Chapter One

Jasha

T wenty-one-year-old Russian immigrant Jasha was old enough to understand the weight of a silent room and to feel the undercurrent of fear as it rippled through their small Brighton Beach apartment in New York. Tonight, the silence was suffocating. His father, Valentin Kozlov, was a shadow of his usual jovial self. He had spoken Russian all day and night to Jasha, showing something was wrong. Jasha had never seen him so tense, so afraid.

A sharp knock shattered the stillness. Jasha’s heart pounded in his ears. It was Mr. Kaleb Bronson, the man with cold blue eyes and a reputation as ruthless as the winter wind. The mere mention of the name sent shivers down his spine, as it had become one with a terrifying nightmare. Jasha knew the name, a whispered terror in the hushed conversations of Russian immigrants in the streets of Brighton Beach. However, Jasha still thought Mr. Bronson was the most handsome man in the world. He had everything any man could want—money, power, and raw sex appeal. According to his father, Mr. Bronson was gay, which suited Jasha just fine.

Standing still, Jasha held his breath and watched the drama play out before him. His father, who taught Russian at the local high school, had always been a source of strength and admiration for Jasha, but now he was reduced to a quivering, diminished figure.

“Valentin.” Mr. Bronson’s speech was like ice, sharp and unforgiving. “Two hundred thousand. Now.”

Valentin’s hands shook as he reached for an empty drawer beside his recliner. “I don’t have it, Mr. Bronson. Please, just a little more time.”

Mr. Bronson laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Time is up, Valentin. You know the rules.”

An icy dread crept into Jasha’s heart. He saw the glint of metal in Mr. Bronson’s hand. His father’s eyes widened in terror when the man pointed a gun at his forehead. Why did his father owe so much money to this thug?

“Pay up, or I blow your brains out right in front of your son.” He pressed the weapon against his forehead, making an imprint on his skin. “But if you give me your son, you live.” Then he cocked the gun.

The click echoed in Jasha’s ears, sending a shiver down his spine. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Jasha was no longer a silent witness. He was a commodity, a bargaining chip in a deadly game. His father’s eyes met his, filled with sorrow cutting deeper than any physical pain.

Valentin’s voice was a hoarse croak. “No, Mr. Bronson, please. Anything but him. He’s all I have after his mother passed away.”

Mr. Bronson’s grip tightened on the gun. “Your choice, Valentin. You give me your son, or I blow you away.”

Jasha watched as his father, his protector, his world, made a choice that would change their lives forever.

“What will you do with him?” his father asked.

“He’ll be mine and under my protection. I know Jasha is gay, so he’s perfect, which is lucky for you and him.”

“I’ll go, Papa. I don’t want you to die.” Jasha feared his own words coming from his mouth, but his love for his father was deeper than his fear.

“Take him,” Valentin whispered, as if Jasha couldn’t hear him.

“Can I bring Daisy, sir?” Jasha asked without thinking about who he was addressing. He couldn’t part with Daisy.

“Who is Daisy?” Mr. Bronson raised his eyebrows.

“My kitty, sir.”

“Got a carrier to travel?” His tone turned softer.

“Yes, sir.”

“Shot records?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring her.” His lips formed themselves into a tender, sentimental half-smile. He had never seen Mr. Bronson crack anything resembling a smile until that moment.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You may take one suitcase of your personal items and Daisy in a carrier with her records. You have ten minutes, or you leave here with nothing.”

“Yes, sir.” Jasha raced to his bedroom, the sound of his hurried breathing filling the air.

A cold sweat broke out on Jasha’s brow. He was aware of every creak in the floor, every shadow that seemed to elongate and darken. Mr. Bronson was a predator, and he, Jasha, was the prey. The ticking of the non-existent clock grew louder in his ears, a relentless reminder of his impending doom.

He found Daisy, his ten-year-old black and white cat, peacefully sleeping cozily on his bed. Jasha’s hands trembled as he reached for his suitcase from his closet, the weight of Mr. Bronson’s words pressing down on him. He had ten minutes—just ten minutes to gather everything he held dear. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat, a reminder of the limited time he had left.

He started with his laptop, carefully placing it in the suitcase. It was more than just a device; it held memories, work, and a connection to a world he might never see again. Next, he grabbed his phone and iPad, slipping them into the pocket. These were his lifelines, his means of communication and escape.

Jasha moved to his closet, pulling out his favorite clothes. Each piece of fabric felt like a fragment of his identity, a part of the life he was being forced to leave behind. He folded them neatly, trying to keep some semblance of order amidst the chaos. Everything he loved would be gone! No New York University! No friends! No father!

As he packed, tears welled up in his eyes. The fear of Mr. Bronson’s wrath was overwhelming, but so was the sadness of leaving everything he loved. He could feel the clock ticking, each second slipping away faster than the last. The last item he placed into the suitcase was a picture of his father and him on a trip to Coney Island. His hands shook violently, making it difficult to zip the suitcase closed.

He gathered a sleeping Daisy into her carrier and put her records into the outer pocket of his suitcase. With one final glance around the room, Jasha took a deep breath. He had packed everything he could, but the sense of loss was immense. The suitcase was heavy, not just with his belongings, but with the weight of his fear and sorrow at leaving his father. He knew he had to face Mr. Bronson, and the thought made his stomach churn. He was scared—terrified, even—but he had no choice. He picked up the suitcase, and the carrier, then walked out, each step feeling like a step away from the life he once knew.

Mr. Bronson still had the gun to his father’s head as he glared at Jasha. “Remember, if you run away from me, your father is a dead man. He’ll suffer a long painful death, piece by piece.”

Jasha’s heart shattered into a million pieces. He was being sold, traded away like a broken toy. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he dared not make a sound. The monster was coming for him.

“I won’t run away, sir.”

Mr. Bronson moved his weapon from his tearful father’s head. “Your father can buy you back at any time.”

His father wrapped his arms around Jasha, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’ll get the money and buy you back,” he whispered into Jasha’s ear.

Jasha knew his father would never find that much money to free him from Mr. Bronson. The only good thing was Mr. Bronson had allowed him to bring Daisy with them.

“I love you, Papa. Don’t worry about me.” Jasha spoke in Russian without thinking.

“I’m so sorry, Jasha. So sorry.” His hoarse, raspy voice confirmed the pain he was going through. The last time he had seen his father cry had been when his mother passed away in a Russian hospital bed.

“Follow me, boy,” Mr. Bronson ordered.

His father clung to him tightly, reluctant to release his grip.

“Let him go,” Mr. Bronson ordered, the words echoing through the room as he tucked his gun out of sight.

Jasha untangled himself from his father’s grasp and retrieved the suitcase and carrier. He obediently followed Mr. Bronson out of the apartment. Jasha turned back for one last time to see his tear-faced father watching them from the doorway. The image of his father’s expression, marked by desperation and sadness, would be seared into his mind forever.