"No"
The word came out sharp enough to cut.
The man didn't look offended.
He looked amused.
Yelena took a step forward, her glare lethal.
"No," she repeated. "I'm not selling myself. Not to your boss. Not to you. Not to anyone. Touch me again and I swear you'll regret it."
The scar-faced man chuckled, genuinely entertained.
"Oho… temper," he murmured. "He'll like that."
He turned his head slightly as if imagining it. "Our boss likes women who bite."
Yelena's jaw clenched.
He looked back at her, and the humor drained from his face.
In an instant, the air turned heavier.
"Now," he said, voice colder, "I've offered a solution. You refused."
His eyes darkened. "So tell me, sweetheart… where's my money?"
Yelena's heartbeat stuttered.
The man wasn't smiling anymore.
And that was worse.
"Please," Yelena said quickly. "Give us time. Just a little time. My uncle will pay."
The scar-faced man stared at her for a long moment.
"Time?" he echoed, as if the concept offended him.
Then he laughed. "You think time is free?"
Yelena swallowed.
"He's on a trip," she said, forcing confidence into her voice. "He wouldn't abandon his family."
The man's eyebrow rose. "And yet," he said softly, "I don't see him."
He tilted his head, studying her again. "Funny. I thought he was your father."
Yelena's lips tightened. "He isn't."
The scar-faced man hummed.
"Even better," he muttered, as if the situation had become more interesting.
Yelena's throat tightened.
"I'm asking you," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "Give us a few days. I'll make sure he pays."
The scar-faced man's eyes narrowed.
Then he snapped his fingers.
The men behind him straightened, as if receiving silent instructions.
The scar-faced man took a step back, rolling his shoulders.
"Fine," he said at last. "A few days."
Yelena released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
But the relief barely lasted.
Because the man leaned closer one last time, his voice dropping into something intimate and threatening.
"We'll leave," he whispered. "For now."
His gaze locked onto hers like a hook. "But we'll be back."
Then he smiled again.
A cruel smile.
"And if your uncle doesn't show up with the money…"
His eyes flicked over Yelena slowly.
"…we'll take something else."
Yelena's blood turned to ice.
The man turned away.
"Let's go, boys."
One by one, the men filed out, boots crunching over broken glass as if it were snow. The front door slammed shut behind them, and the house fell into a silence so heavy it felt like a coffin lid.
For a few seconds, Yelena didn't move.
Her lungs burned.
Her hands trembled.
She stared at the mess around her, the destruction, the humiliation, the gagged aunt and cousin staring at her with hatred and fear.
Penelope finally rushed forward, hands shaking as she untied Scarlet's gag.
Scarlet coughed and sobbed, mascara streaking down her cheeks.
Yelena's aunt's gag came off next.
The first thing she did wasn't thank Yelena.
She didn't ask if Yelena was okay.
She didn't even acknowledge the danger.
She pointed a trembling finger at Yelena like she was the villain.
"This is your fault," she hissed.
Yelena stared at her.
Then she slowly smiled.
Not a happy smile.
A tired one.
A broken one.
"No," Yelena said quietly. "This is your family's fault."
Yelena's aunt opened her mouth to scream again, but Yelena didn't wait for it.
She turned and walked toward the stairs.
Her legs felt like lead.
Her heart still pounded.
Because the loan sharks were gone…
But their threat remained.
*
Meanwhile, elsewhere;
The basement smelled like damp concrete, cigarette ash, and old blood.
A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if even the light was nervous. Its glow was weak, yellow, and cruel, illuminating the room in broken pieces, like reality itself didn't want to see what was happening here.
In the center sat a man tied to a chair.
His wrists were bound so tightly the rope had bitten into his skin. His shirt was ripped open, his chest a map of burns and bruises, and every breath he took sounded like it scraped his lungs raw.
He screamed anyway.
Not because he wanted to.
Because his body had forgotten how to do anything else.
A cigarette pressed against his shoulder.
The smell of burning flesh rose into the air.
His scream climbed higher.
And then… laughter.
Not loud laughter. Not cruel cackling.
Just a quiet, amused chuckle, like someone enjoying a comedy show.
In the corner of the room, a young man leaned back on a chair, one leg crossed over the other. His phone was in his hand, music playing from the tiny speaker.
He sang along, relaxed, almost cheerful. "Oh, I'm a gummy bear… yes, I'm a gummy bear…"
He tossed a gummy candy into the air and caught it in his mouth without looking.
The captive screamed again.
The young man didn't even flinch.
If anything, the sound seemed to make him… brighter.
More awake.
His eyes glimmered with childlike delight. "Oh, I'm a yummy, tummy, funny, lucky gummy bear…"
One of the men nearby hesitated, cigarette still between his fingers.
"Boss…" he muttered uncertainly.
The young man waved a hand lazily, as if shooing away a fly.
"Continue," he said, still singing.
The torture resumed.
The man in the chair writhed, teeth clenched so hard his jaw trembled. Sweat poured down his face like rain. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, pleading.
But there was no one here to pity him.
Because this was Volkova's territory.
And in Volkova territory, mercy was a bedtime story told to children who never lived long enough to grow up.
The young man finally stopped singing when the song ended on his phone.
