Tatiana's Pov;

Once again, I was being dressed for a party I had no idea why it was being thrown.Whenever I asked the helpers, they’d say it was because I had just turned 20.

I turned 20 three months ago.

“Olga! Easy on the bodice.” I choked out a whine to my nanny.

Again. I don’t know why I still have a nanny. I’m fucking 20.

Well, she’s been in my life since I was brought into this cruel world.

“Sorry, Zayka, but your mother gave strict orders on this aspect,” she reiterated, still struggling with the straps.

She calls me Zayka… meaning little bunny.

The story behind that name goes way back.

I sighed.

“At least make it looser, please.” I begged her. I didn’t want to go to the party looking stiff and like I was on the brink of exploding.

I knew why Mother gave such orders.

It’s embarrassing, but I have small boobs.

And her goal is to get me married before the year runs out.

She believes then, I’ll finally have the freedom I’ve always wanted.

But I know I won’t.

The thought saddened me.

So there it was. Mother wanted my chest squashed together—to at least look presentable to any possible suitor.

“Ouch! Olga!” I shouted as I arched my back. She had just drawn the strap taut.

“Sorry.”

Oh, she wasn’t.

Because she still went ahead and tightened it at that damn spot.

“There, that’s better.” She stepped away, coming to stand in front of me. A smile stretched her wrinkled cheeks.

Age sure left its mark on her.

“You look like the princess you are, Zayka.”

I swallowed, my chest feeling hollow at her compliment. Every reason I had to smile suddenly felt dull.

Gnarled fingers tenderly hooked at my elbows. Olga ushered me toward the tall mirror near the dresser table.

I looked at the girl in the mirror.

I only saw the battle in her gaze. The cry for help in her pale blue eyes.

But all Olga saw was the beautiful daughter of a powerful Russian Mafia leader.

Black hair in a perfectly styled high bun, lips painted painfully pink, cheeks blushed to oblivion.

In fact, I couldn’t see the real me any longer.

A knock echoed on the door, breaking the atmosphere, and Olga and I turned to face it.

My blue eyes shifted to her, and she nodded, understanding.

“Come in.”

It was Vladimir. My father’s *Sovietnik.*¹

Suddenly, it was tempting to look at Olga. To plead with my eyes for some sort of help.

“Excuse us, Olga.” He commanded, his stealthy eyes set firmly on me.

There was always something predatory about him.

The way he moved, acted, thought.

My father, the Pakhan—the boss of the Kuznetsova clan—followed his advice like a starved kitten hungry for milk.

Anything he said, went.

Sometimes, I wondered if my father even knew he was subtly being controlled.

Olga nodded. Her hands trailed down my shoulders slowly as she walked away, closing the door behind her.

I clutched the heavy, voluptuous material of my pink gown.

A frown twisted my features.

But I didn’t know if it was from the unwanted visitor… or just the gown itself.

“I bring word from your father.”

The moment he opened his beard-covered mouth, I knew what he was going to spit out.

“Of course, you always do.” I forced a smile. Though I knew he saw through it.

We hated each other.

But I was on the losing end—it was two against one.

I inhaled deeply at that reminder, my eyes almost shifting away in surrender. But I was fast.

“Do not worry, miss, this one’s simple to obey.” A mocking edge tainted his tone.

“Please, do tell what it is this time.” I forced my emotions not to falter, though dread clung to my lungs like air.

Vladimir smirked. His eyes never leaving mine.

And neither did mine.

“He simply wants you to behave yourself at the party tonight.”

His thick accent flexed on simply.

“That’s all?” I raised one dark brow at him, seeming careless.

But my grip on my dress only grew tighter.

If Olga saw me right now, she’d scream and mutter Russian gibberish about ruining the gown.

As if I wasn’t a mess myself.

“For now, yes,” he said.

The moment the door closed behind his ass, I released a string of breath I’d been holding in his stifling presence.

I blamed the dress too.

I released my grip on the gown, only to spot the rumples I had made.

I hurried to smooth them out when the door groaned open again.

Olga rushed in.

She stared at me. Long and hard.

And I just lifted the corners of my lips slightly.

“I’m fine.”

I’m not.

But I’m always fine.

---

Downstairs, at the lounge.

If I had known the night would be this freaking cold, consequences be damned, I’d have covered myself up.

All the guests that Father and Mother had invited filled the room.

Clinking of glasses, soft music, calm chatter.

Yet, I felt like I was suffocating.

Perhaps only because I was the only one who saw through the fond smiles they put on.

Underneath those smiles, I saw knives and daggers.

I hadn’t seen Father since I came down to the lounge. Just weird faces.

I came across a group of four men in tuxedos. Wine glasses in hand, but the liquid inside looked untouched.

They muttered to themselves in hushed words.

I frowned.

They hadn’t noticed me, so I picked up a glass from one of the tables scattered around and ambled my way toward them.

Two feet away. That’s all I maintained. My back to them.

In pretense, I brought the glass to my lips, but I made sure it didn’t touch.

Who knew whose drink I might have snatched.

“The Albanians are closing in.”

My brow nearly hit my hairline as I took in that information.

“How are you so sure?” one of them asked, sounding like the first man had just said something that could cost his life.

I heard them draw closer together, and I tried to shut down all the background noises, straining my ears to pick up their conversation.

“Three days ago, the international airport reported a strange landing. They couldn’t find the plane’s details. It was private, that’s the only information they know.”

“What the fuck!” one of them—I couldn’t tell who—exclaimed.

“Does Mikhail know this?”

That’s my father.

“No, my men have been out searching for confirmation before I can present the news as an official report,” the one who broke the news said.

I didn’t wait to hear more. Fear sank its claws deep into my skin, and I rushed, stumbling away, not caring if I had alerted them to my eavesdropping.

I breathed, my chest shrinking and expanding. The upper part of my dress suddenly felt tighter than before.

I knew the Albanians—the Vrionis.

Though I had never seen their Kryetar before… or his son, Florian Vrioni, a rumored psychopath who had been that way since his mother died by his father’s hands.

I knew their history.

They believed us their enemy. They thought we had their map—La Strada Nera.

The reason for this war in the first place.

Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks. A heavy feeling sat on my chest. My skin prickled like thousands of pins lay beneath it.

This feeling. Again!

I spun, my almost teary gaze searching the millions of eyes around me.

And I knew all too well.

Someone was watching me.