Page 2 of Violent Pawn

“You act like I’m a newbie.” It takes real strength to resist rolling my eyes.

He waves my complaint away. “Now, from the top. Let’s see the entire performance.” He turns to his phone, hooked up to a Bluetooth speaker, and streams the music that’s been picked for my set.

With a sigh, I walk to our imaginary stage entrance on the opposite side of the room and begin.

Sweat coats me, muscles throb, and my stomach threatens to eat itself if I don’t get food in me soon, when finally, Vladimir ends training with a near compliment. “I have faith you won’t destroy ballet for the Polish.”

He turns to leave, and I give the middle finger to his back.

The door opens mere seconds after Vladimir shuts it, as though the person was waiting on the other side. I ignore the newcomer, preferring not to deal with who I wish would fuck off, and cross to the far bench to retrieve my water bottle. Mercifully, I’m able to chug the cool liquid I now won’t get yelled at for filling my bladder with.

“Vladimir feels you are ready.” My father’s voice comes from the doorway, deep and ominous with his usual threat.

Swear he practices that voice.

“Always am,” I reply, facing away. I stare at the bottle in my grip rather than the mirror in front of me where he’ll reflect in the background.

I slowly pack, still without looking up. Too soon, leaving becomes unavoidable, and hiking my bag up onto my shoulder, I turn to face the man who should be my entire world. Instead, he’s the asshole whose blood I unfortunately share. My jailor. The only parent Lev and I have, though I hope for his death often enough. I’d rather be orphaned than have him.

His eyes, the same shade of brown as mine, stare unblinkingly. “This is your chance to make a name for yourself outside the country.”

Which only goes back to his determination to line the organization’s pockets.

“Our Pakhan is very pleased with the funds brought in from your performances,” he continues. “He’s excited by the prospects of Poland.”

You mean, he’s thrilled there will be one less enemy. Papa will sell this off as his work, and no one but Lev will even care that I’ve ripped my soul apart with yet another murder. Other sixteen-year-olds are out with friends, but me… My childhood was gone the moment Papa realized my usefulness.

“Your target’s name is Jakob Nowak. He’s a new businessman on the market. Word is, he prefers them young, and given his seat is front and centre, I believe he’ll be eager to get you alone.”

If I felt he wouldn’t slap me across the face for vomiting on his shoes, I would. Because gag. Sometimes I don’t always despise the jobs. While being a businessman is no reason to be murdered, Papa has a knack for pulling out the disgusting ones. The ones who deserve death for their illegal preferences. It makes ripping my soul apart a bit more manageable. With my knife, at least women—and probably underage girls—will be saved from his attention.

It speaks to the kinds of people Papa interacts with, except seeing what I have, he and Ursin Volkov—the Bratva Pakhan—are hypocrites. In another life, one where I controlled my destiny, I’d save all women. Every single one would be free.

“Point him out when we’re there.” My flat tone is a well-practiced skill to end our interactions with minimal bloodshed—mainly mine—and I go to inch by him before he dismisses me. My legs are like jelly from practice, my muscles begging for a hot, soothing bath, and for once, hopefully Papa can find a speck of compassion and let me go without an argument.

When he snatches my upper arm, it’s probably asking for too much. His voice hisses ice down my spine. “Drop the fucking attitude and appreciate the star I’ve made you into. You know very well where your future can end up. Don’t assume you’re exempt. You’re this close, Anastasia.”

Not only do I know, but I’ve witnessed it. Once, when Papa was pissed and making a point, he dragged me into literal Ad—Hell. It’s what I nicknamed the place, and I’m sure the people in there would agree.

Cages line the walls, all filled with women. Some hold only one or two, others a small group. They’re all practically naked, their ripped and dirty white shifts doing nothing to warm them nor conceal any dignity they’re fighting to cling to. The warehouse is so dark, it’s hard to make anything out, but I’m grateful too. I don’t want to make any of this out. This…this…horror. There’s no prettier word for women in cages.

Papa shoves me against the nearest cage, hands slapping the metal poles as my cheek digs into another. Though I try my hardest not to look, I can’t help but meet the eyes of the woman curled in the farthest corner. She’s the only one of the four locked in this cage watching the drama.

She’s been beaten and undoubtedly raped. Probably starved and who knows what else my sixteen-year-old mind can’t envision, yet her eyes tell a different story. They’re expectantly sad, but for me. Me, dressed in fine silks with my hair curled. Me, who lives under a strict rule. But even Papa’s insanity is better than trafficking.

Blyat. Knowing the Bratva, and what Lev and Dimitri have mentioned, this shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. Seeing them is different. Real. A cruel reality, and fuck, if only I could save them all.

“Piss me off one more time, Anastasia, and this will be your life. Want to join her in there? Because I’ll make it happen, and I know a lot of men who’d love to get their hands on you. Take this as your one and only warning.”

It was the only warning that was required. A normal teenager might call her parents’ bluff because they don’t fully mean it, but knowing Papa, the risk wasn’t worth it. Given what he does to Lev, I don’t doubt he’d toss me into one of those cages himself.

“I’m aware, and I apologize, Papa.” Gritting my teeth, I force myself into submission—voice genteel, head down, eyes averted. “I was thoughtless with my words. I’m tired. Practice went on for a while, and I’m sorry.”

Acid burns my tongue with the lie.

He sneers, probably seeing right through my apology, but it must work to a degree since his fingers lift from my skin. “You will continue to practice every single day until Poland. Understood?”

“Da.”