LANA
The last time I saw my father this tense was when we left Russia. Now he's gripping the steering wheel like it's a lifeline… maybe it is.
Tension hangs in the air in the car, fear and dread clawing their way into our hearts. Mom has barely said a word to anyone. Always the worrier, we had to give her sleeping pills so she wouldn't have a heart attack in the middle of the night. When she tried to comfort me earlier, all she could do was mumble sorry over and over. She's dressed in all black, dark shades hiding her swollen eyes—like she's attending a funeral. Maybe she is, in her own way.
Anna looks like exhaustion itself. In a single night, my bubbly sister has developed dark circles, the spark in her grey eyes buried somewhere I fear will never resurface. I doubt anyone slept last night. Breakfast was barely touched—cold coffee cups still sit abandoned on the dining table.
I sigh, leaning against the cool leather interior. Good thing I'm a freelance writer, since all I had to do was email my editor about having a "creative block" and clear my schedule for the day. Now everything that didn't make sense when we were growing up suddenly does: moving to a house deep in the suburbs, no social media, being homeschooled, party bans that turned Anna into a little tyrant, curfews that only made us eager to move out as soon as we could.
Dad keeps saying we'll be okay, that he'll find a way to clear his debt. As confident as he tries to sound, I find it hard to believe he'll ever be able to clear a million-dollar loan with twenty percent interest that's been building over twelve years. If my math is right, that's close to four million dollars. Sorry, but I'd rather keep my hope dead than raise it for nothing.
The car slows down as we near a skyscraper. Hydraulic bollards rise to block our path. Two armed guards approach us, dressed in black uniforms, headsets glinting behind their collars, tinted shades, and mirrors. One gestures for Dad to lower the window while the other circles the car. My pulse picks up when the second guard taps on my side, asking for IDs.
After the search, we're waved through and park at the main drop-off area.
The environment is quiet in that snobbish, rich-people way, just as I expected: polished marble floors, silent elevators, subtle classical music in the background, digital wall art. It's almost impossible to believe over a thousand people work in the same building.
We approach the receptionist, and Dad slides his ID across the counter.
"Hi," Dad's voice comes out breathless. "We have an appointment with the owner of this building—"
The receptionist flashes a small smile, eyes widening slightly with recognition.
"Welcome," she says, her gaze flicking to us before returning to Dad. "Of course, he's expecting you, Mr. Volkova. Please hold on a minute, I'll get someone to show you the way."
A tall man in a tailored black suit appears moments later. He gives a curt nod to the receptionist before facing my father.
"Mr. Volkova, please follow me. The chairman has been expecting you."
His tone is polite but clipped, professional to the core. Anna and I exchange confused glances, but neither of us says anything. My palms are slick with sweat, heart thrashing furiously when I feel warm fingers slip through mine. I look up to see it's my mom. She gives me a small, bleak smile, and I tighten my grip on her hand.
The guard leads us past security scanners that look more like they belong in an embassy than an office building. Another guard joins us, falling silently into step behind.
The man swipes a sleek black card at the elevator console. The doors glide open with a soft chime, revealing a private elevator lined with mirrored glass and golden lighting.
"Top floor only," he says, stepping aside to let us in. "No other access permitted."
We file in, and the door shuts with a soft thud. Mom's shaky breaths drown the hum of the elevator. I squeeze her hand tighter.
My mind drifts to the stories I've heard about the Bratva—how they traffic women, auction them off in underground clubs, punish debts with blood.
I shut my eyes, a shiver creeping up my spine. Would that be our fate too? I'd do anything for my family; that's not even a question. But the thought of it makes me want to run—anywhere. Some remote place in Africa, maybe. Start life over. Would that mean I'd never settle down? Would I have to always look over my shoulder and live in fear? I shrug off my thoughts.
Running away is what got us here.
"We're going to be alright," Dad says in Russian.
"I think they've heard enough from you, Viktor," Mom snaps. "You've done enough as it is."
"You never forgave me, did you?" Dad's voice is soft, broken, and something in my heart crumbles.
"You took me away from the luxury I've always known. Your words don't change the reality of the damage you've caused. Goddess be damned, you made me sell my inheritance to help us relocate to a country I never wanted to come back to," her voice rises with each word, her Russian harsh and bitter, "dragged us into poverty and made me lie to my children! No, I never forgave you, Viktor—not when I can't even forgive myself."
"I promised I'll make it up to you. When all this is over, we'll go back to Russia—"
"Save your stories, Viktor." Wiping a tear, she sniffles. "You've sold me the same story for twelve years." The sadness in her voice dampens my mood, and in that moment, I realize my family is falling apart. And I wonder if things would ever go back to how they used to.
The elevator doors open right on time, revealing a sleek reception area. A poised woman behind a desk looks up as we approach her.
"Mr. Volkova?" Dad nods. "The chairman will see you now," she says.
The receptionist rises, her heels echoing as she walks ahead. She swipes an access card on a hidden reader beside the door, waits for the green light, and holds the door open.
"Please, go right in. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."
The door opens with a quiet hiss, and I stop moving mid-step. My breath catches in my throat, and the room feels too small all of a sudden. Behind the wide desk sits a man I never thought I'd see again.
Mikhail.
