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That’s why I couldn’t make out a single word. I held my breath, trying to stay as quiet as possible. I’d seen enough movies where curiosity led to dangerous consequences, but I had to find out what was going on.
“Klyanus’, yesli ty ne privedesh’ yeye ko mne segodnya vecherom, ya pererezhu tebe gorlo! I swear if you don’t bring her to us tonight, I'll cut your throat!” A man yelled, his fury palpable even through the wall.
“Nyet! Ona dazhe ne znayet, chto oni sushchestvuyut! No! She doesn’t even know they exist!” My mother’s voice came through, urgent and strained.
After a long, tense pause, where only the faint buzz of a fly behind me broke the silence, a barely audible, chilling murmur sliced through the stillness of the hallway.
“Otvedi yeye segodnya vecherom v bar Nikolayeva, Helena. Take her to Nikolaev’s bar tonight, Helena.”
I didn’t need to understand the language to recognize the threat in the last statement. A chill ran down my spine, and my hands began to tremble.
Desperate to see what was happening, I pushed the door open.
My mom’s right cheek was red, as if she had been slapped. Books and papers were strewn across the wooden floor, and two men were in the room with her.
One man, standing close to her, held a piece of paper and a pen. He was in his late thirties, dressed in a dark gray Valentino suit with a black tie. Slightly taller than my mom, he had piercing blue eyes, a round face, and a thick beard. He looked at me with an intense, predatory gaze.
A cough made me turn to the right, where the other man leaned against the bright window. He was tall and muscular, wearing a black Louis Vuitton suit and a black and burgundy tie. When our eyes met, he smirked, showing a large scar on his cheek.
“Sofiya, can you please come back later? I’m in a meeting,” my mom said, her voice shaking. Her shoulders trembled, and her eyes flickered between me and the men.
She subtly nodded toward the door.
Despite the growing tension and the pounding in my ears, I had a sense that leaving might be a mistake.
“No, we’re leaving,” the man said, his expression darkening.
If his eyes were knives, I’d be decapitated by now. He placed the piece of paper on my mom’s desk, shot her one last intense look, and then turned to leave with the other man.
Before following the man with the blue eyes out, the second man leaned in close and whispered in Russian, “Ya ne mogu dozhdat’sya, chtoby sdelat’ tebya moyey shlyukhoy. I can’t wait to make you my whore.”
Though I didn’t understand the words, the tone was unmistakably threatening. I could tell it wasn’t a compliment, and in that moment, I was relieved not to grasp the full meaning.
He gave me one last scrutinizing look and then followed his accomplice out the door.
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by my mom’s quiet sobs. I turned to see her with her head buried in her hands, crying as if her heart was breaking. I’d never seen her like this, not even after Papa died. When she was upset, she usually retreated to her room, leaving me with Dasha.
I moved to her side and wrapped my arms around her, feeling her tears soak into my shirt. I rubbed her back and stroked her hair, trying to comfort her as she once did for me.
After a while, her sobs subsided, and she looked up, meeting my eyes. The light hitting her face didn’t hide the fear in her eyes.
It was clear: we were in danger.
Chapter
Four
“Be anything but normal.”
? Dan Pearce
Sofiya
Each tick of the clock pounded in my ears, making it hard to focus. I needed answers—an explanation.
Who were they?
My ragged breaths, heated veins, and racing thoughts made me nauseous as I desperately sought clarity. My mama was an only child, and both of her parents had passed away before I was born—she didn’t have any family left in Russia.