Silence fell.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that made your skin crawl.
Only the prisoner's wheezing filled the room now, weak and broken.
The young man took his time chewing his candy, then reached up and pushed a strand of blond hair away from his face.
His fingers were clean.
His suit was perfect.
He looked like he belonged in a fashion magazine, not in a basement full of screams.
Alexander Volkova.
The Mafia Lord of the Volkova family.
The wolf who wore the face of an angel.
He had a beauty that didn't look real. Too refined. Too delicate. Too… misleading. His lashes were thick, his lips naturally red, and his eyes were an unsettling shade that shifted with the light, sometimes gray, sometimes green, sometimes blue, like the sea before a storm.
A man could look at him and think:
He's harmless.
And that would be the last thought he ever had.
Alexander lifted his gold-rimmed glasses from his face and sighed, as if bored.
"Are we done?" he asked softly.
One of the men stepped forward, wiping his hands on his pants like he didn't want to touch himself.
"No, sir," he said. "He's still refusing to talk."
Alexander's gaze drifted toward the prisoner.
Marco.
A traitor.
A fool.
A man who thought loyalty could be traded like currency.
Alexander stared at him for a moment, then shook his head with disappointment.
"I swear," he murmured, "I can't leave anything to you idiots."
He stood up smoothly, like a dancer rising from the stage, and snatched a report folder from one of his men.
He opened it, skimmed through the contents, and walked forward with unhurried grace.
Each step echoed against the basement floor.
Marco's breathing grew frantic.
Not because Alexander was shouting.
Not because Alexander was angry.
Because Alexander wasn't.
And that was the terrifying part.
Alexander stopped right in front of him.
He looked Marco up and down, lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You look awful," Alexander said. "Really, Marco… I expected more pride."
Marco's eyes burned with hatred.
He spat blood onto the floor.
Alexander didn't react.
He simply blinked, as if watching a bug crawl across the ground.
Then he sat.
A chair was immediately placed behind him by his men, perfectly positioned like they'd rehearsed it a hundred times.
Alexander crossed his legs and rested his elbow against the chair arm, his expression calm and elegant.
Like he was about to interview someone for a job.
He opened the file.
"Let's talk," Alexander said. "I'm in a generous mood today."
Marco let out a harsh laugh, coughing halfway through.
"Generous?" he rasped. "You're a monster."
Alexander nodded as if considering that.
"Perhaps," he agreed.
Then he looked at Marco with quiet patience, "Where are my guns?"
Marco's lips twisted, "Go to hell."
Alexander hummed, "That wasn't an answer."
Marco glared at him with pure defiance, "You can burn me. Break my bones. Cut me open. I don't care."
He smiled through pain. "You won't get anything out of me."
Alexander stared at him for a long moment.
Then he lowered his eyes back to the report.
"Marco Romano," Alexander read aloud, voice soft. "Thirty-five years old. No living parents. No siblings. No spouse."
He turned a page.
"No girlfriend. No children. No known close friends."
He paused, then lifted his gaze.
"That's impressive," Alexander said, sounding almost amused. "You're built like a man who has nothing to lose."
Marco's smile widened.
That was the point.
That was why Alexander couldn't break him.
Alexander leaned back in his chair.
"But," he continued, voice still calm, "you know what I've learned over the years?"
Marco didn't answer.
Alexander smiled faintly, "Everyone has something."
Marco's eyes narrowed.
Alexander's smile deepened, a thin curve that didn't reach his eyes.
"All except one," Alexander added.
Marco's expression flickered.
Confusion.
A crack.
Alexander noticed immediately.
He tapped the folder lightly against his knee, then snapped his fingers once.
The sound was sharp in the basement.
A door creaked open.
Footsteps followed.
Slow. Deliberate.
A woman entered the room in high heels, the click of her shoes echoing like a countdown. She held something against her chest, wrapped carefully in her arms.
Marco's eyes widened.
The blood drained from his face.
Because what she carried wasn't a weapon.
It wasn't money.
It was a small, trembling creature.
A snow-white toy poodle, tiny and soft, with round black eyes that blinked innocently at the room of monsters.
Alexander's men shifted slightly, some smirking.
Marco jerked in his restraints, panic flashing like lightning across his face.
"No…" he whispered.
Alexander's gaze sharpened.
So this was it.
The hidden vein.
The secret pulse.
The thing Marco had kept buried beneath all that bravado.
Alexander reached out, and the woman handed him the toy poodle carefully, almost reverently.
The dog didn't bark.
It simply curled into Alexander's arms like it trusted him.
Alexander stroked its head gently.
"Aww," he murmured. "Look at you. Aren't you precious?"
Marco thrashed.
"Don't touch him!" he roared, voice cracking. "Don't you dare!"
Alexander tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Him?" he repeated, amused. "So it's a boy. I didn't check it."
The toy poodle licked Alexander's fingers.
Alexander chuckled softly. "Interesting," he murmured.
Then he looked up at Marco.
"They say dogs are a man's best friend," Alexander said, voice almost conversational.
He scratched the toy poodle behind the ear.
"But for some people…"
His fingers slid down slowly.
"They're family."
Marco's eyes turned bloodshot.