks. “But you see, there are different ways to punish a man than taking his life.” I jerked my head to face Yakov. “For instance, taking away something he loves.”

Yakov's expression turned questioning, his brows creasing ever so slightly.

“Kolya's always bragged about how handsome he is, and I know the length he goes just to make sure his face is…well, attractive,” I explained, a soft scoff escaping my lips. “He can't brag about that now, can he?” A corny smirk spread across my face. “His injuries will heal eventually. But that mark on his face…” I let out a menacing chuckle, “it will remain with him for as long as he lives. And every time he looks in the mirror, he will remember me.”

A hint of amusement danced in his eyes, a sly grin flashing on his features. “You never cease to amaze me, Boss.” He glanced at his watch. “It's almost time for your meeting.” Yakov opened the backseat door, awaiting my entry.

I drew a deep breath, burying a hand in my pocket as I walked over to the car and stepped inside.

_____________

Whistling Lady Gaga's “Poker Face,” I glided through the corridor, snapping my fingers to the rhythm as I grabbed the door handle.

Their quiet chatter filled the room as I walked in, Yakov closing the door behind us.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” my cousin Alexi said, leaning back in his chair, his blue eyes lingering on me.

I adjusted my coat, letting out a sigh as I took my place at the table. “Apologies, I was dealing with a problem.” I sank into my chair.

This was a meeting that Artem, the Tarasov Bratva Pakhan, had summoned. It was a little impromptu, but I, for one, thought it was high time we all came together to address this issue of concern.

Artem sat in his high-back leather chair at the center of the mahogany table, his sharp eyes scanning the faces of everyone in the room.

“ Pakhan .” I bowed in reverence, acknowledging his presence.

He gave a subtle nod, a fist under his chin.

To his left sat Alexei, my cousin—a man whose reputation for mercilessness within the Bratva preceded him. He was tall with chiseled features, dark hair that complemented his suit tonight and an imposing physique.

To his right sat one-eyed Sergei, a cunning and resourceful hitman who thought violence was the only way to approach any situation. We didn't always agree on that, but in most cases, his methods were efficient and effective.

My older brother, Roman, a one-time temporary Pakhan, was also here, sitting directly opposite Artem, his fingers drumming on the table.

Other high-ranking officials were present, filling the space with the subtle scents of expensive colognes.

“Now that everyone's here, let's get to it,” Pakhan Artem began, leaning forward, his voice commanding attention. “Our profits have dwindled drastically these last few months, and we're running low on cash, which, I don't have to mention, is bad for business.” He shifted his gaze across the faces of everyone in the room.

Alexei edged closer, arms on the table. “Maybe we could re-evaluate our investment.” His eyes settled on Artem. “Perhaps, diversify our portfolio.”

“That could work.” Artem nodded, his gaze sweeping across the table, hinting at his need for more suggestions.

“I say we increase our presence on the streets,” came Sergei's suggestion, his thick voice accentuating his ruggedness. “More territory, more revenue,” he growled, his tone dripping with venom. “I say we make an example of those who refuse to cooperate—we take their families and kill every last one of them…slowly.” His words carried an eerie calmness, and the smirk on his lips indicated how much he was enjoying the idea. “We'll make them suffer, make them pay the price, and then I can assure you that the others will fall in line.”

My brows remained arched all through his speech. My God! Everything's violence with this guy . But it wasn't far from what I had in mind. This time, we were on the same track.

“There's that and there's also the fact that we could renegotiate with our suppliers, secure better deals.” Roman's suggestion cut through the silence that had followed Sergei's.

“I think we're missing the point here,” I declared, my eyes shifting across their faces. “We're overlooking the obvious solution.”

Artem locked eyes with me, brows narrowing slightly, mirroring his interest in what I had to say. “Continue.”

“I was looking through the books the other day, and according to the record, the Tarasov Bratva has numerous outstanding debts.” I leaned closer, my forehead creasing at the anger swelling within me. “People owe us, Pakhan , people who borrowed from the Bratva and have refused to pay back.”

He stroked his jaw, his gaze unwavering as everyone's eyes settled on me.

“All of your suggestions make sense,” I continued, looking at their faces. “Don't you think it's high time we took action and collected what's ours?”

The room fell silent, each of my associates nurturing my idea, their gazes still lingering on me.

“I mean, think about it—we shouldn't be facing a financial crisis when there are people out there owing us.” I clenched my fist, my jaw tightening to emphasize my resolve. “I say we extract the money from our debtors by whatever means necessary—hell, we can even use Sergei's methods for all I care.” I gestured in his direction, leaning back in my chair. “As long as it gets the job done, I'm willing to consider it.”

