Chapter 2 Nikolai
I stood in my study, looking at reports from my lieutenants. Drug shipments from the Volkov family. Construction permits from the Zaytsev family. A dispute between the Voronins and Ivanovs over territory that would need to be settled before it became a war.
This was my life. Endless problems, endless violence, endless control.
Moscow belonged to five families. Five great Bratvas that had divided the city like a feast. Each family controlled different territories, different businesses, and different kinds of violence. And for ten years, I ruled the five families with absolute control. I consolidated power, eliminated rivals, built an empire that ran on fear and perfect order. I was the Pakhan, the monster even monsters feared, the man who never smiled and never showed weakness.
The Markov estate sat on the outskirts of Moscow like a fortress. Thirty acres of land surrounded by walls topped with cameras and armed guards. The house itself was a monument to brutal elegance. Black stone and dark wood, floor to ceiling windows that looked out over forests that seemed to stretch forever.
The door opened and Mikhail entered without knocking. He was my second in command, the only person allowed that privilege. The only man I trusted in a world built on betrayal.
"The families have confirmed their offerings for the coming Blood Tithe," Mikhail said, placing a folder on my desk. "Seven girls in total."
I did not look up from the reports. The Blood Tithe was a tradition, older than memory itself. Every autumn equinox, the five families brought offerings. Girls from enemy families, traitors' daughters, debtors' children. It was a display of loyalty, a reminder of my power, a ritual I had never cared about.
"I don't care," I said flatly.
"You should look at the list." Mikhail whispered.
Something in his tone made me pause. I glanced up at him. His face was carefully neutral, but I knew that look. He had found something interesting. Something he thought would matter to me.
I reached for the folder and opened it. My eyes scanned the names quickly. Daughters of thieves, informants, traitors. Nothing unusual. Nothing that would catch my attention.
But then I stopped at a name.
Anya Koslov. Age twenty two. Daughter of Detective Marco Koslov.
My hand tightened on the paper.
Marco Koslov. The detective who had killed three of my father's men during a raid ten years ago. The man who had testified before a grand jury, who had nearly brought down the entire Bratva system. My father, Leonid Markov, had used his power and connections to turn the case around. The detective ended up being arrested instead. And one month ago, I had ordered his death just a few days before his scheduled release.
I had wanted him to know he would never be free. That his fight against us had been pointless. That we won in the end.
"The Petrovs are offering her," Mikhail said, watching my face carefully. "They've had her for four years, working off her father's debt."
Four years. She had been their servant for four years while her father rotted in prison. While I built my empire higher and stronger. While her life fell apart piece by piece.
"I want to see her file," I said, my voice cold and controlled. "Everything."
Mikhail hesitated. "Nikolai, she's just another servant girl. There's nothing special about her. The Petrovs probably just want to impress you by offering the detective's daughter."
"Everything," I repeated, and my tone left no room for argument.
Mikhail nodded and left. I sat alone in my study, staring at that name on the paper.
That night, Mikhail returned with a thick file. I dismissed him and spent hours reading every detail of Anya Koslov's life.
She is twenty two years old but looked sixteen according to the notes. She had worked as a servant for four years with no disciplinary problems. She is quiet, and obedient. Her younger brother, fourteen year old Dmitri, had been taken by the Ivanov family as insurance and she had not seen him in four years.
There was a photograph clipped to the front of the file.
I pulled it closer and studied it under the light. A small girl with huge dark eyes and long dark hair stared at the camera like a frightened animal. She had delicate features, pale skin, a heart shaped face. She looked fragile, and breakable, like a porcelain doll that would shatter if you held it too tightly.
She looked so much like her father.
Those eyes especially. Wide and dark and filled with determination.
I stared at that photograph for a long time. Longer than I should have. Longer than it made sense.
My father had taught me that mercy was a weakness. That sentiment was a luxury we could not afford. Every action had to serve a purpose, had to strengthen our position, and had to remind everyone why we ruled.
And accepting Anya Koslov as my Blood Tithe would send a message to anyone who thought about betraying the Bratva. We will find your children, and we make them pay for your sins. We will take everything from you, even after you are dead.
It was strategic and logical. The kind of move my father would have made.
But that was not why I could not stop looking at her photograph.
I did not know why. I did not want to know why.
The door opened again and Mikhail returned with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He poured without asking and slid one across my desk.
"You are thinking too much about this girl," he said carefully.
"I am thinking strategically," I replied, simply."Marco Koslov was a problem. His testimony almost destroyed us. Taking his daughter should send a message."
"We already sent a message when we killed him in prison." Mikhail drank his vodka in one swallow. "This girl is nothing. A servant who scrubs floors. Why do you care?"
I did not answer. I could not answer. Because I did not know.
"The ceremony is in three weeks," Mikhail continued. "All five families will be there. If you want to refuse the Petrov offering, now is the time to say so. Once you accept her in front of everyone, she becomes your responsibility."
"I know how it works," I said coldly.
"Do you?" Mikhail leaned forward. "Because you have never kept a Blood Tithe before. You always send them to work in the estate and forget about them. But I see your face when you look at this girl's file. This is different."
"She is Marco Koslov's daughter," I said, as if that explained everything. "The man who tried to destroy my family. Who killed my father's men. Who looked at me in that courtroom ten years ago with pity."
"And you want revenge?" Mikhail said, his hands on his chin.
"I want justice." I said coldly.
Mikhail laughed. It was short and bitter. "There is no justice in your world, Nikolai. Only power. You know this."
He was right. I did know this. My father had beaten that lesson into me, had locked me in darkness until I understood, and had shaped me into exactly what this world required.
But when I looked at Anya Koslov's photograph, I felt something I had not felt in twenty years.
Curiosity.
"I will accept her," I said finally. "The Petrovs have made a smart offer. It would be insulting to refuse."
"And then what?" Mikhail asked. "What will you do with a frightened girl who looks at you and sees the man who killed her father?"
I smiled, resting my back on the leather chair. "I will show her exactly what her father's righteousness cost her. I will show her that good people do not survive in Moscow."
Mikhail didn't say anything. He only nodded.
I did not know what I wanted from Anya Koslov. I only knew that I needed to see her. I needed to look into those huge dark eyes and see if they held the same pity her father had. I needed to understand why a dead man's daughter had gotten under my skin without ever speaking a single word to me.