Analise's POV
Two days ago, I had a dream. I was standing in the middle of a football stadium, butt naked. My presence had stopped an important game from commencing. The audience around the stadium hauled insults at me, throwing food at my body and demanding I get off the field. I was confused. The players approached, and instead of offering help, all proceeded to push me around and bully me.
It was one of those dreams. Weird, awkward.
Today, right now, while I drive through the gates of Mr. Sokolov's estate, I get that same feeling. Like I'm standing in the middle of a football field naked and the angry audience happens to be the armed men guarding the estate. Each checkpoint I pass is welcomed by more stares. Men get out of their watch stations just to take a peek at me.
At the gates, no one stops me. No one asks me a question. It feels like I'm heading to a slaughterhouse.
Was it pity I saw in their faces? Or was it genuine disdain?
I parked my car in the massive driveway, then got out.
The guard escorted me inside, not saying a thing.
"Where is Mr. Sokolov?" I asked, trying to sound any less scared than I was.
The guard didn't answer. His face remained expressionless as he led me deeper into the mansion. The marble floors echoed with our footsteps, each one making my heart beat faster. Sofia's warning from years ago played in my head: "My father isn't someone you cross. The things he's done..." She'd never finished that sentence, just shuddered and changed the subject.
We turned down a corridor I hadn't seen during my first visit. At the end stood a heavy wooden door. When the guard opened it, I saw concrete stairs descending into darkness.
A basement.
I stopped at the top of the stairs, the hairs on my neck standing up. "Why are we going down there?"
The smell hit me then—metallic and sour. Blood. Like the hospital ER after a trauma, but worse. More... intentional.
The guard looked at me like I was stupid. "Mr. Sokolov is waiting."
I thought of a horror movie John and I had watched once, where the killer kept his victims in a basement. I'd fallen asleep halfway through, my head on his shoulder. Now that memory twisted into something sickening.
"Mr. Sokolov waits below," the guard repeated, impatience edging his voice.
I took a step back. "I'm not going down there."
His eyes narrowed. "You will."
"No." Another step back. "Tell him to come up if he wants to talk."
He reached for me. I ducked away and ran.
My feet pounded across the marble floor, heart in my throat as I sprinted toward the front door. I could hear the guard shouting behind me, his heavy footsteps giving chase.
I burst through the door, blinding sunlight hitting my face, and collided with a wall of muscle.
Two men stood there, both huge, blocking my path. One grabbed for my arm. I ducked, twisting away, and drove my knee up between his legs as hard as I could.
He doubled over with a grunt. For a split second, I thought I might make it.
The second man had his gun drawn before I could blink. The barrel pressed against my forehead, cold and unforgiving.
"Give me a reason," he growled, his accent thick. His eyes weren't dead like the other guards. They burned with something worse—eagerness. "Please."
I froze, breath coming in short gasps, sweat dripping down my back.
"Thought you could run?" he hissed, his breath hot against my ear. "Nobody runs from here."
"Back inside," he ordered, his lips curling into a smile that never reached his eyes. "Or I paint these nice steps with your brains."
The first guard had recovered enough to grab my arm, twisting it painfully behind my back. He shoved me forward, back through the door.
They marched me back inside, past the ornate hallways to the basement door again. The dark stairway seemed to stretch endlessly downward now.
The guard shoved the gun harder against my head. "Down."
My stomach twisted at the smell coming from below. Stronger now. Blood and something worse—fear, maybe. The leftover stench of terror. What's worse than being shot in the head? Dying in some basement killed by your best friend's father.
I dug my heels in. "You'll have to kill me first, but I'm not going down to that basement."
A voice called up from below, words in Russian. The guard pressing the gun to my head tensed, then responded in the same language.
"Mr. Sokolov says bring you upstairs," he finally said in English, sounding disappointed. "Living room."
They pulled me back from the stairs, one on each arm, half-dragging me to the living room I remembered from before. The same place where I'd watched a man die with nails in his face.
They shoved me onto one of the plush sofas. My legs gave out, too weak to hold me any longer. I stared at my hands, willing them to stop shaking.
