Chapter one

“сократить его!” My father's voice rumbled with a menacing tone, his right hand coiled behind him, a cigarette precariously clinging to his parched lips.

I winced as I looked on, watching Andrei—also known as the "six"—utilize a pair of pliers to extract the teeth of the captured Mexican spy. The sheer sound of his agonizing scream reverberated in my ears, causing me to press myself against the wall, almost melding into its surface. My entire body quivered with a mixture of fear and revulsion, yet the idea of leaving didn't even cross my mind. The memory of my previous attempt to escape a scene like this was all too vivid, marked by the thirty lashes Father delivered to my bare back with a whip. The pain lingered for over a week, a constant reminder of my disobedience.

As blood spurted from the Mexican spy's mouth, mingling with his whimpers, he tilted his head in anguish, momentarily bowing it down. The room was charged with tension, heavy with the palpable agony that permeated every corner.

"Why were you dispatched!? Speak now, собака—dog!" Father thundered, removing the cigarette from his lips.

He advanced towards the near-lifeless Mexican, his grip on the man's jaw unyielding as he forced his head upward. A growling scowl etched across his face as he locked eyes with his victim. My stomach churned, the urge to vomit nearly overwhelming, yet I stood rooted in place. Regardless of my gender, my obligations within the family business remained unaltered. This gruesome scene was just another facet of the grim reality I was bound to—a reality that demanded I partake in activities as brutal as slaughtering chickens, day in and day out.

"Speak!" Dad's command was so forceful, so loud, that it sent a tremor through me, as if I were the one being addressed.

The Mexican man gazed into Father's face, his blood dripping profusely. The torment he must have endured, having three of his teeth yanked out and his left pinky finger shattered with a hammer, was beyond my imagination.

“Gran tonto!” he bellowed, spitting a mixture of saliva and blood directly into Father's face. While I didn't understand the exact words, it was clear that it wasn't English, nor was it Russian; it seemed to be Mexican Spanish. An immediate bout of giggles overtook him after his audacious act of spitting at Dad. I sensed that things were about to spiral further into a gruesome and chaotic scene. Knowing how much Dad despised insults, especially from his adversaries, I could practically see his face reddening, and it felt as if smoke was about to waft from the top of his bald head.

“Fucking Mexican bastard!” Dad's roar filled the room. Despite being Russian, he spoke English fluently, a secret I had yet to uncover. Swiftly and deftly, he extracted his gun from its holster on his right side. In a rapid sequence, he fired at the Mexican man's legs and then at his hands, the motion executed with remarkable fluidity and precision.

The Mexican man's piercing scream reverberated through the room, and at that moment, I found it impossible to restrain myself any longer. My stomach churned so violently that holding back the urge to vomit became an insurmountable task. I fled the torture room, bounding up the stairs, and sought refuge in my own chamber. In my haste, I managed to close the door without slamming it shut before I dashed toward the bathroom.

Without delay, the nausea overtook me, and I began retching. I submerged my head into the sink's basin and turned on the tap, allowing the cold water to cascade over me, attempting to wash away the disturbing images and sounds that had become etched in my mind.

It took several minutes for the wave of nausea to subside, during which I retrieved a towel and gently patted my face dry, removing the lingering moisture. Slowly, I made my way back into the room, my steps heavy as if I were carrying an invisible weight. Collapsing onto the bed, I sank into the mattress as if it were an escape from the horrors I had just witnessed.

At the tender age of seventeen, I had already been exposed to a world beyond my years, one filled with atrocities that no one my age should ever endure. Being the daughter of the Pakhan of the Tambov Bratva, the head of the mafia cartel that held sway over Russia's Volga and Central Federal Districts, as well as Moscow, came with a weight of traumas unimaginable. I was his sole offspring, which bore with it an immense load of responsibilities. My father's reputation preceded him as the most dreaded and influential figure in all of Russia.

My life was a landscape of restrictions, tightly woven to serve a singular purpose. It meant that I was confined to the indoors, isolated from friendships that could never be trusted. My existence as a girl bore a weighty significance to my father, an excuse for him to unleash his aggression upon me. His actions consistently stripped away my humanity, reducing me to something lesser. The insults he hurled were a dual torment, both in public and in the shadows of privacy. But what stung the most was the realization that even escape was a distant dream, a luxury I couldn't afford.

The memory of my failed escape at thirteen lingered like a sinister shadow. My own father had tracked me down and subjected me to unspeakable torture, a gruesome punishment that left my left pinky finger severed as a perpetual reminder of his dominance.