They all exchanged glances amongst themselves; it was hard to argue with my points.

Roman locked eyes with Artem. “I think it's worth the shot, Pakhan . Afan's right; if we do this, payments will pour in.”

“He makes a valid point,” Alexei chipped in, heaving a sigh. “A demonstration of our power will send a clear message that we mean business and we're not to be messed with.”

“Fine.” Artem inclined his body, eyes fixated on me. “I want you to lead this project, Afan. I'm entrusting you with the responsibility to collect the debts by any means necessary. You have two months.” He relaxed in his chair, steepling his fingers.

“I won't disappoint, Pakhan ,” I declared.

Chapter 2 – Wren

The 312 Bookstore, nestled in the bustling city of Chicago, happened to be where I worked as a bookseller—a wonderful job that I cherished.

In my 22 years of life, I’d never secured a job as satisfying and fulfilling as this one. Maybe it was because I was such a lover of good books or because I loved the scent of paper and ink. Whatever the case, this place was a sanctuary that offered limitless access to countless books.

I'd always had an insatiable hunger for knowledge, to feed my mind with important things that mattered. It wasn't just about absorbing information, nor was it just about fiction. No, my love for books transcended beyond that.

I wanted to grow and enhance my ability to think. I wanted to use my knowledge to help humanity, to solve problems in the ways that I could. And that passion was what fueled my love for reading.

I had a friend, Julia, who never passed on any opportunity she got to learn something new—to improve herself. And in more ways than one, she inspired me to be better, to desire more knowledge.

One would say that I was a bibliophile. They wouldn't be too far from the truth.

Reading helped me relax. It broadened my imagination and sharpened my mind. Sometimes, it was a means to escape my own reality.

Advocating for those who wanted to gain knowledge but couldn't due to one circumstance or another was a dream I had. It seemed silly thinking about it, but deep down, it was what I wanted to do.

Regardless of how stupid and unrealistic it seemed, it brought me some kind of peace and comfort whenever I thought it through.

Maybe one day, I might live the dream; I might become the woman I envisioned every night before going to bed—strong, confident, accomplished, and financially free.

But until then, I was just an ordinary bookseller in one of the biggest bookstores in the city.

I didn't have much, wasn't living a life of luxury, but I was satisfied. As long as I had books to read, I was good.

Behind the counter, I stood surrounded by the familiar interior and the scent of aged paper.

With a courteous smile playing on my lips, my gaze roamed across the space, taking in the cozy reading nooks, comfortable armchairs, and meticulously placed floor lamps.

Before me, the store unfolded like a treasure trove, rows of shelves towering toward the high ceilings like sentinels. Chandelier lights and table lamps cast their soft glows, enveloping the space and creating a warm, inviting atmosphere.

The plush rugs that carpeted the floor quieted the footsteps of browsing customers as they glided through the aisles, checking out our collection.

The tiny bells above the door jingled as it swung open, and she waltzed in, her bright green eyes scanning the space before settling on me.

Her lips curled into a charming smile as she approached me, her shoes soundless against the rug. Her backpack was slung over her left shoulder, her long, wavy brown hair cascading down her back as her porcelain skin simmered in the lights.

Lorena Campbell: a twenty-year-old student slash part-time model who also happened to be a regular here at the 312 Bookstore. Our passion for books was one thing we had in common; another was the fact that we were both petite.

Lorena was like the sister I’d never had, and from the minute we met a few months ago, we clicked on so many levels. She was a kind, loving, and caring human being, not to mention fun to hang around.

I rested my hands on the counter, fingers drumming against the polished surface as she halted in front of me.

“Hey, Wren!” She flung her backpack onto the countertop.

“Hey, Lori, how's it going?” I asked, watching her unzip her backpack to withdraw a book.

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, you know how it is, balancing school and work—shit can be exhausting, and it's kicking my ass.” She jerked her head to face me, her voice laced with exhaustion.

I laughed lightly, rubbing my eyes. “Yeah, I totally get how you feel.” My gaze settled on the book in her hand. “What've you got there?”

She held up a worn paperback. “Can I get a recommendation for Pride he’d been in some sort of trouble, and he apparently needed my help getting out of it. The moment I gave him the money he asked for, he vanished. I hadn't seen or heard from him until now.

Should I be glad that he was okay, or should I be mad that he ghosted me for two long years?

My brows knitted together, mirroring the turmoil within me.