Chapter four
Svetlana
His name crashes through my chest like a thunderclap. He looks different now; sharper, power etched into every angle of his face—but those eyes… they haven't changed.
But Dad said he owed Nikolai. How come… my throat runs dry, the air thinning as realization coils in my gut. The Orlov heir. He's Nikolai's son.
A sick thought strikes me—did he already know who I was? Did he know I was Viktor Volkova's daughter?
"Welcome, Viktor," he nods at my father. "Ladies, please take a seat."
Goddess, I can't stop looking at him. This isn't the Mikhail I met last night. Gone is that glimmer of amusement he held through the night, or that infectious smirk. What I have before me is a ruthless Bratva heir who has our lives in his hands. And I'm old enough to know he won't be sentimental just because we come from way back.
His gaze flicks to me, blank and serious, then settles on my father, who looks like he's staring at a ghost. I can literally hear the wheels turning in his head. Mikhail doesn't miss it. If anything, he seems to enjoy the confusion.
"I– I had an appointment with Alpha Nikolai," Dad stammers.
"I apologize for the confusion," Mikhail says evenly. "It seems the update didn't reach you. I'm Mikhail Orlov, Nikolai's son."
"Oh," Dad says quietly.
"I see you brought your family." A faint smile curves his lips.
"What would you prefer to drink? Scotch?" He arches a brow at my father, who shakes his head.
"How about you ladies?"
"We're fine," Anna whispers.
"Good." He shrugs, turning his attention to the tablet on his desk, scrolling with practiced ease.
"Viktor Volkova," he reads aloud in a bored voice. "Initial loan: one million dollars, with an interest rate of twenty percent."
"Over twelve years," he continues, lifting his eyes, "your outstanding balance stands at just over four million."
Four fucking million dollars?
My jaw drops, eyes widening like they're about to explode. Perspiration dots my forehead, goosebumps dotting my bare arms despite the AC. What is—where are we going to get—oh my Goddess!
The thought alone is enough to send me hyperventilating. My chest tightens, a strange heaviness settling.
This is bad.
Three pairs of eyes snap to Dad, whose head is hung low, hands clasped on his thighs. Mom makes a disgruntled sound, slouching against the chair, palm covering her eyes. Her lips move in a wordless prayer, which, if I'm being frank, is a little too late for.
"Mr. Orlov," Mom says quickly in Russian, panic glazing her eyes. "We have savings. Property we can sell. We can come up with something. Please—we can come to an understanding."
"I'm not sure you're aware, but your husband signed his life and property as collateral. Obsidian Pack law. Here."
He slides the iPad across the desk.
With shaky hands, Mom grabs the device. I look over her shoulder, reading along. True—it is. My father signed his life away. What he was thinking, signing his death warrant over a million dollars, I'll never know. I want to see things through his lens, but I can't—not when we're all in danger because of this single action. As far as I remember, we never lacked. We were born into wealth. Mom always joked that we could stop working and still live comfortably. So why did he take a loan under these conditions?
"The Goddess must be smiling on you. If my father were here, you'd be long dead, Mr. Volkova." There's a tinge of annoyance in Mikhail's voice. Anger flashes in his eyes, jaw clenching lightly before his features go neutral.
"I'll clear the debt on one condition."
The room goes deadly still.
His eyes lift. "One of your daughters will become my contractual wife."
Mikhail's gaze sweeps over us and Anna flinches beside me. My hand finds hers for a brief squeeze, a silent promise I won't let anything happen to her. I've been doing this since we were kids—stepping in first, absorbing the fear so she wouldn't have to. Today is no exception.
My eyes snap up, and he's no longer staring at us but at my dad.
Voices drone around me—loud ones from my mom, placating ones from my father, sobs from my younger sister—and all I feel is nothing. Numbness.
I feel hollow. Like I've stepped outside my body and left it behind.
"No! No, you can't do this!" A shrill cry rips through Mom. She pulls Anna and me closer, skinny fingers digging deep into my wrist.
"You heard my wife earlier, we have assets we could sell and begin to pay bit by bit. Please, we can work something rea—"
"You had twelve years," Mikhail says sharply, knuckles wrapped tight. "Don't test my patience."
Dad lets out a deep sigh. "We would have to discuss this as a family. Tomorrow, we'll come to a decision."
"You don't have that sort of luxury. Your decision has to be made here. Now," Mikhail snaps.
"This isn't fair," Mom sobs. "My daughters are paying for the sins of their parents, something they were completely oblivious to, and now you make them suffer?" Red-rimmed eyes stare accusingly at Mikhail, who still has that annoying poker-faced expression, a hint of impatience as he rolls his fist.
"Don't you have a conscience?" Mom cries. "Does this make you feel powerful—taking my daughter by force?"
I've never known my mother to be this brave. Whiny? Yes. But her relentlessness is almost admirable—if Mikhail didn't look like one more word was enough to send her six feet under. Green veins bulge against olive skin, lips pulled into a flat line as he glares at my mom, who won't stop talking. Anna nudges me; she looks scared. I wrap an arm around her shoulders.
"That's enough, E—" Dad says aloud.
"No, it's not! It's our daughters he wants, Viktor! Our daugh—"
"I'll do it," I say finally.