'Don't cry,' I ordered myself. 'Don't let them see you cry.'
Footsteps approached, unhurried. When I looked up, Mr. Sokolov stood in the doorway, calmly wiping blood from his hands with a white towel. Fresh blood. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, small red droplets speckling the crisp fabric.
"Miss Keating," he said pleasantly, as if we were meeting for coffee. "You're prompt. I appreciate that in a person."
He crossed the room and sat beside me on the sofa. He was so close that our thighs were touching. I shifted away instinctively.
His hand shot out faster than I could track, grabbing the back of my neck. His fingers dug into my skin, hitting pressure points that made my vision swim.
"You wench!" he growled, and before I could process what was happening, he slammed my head face-first into the glass coffee table.
Pain exploded across my forehead. The glass cracked beneath the impact but didn't shatter. When he released me, I slumped to the floor, warm blood immediately trickling into my eyes.
I crawled backward, my palms slicing open on the glass shards scattered across the carpet. Everything tilted and swayed.
"Please," I gasped, tasting blood. "You called me here. About my husband. I don't understand—"
He stood, following my retreat with calm, measured steps. "You don't understand? That's the story you're going with?"
"I don't know what I did wrong!" The tears came now, mixing with the blood on my face. "Please, tell me what's happening!"
Sokolov gestured to one of the guards. "The sketch."
The man hurried to the kitchen counter and returned with a file. Sokolov pulled out a piece of paper and thrust it at me.
It was the sketch from three days ago, the one I'd left the artist drawing. The sketch was quite accurate, it was John's face, captured perfectly in pencil and charcoal.
Then he pulled out another paper. A photograph.
My heart stopped.
It was John. As beautiful as I remembered him. The same sharp jawline, the same dark eyes that had looked at me with such tenderness.
But this wasn't the John I knew. In the photo, he wore an expensive suit, smoking a cigar with one hand. In the other, he held a gun, pressing it against another man's temple. His expression was cold, detached. The face of a killer.
"Who is that?" Sokolov asked, his voice suddenly calm.
"J...John," I whispered, taking the photo with trembling fingers. A part of me had begun to wonder if I'd imagined him. If he'd only existed in my mind. But here he was. Real. Proof.
Sokolov's fist slammed into my stomach. All the air rushed from my lungs. As I doubled over in agony, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me across the floor. Glass cut into my skin, blood smearing across the white marble in streaks of crimson.
We stopped at the kitchen counter. He reached for a knife.
I tried to scramble away, but he pressed his foot into my back, pinning me in place. The weight crushed my ribs against the floor.
"Please, Mr. Sokolov," I sobbed, watching him test the blade's edge with his thumb. "I don't understand what's going on."
The knife gleamed under the kitchen lights. Sharp. Deadly.
"Do you know how hard I've worked to score that deal?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. "Forming connections with that man is more difficult than winning the lottery. Yet you, a silly wench, have had him all along. And now you stand to ruin everything I've worked for."
"What deal? What man? I don't know what you're talking about!" I tried to twist free, but he dug his heel harder into my spine.
"You're betraying my daughter," he snarled, crouching down. The knife traced a line along my jaw. "Your best friend."
"Sofia? How? I would never hurt her! She's like my sister!"
"Your husband," he hissed, pressing the knife tip against my throat, "is not who you think he is."
"I don't understand! John left me! He abandoned us! How does that have anything to do with Sofia?"
"Don't play stupid," he spat. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you plan this all along?"
"Plan what? Please! My son is dying! I'm just trying to save him!"
Sokolov stared at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Whatever he was looking for, he must not have found it. His expression darkened.
"I will not let anyone ruin this union," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I will kill you and that bastard son of yours to make sure nothing sullies this alliance."
"My son?" Terror washed through me, stronger than the pain. "He's innocent! He's just a baby! Please!"
Sokolov placed the knife on the counter. For a moment, I thought perhaps he'd found some shred of mercy.
Then he pulled out his gun.
"Say goodbye," he said, aiming it at my head.
I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my bloody face, and waited for death.