I rose from the bed, locking the door with a sense of urgency. Returning to the bed, I sank into it, the weight of the world pressing upon my shoulders. That night marked the transition to a new year, a time when others reveled in celebration. For me, however, it was an entirely different experience, one tainted by the grotesque spectacle of witnessing another human being subjected to dehumanization. It wasn't my inaugural exposure to such horrors; I had witnessed the severing of three men's penises when I was merely seven years old. Each encounter left me feeling more despondent than the last, longing for a day when my life would escape this grim reality.

***

"Olga!" My mother's voice beckoned from just beyond my door. I shifted my gaze in the direction of the sound, and the door creaked open as she leaned inside. "Don't spend the night in here! The party has begun," I murmured, noticing the way her eyes lit up at the sight of my dress, even though she refrained from commenting.

"Okay, Mom," I managed a smile. She closed the door with a gentle thud, and the sound of her footsteps drifted away as she moved gracefully along the floorboards.

As the evening sun gave way to the new year's eve, an atmosphere of festivity hung in the air, even though it felt like just another ordinary day for me. I donned a flowing, ankle-length white chiffon dress that enveloped me like a gentle breeze. The fitted bodice, with its sweetheart neckline and delicate spaghetti straps, adhered to my form as if it were an extension of me. Intricate beading adorned the neckline, hemline, sleeves, and waistline, adding an air of elegance to the ensemble. Atop my head sat a white kokoshnik, its intricate beads and embroidered details harmonizing seamlessly with my attire.

I pursed my lips, smoothing and enhancing the nude lip gloss that adorned them. With a sense of anticipation, I left the room and descended the staircase, drawn by the mellifluous strains of classical music that permeated the air. Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flowers" played softly in the background, a piece that never failed to stir my soul. The ambiance was filled with murmured conversations, the tinkling of glassware, and the gentle cadence of laughter.

"You look stunning," Dima's voice caught me off guard, momentarily startling me. He stood at the foot of the staircase, his sleek black suit contrasting against the surroundings. His gaze lifted to meet mine, and a blush immediately tinted my cheeks. With graceful strides, I descended to join him, my eyes fixed on his captivating cobalt irises and the strands of light caramel hair that framed his face. Dima held the role of my bodyguard, a constant presence in my life, wherever I ventured.

"Thank you," I managed to murmur, finally finding my voice in the presence of Dima's admiring gaze. His bold smirk only deepened as he continued to focus his attention on me. Despite the cacophony of partygoers' chatter, my gaze remained ensnared by his presence.

"Everyone, gather around! I have a special announcement to make," my father's voice cut through the background noise, immediately grabbing my attention. He stood at the center of the room, surrounded by his elegantly dressed guests and their respective partners.

As I descended the stairs, Dima stood beside me, a reassuring presence by my side. I couldn't help but wonder about the nature of the announcement. My knowledge of the family business was virtually nonexistent, given the impenetrable shroud of secrecy that surrounded the Tambov Bratva. In a time when the Mexican Mafia's influence was burgeoning in the region, emerging as a formidable adversary in the black market and the Soviet sphere, trust was a luxury we couldn't afford.

"First and foremost, I'd like to wish you all a happy new year!" Father's voice resonated with cheer as he raised his cup in a toast. "But now, let's turn our attention to a matter of great significance—a pronouncement that is bound to reshape many things within our midst."

A sense of bewilderment washed over me, leaving my thoughts in a whirlwind. I scanned the room, my gaze landing on Dima for a moment. His expression mirrored my own curiosity, a shared question of "what's going on?" communicated through our exchanged glances. He shook his head slightly and shrugged, an indication that he, too, was as clueless as I was about the impending announcement.

"It's no secret that the Mexican Mafia has been encroaching upon Russia, seeking to establish a foothold and eventually overthrow the Tambov Bratva," my father's voice resonated with a somber undertone, capturing the room's attention. "Recent information has informed me that they've formed strategic alliances with both the American mafia and the Triad. Russia's prominence as a target for them is undeniable, and their determination to conquer it is unwavering. Given these circumstances, and after consultations with the Avtoritets, I've made the decision to forge an alliance of our own—with the Italians, the Cosa Nostra."

His words hung in the air, a silence punctuated by hushed murmurs that rippled through the crowd. My gaze shifted to Dima once more, his expression mirroring the confusion and surprise that clouded my own thoughts.

"But there's more," my father's voice carried a weight of significance that seized my attention. Gradually, the voices around us tapered off until a hushed silence settled. "In light of this alliance, I've chosen to strengthen the bond by arranging a marriage—a union between my daughter, Olga, and the son of the Capo de Capi of the Cosa Nostra," he announced, his arm sweeping in my direction with an expansive smile.

Time seemed to freeze as those words echoed in my ears. My heart raced, beads of sweat forming on my forehead, while a heavy lump of anxiety lodged in my throat. Tears welled up unbidden, and I struggled to contain the wave of emotions crashing over me.