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He tasted divine. I savored every moment, licking inside his mouth and pulling gently on his long hair.
This was the perfect first kiss I had always dreamed of. He pulled back to breathe, and I sighed contentedly.
But his expression quickly turned cold and distant. He adjusted his tie, ran a hand through his hair, and wiped a smirk off his face.
The realization hit me hard—I had just kissed and almost made out with a total stranger.
“Damn, I didn’t expect you to be that easy. What else can I make you do, huh?” He chuckled, his eyes half-lidded. “Wanna suck my dick now?”
I froze, as if doused with ice-cold water.
What in the world am I doing here with a total stranger?
Panic surged through me, and I glared at him through tear-filled eyes. The burning in my throat and lungs intensified, and his mocking laughter echoed in my head.
I nearly gagged as I looked around and saw spiders and cockroaches on the floor.
“I have to go.” I tried to move toward the door, but he blocked my way.
Looking up, I noticed his flawless skin, dotted with a few beauty marks. His straight nose, sharp jawline, and subtle dark beard gave him a model-like appearance. It was no wonder my heart had raced when I first saw him.
But as I mustered my courage and met his cold, empty gaze, I knew I had to escape.
I didn’t dare look back as I reached for the door handle.
Just then, he grabbed a handful of my hair and slammed the door shut. A scream escaped my lips as I felt a syringe pierce my neck.
I struggled to fight back, but he clamped his hand over my mouth, muffling my cries until I was drained of all energy.
I closed my eyes and let darkness take over. The last thing I heard, chilling my blood and heart, was his distant voice:
“Dobro pozhalovat’ v ad, printsessa. Welcome to hell, princess.”
Chapter
Five
“Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.”
- Aristotle
Volk
Glaring at the grandfather clock towering behind Igor’s desk, I cracked my neck from side to side. The relentless ticking filled the room, a sound that always made me nauseous.
I clenched my fist, struggling to ignore the noise that seemed to taunt me with memories I’d tried to bury for nearly two decades.
Igor stood with his back to me, his attention focused on the large window that framed the garden meticulously designed by his late wife. The garden, a mix of white lilies and dark red roses, was a silent tribute to Victoria Aslanova. I never met her—she passed away shortly after giving birth to their baby, who was born prematurely and didn’t survive. The loss was a tragedy that still cast a shadow over this house.
The echoes of her presence were everywhere—in the hallways, the living room, and most prominently in this office. Her photographs, paintings, and sculptures remained exactly as she had left them, preserving a memory that time couldn’t erase.
I was fifteen when Igor introduced me to his world—a world starkly different from the one I had known. Before he taught me the harsh realities of his trade, the skills of killing, and the management of his illicit business, I had been just the son of an honest baker. My life had been one of simplicity and normalcy, a stark contrast to the brutal existence Igor was about to immerse me in.
My mom died during childbirth, leaving me in my dad's care. He did his best, often leaving me with my babushka while he worked his bakery job. He’d rise at 4 a.m. to prepare bread and pastries, returning for a quick lunch before working until late afternoon.
His dedication turned the bakery into the best in town, and we always had what we needed. When I was six, I staged a hunger strike to convince him to let me work alongside him. Eventually, he agreed, starting a cherished routine: every day after school, we’d bake bread, talk about our day, and make my favorite cherry piroshki for dessert.
One cold winter night, we came home later than usual due to heavy snow. My dad never owned a car—he disliked them, believing they were for the lazy—so we always walked.