“Hey, Wren.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his lips curled up into a smile, his voice a low whisper.

Seeing that grin on his face melted my heart and dispelled whatever pent-up rage I had holed up inside me.

“You look good,” he remarked, his gaze lingering over me as I halted in front of him.

My cheeks flushed at his words, my eyes meeting his. “You don't look so bad yourself,” I said, my gaze roaming over his features, lingering on the sharp jawline, the hazel brown eyes, and the mob of messy hair.

A smile spread across his chiseled face.

He was wearing a black T-shirt over a pair of faded jeans. Dad looked better than the last time I saw him, and maybe this was a good sign; maybe he'd changed.

“Wanna come in?” I smiled widely, looking into his eyes to discreetly search for any sign of insincerity.

My keys jingled as I approached the door and opened it. I walked into my apartment, his footsteps following behind me. Taking my jacket off, I flung it over a couch in my living room as I headed to the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The couch crunched beneath his weight as he sank into it.

“What would you like to eat?” I asked, opening the fridge to check what supplies I had stored in it.

“Just water will be fine,” he replied, shooting a glance in my direction.

“Are you sure?” I squinted, staring at him with knitted brows.

He flashed a wry smile. “Positive.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, pouring him a glass.

His gaze was sweeping across my cozy living room when I arrived with a glass of water. “Thank you.” He accepted it, nodding.

I took a seat on a sofa across from him, my heart racing with anticipation as I wondered what had brought him here today. “So, Dad,” I began, rubbing my palms over my lap, my gaze fixed on him, “to what do I owe this visit?”

He set the glass down on the coffee table and lifted his eyes. “I'm that terrible at parenting that my visits are now being questioned,” he teased, a faint grin playing on his lips.

“Well, you can't blame me for thinking there's an ulterior motive behind you stopping by—I mean, the last time I saw you was two years ago, which I'm still mad about, by the way,” I said with an accusing tone, laced with a hint of teasing and genuine annoyance.

“You're right,” he said, heaving a sigh. “I've been such a terrible father to such an amazing woman.” His voice, dripping with emotion, melted my heart. “I don't deserve to have you as a daughter, Wren. You're too good for me.” His gaze never left my face.

I sat there, frozen in shock, eyes slowly widening at his words.

Did he mean them? Was he being genuine?

The flutter in my chest stole my breath away, and all I could do in that moment was hope and pray that this wasn't another one of his tricks to get into my good graces.

“You've done so much for me, and that alone makes it a lot harder to ask this of you.” He sighed heavily, his gaze lingering on me.

Oh, here we go again .

My face fell, my expression softening into a gentle disappointment.

I should've known better.

I'd seen his movie before, and I knew how it always ended, yet I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt once again. And, once again, he let me down.

What was I thinking, believing he'd changed?

My eyebrows drooped, lips turning downward as he shattered my hopes of getting my father back.

“Do you have some money saved up?” he dared to ask, avoiding my eyes. “I could really use some right now, sweetheart. Your old man needs saving again.”

My heart ached, eyes misting at how shamelessly he was using me. He wouldn't bother to call, wouldn't bother to check on me, but the moment he was in trouble, he'd remember that I existed.

Sometimes, I wondered if he had any idea how much his actions were hurting me.

I sniffed, throwing my head up in an attempt to force my tears back. “I’m afraid I can't help you this time, Dad.” I looked into his eyes, disappointment flickering in their depths. “I wish I could help you, but I can't. I've used up all of my savings to pay my bills.”

His eyes, once hopeful, dulled, and his shoulders slumped under the weight of my words. His lips trembled subtly, his gaze darting away to hide his pain. “I understand.” He cleared his throat.

No matter how mad I was at him, if I had the money to spare, I'd do that without a moment of hesitation. But today, I sincerely had nothing to help with.

I jerked my head, watching him rise to his feet, ready to take his leave. My face contorted into a faint frown. “Wait, that's it? You're just gonna leave?” My blood boiled with annoyance as I glared at him.

“If you can't help me, then I need to find a way to help myself,” he replied, his voice dropping to a hushed tone and his eyes avoiding mine.

I rose to my feet, a dismissive laugh escaping my lips. “You're unbelievable.” My scowl deepened, creating more creases on my forehead.

He exhaled sharply and stormed out without saying a word, leaving me standing perplexed in my living room, simmering in silence.

My mind flooded with anger, disappointment, and pain as the familiar ache of abandonment settled in. When was he going to realize that beneath this strong, independent woman was a little girl in desperate need of her father's attention?

Tears rolled down my cheeks.