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Scarlett

Laughter bubbles up from my throat as Yelena nudges me with her elbow, her blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "You should have seen the look on his face, Scarlett! Priceless!" We maneuver through the mall, dodging a sea of shoppers while our shopping bags rustle against our sides.

"Only you could get away with that," I chuckle, shaking my head at her latest antic. The memory of Viktor's sister talking circles around some pompous store manager is still fresh in my mind. It's moments like these when I forget the dark tendrils of the mafia world that bind us together.

"Hey, it's all about who you know, right?" She winks, and we share another laugh, the sound echoing off the glossy shopfronts.

A sense of ease washes over me as I bask in the normalcy of this rare, precious moment. I glance at Yelena, grateful for the sisterly bond we've formed despite the madness that is our reality.

"Yelena, I'll be right back, okay? Need to use the restroom." I gesture towards the sign ahead of us.

"Sure thing, Scar. I'll check out those boots we saw earlier. They will sure match my new Birkin bag." Her grin is infectious, and I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

"Meet you there?" I ask, already heading toward the ladies' room.

"Deal. Don't take forever admiring yourself in that new scarf!" she calls after me, laughter lacing her voice.

"Wouldn't dream of it!" I throw the words over my shoulder and push through the restroom door, the cool air a welcome relief from the mall's chatter and clatter.

For a moment, I just stand there, enjoying the solitude. It's nice to step away from the constant vigilance, even if it's just for a minute or two. My grey eyes catch sight of a mother guiding her little girl to the stall, and my heart aches with a sudden yearning. I push it away, focusing instead on the here and now.

I make my way to the sink, intending to splash some water on my face, and rejoin Yelena quickly. But for now, I savor the quiet, relishing the feeling of being Scarlett—no worries, no schemes, no shadows lurking behind me. Just a girl in a mall, living a slice of an ordinary life.

The door swings shut behind me with a soft click as mother and child leave. I take care of business and move to the sink, my steps slow, deliberate. Porcelain gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights, and I pause, looking at my reflection, lost in thought. Viktor. His name alone sends a shiver down my spine, laced with concern. He doesn't talk much about his life or his business. But whispers cling to him like shadows, of danger that trail his every step. I hope he is safe. Despite everything, despite the iron curtain he draws around his heart, I find myself caring far more than I should.

"Be okay," I murmur, a silent plea to a man who swims in treacherous waters—a billionaire mafia lord whose world I've stumbled into. My fingers graze the edge of the sink, gripping the cool surface. A bead of water trails down, drawing a line across the porcelain. Just like our lives—intersecting paths marked by a single, fleeting touch.

Taking a deep breath, I straighten up, determined to shake off the unsettling feeling. I have to get back to Yelena and the semblance of normalcy we've woven around ourselves today—no matter how temporary it might be.

A deafening crash shatters the silence, echoing off the tiled walls. I whip around, heart catapulting into my throat. The entrance—where escape should be just a few strides away—is now a dark canvas painted with menacing shapes. Three, no, four figures. They block the light and the way out.

Adrenaline floods my system, a hot current that turns muscles into coiled springs. My mind screams danger; every cell in my body prepares to react. Breathe in, breathe out. My hand searches for something, anything, to use as a weapon. But there's only the slick surface of the sink and the empty echo of my quickened breaths.

"Scarlett Wood?" One of them steps forward. His voice is definitely male, even though they are all dressed as ladies. They know me. This isn't random. It's personal.

I don't answer. Words are weapons I can't afford to waste. Instead, I inch backward, eyes darting for an opening, a weakness in their stance. There's none. These figures move with purpose, with training. They're a wall—one I can't hope to break through alone.

"Stay back," I warn, the fierceness in my voice betraying no hint of the ice clutching my spine. Thoughts of Viktor, of his world of shadows and whispered threats, crystallize into a sharp point of determination. If they think I'm easy prey, they have another thing coming. I am Scarlett Wood, and I will not go down without a fight.

My hand snaps to the paper towel dispenser, ripping off a heavy steel bar. It's not much, but it's something. The closest figure lunges, and I swing with all the force my body can muster. Metal clangs against bone—a harsh, grating sound—and he stumbles back, cursing.

"Get the fucking bitch!" someone barks, and then they're on me.

I kick, punch, elbow—anything to keep them away. My heart is a drumbeat in my chest, each thud echoing the single, overpowering thought: protect the baby. My baby. Viktor's child.

"Damn it, she's like a wildcat," one gasps as my foot connects with his shin. Pain radiates up my leg, but it's nothing compared to the fire blazing inside me. I am fierce; I am fury; I am mother.

But there are too many. Arms like iron bands wrap around mine, dragging them behind my back. I twist, trying to break free, but another set of hands grips my hair, yanking my head back. Panic claws at my throat.

"Quiet now," a voice hisses in my ear, cold as the tile pressed against my cheek. A gun's muzzle presses into my temple, metal kissing skin in a deadly caress. "One more peep, and it's lights out, sweetheart."

Tears burn behind my eyes, hot and desperate. Do they think a gun scares me? No. I've stared down worse in the name of love and survival. But this ... this is different. This time, it's not just my life hanging in the balance.

"Please," I whisper, not because I'm afraid to die, but because dying means failing those I love. Failing my children. The thought is unbearable. "Don't do this."

The grip on me tightens, a cruel reminder that pleas mean nothing to men like these. Fear tastes like bile in my mouth, yet beneath it, a steady resolve pulses. I will survive this. For my baby. For Viktor. Because Scarlett Wood never breaks—well, not entirely.

"Change," the gruff voice demands, shoving fabric into my hands. My fingers tremble as they clutch the maxi dress, its floral pattern identical to what one of them has on. I don't recognize the woman in the mirror as I pull the wig over my blond hair, the synthetic brunette locks framing my face in an unfamiliar curtain.

"Quickly," another voice snaps.

I comply, heart hammering. The dress falls over my body, loose and concealing—the perfect disguise. I hardly look like Scarlett Wood now. But it's not me I'm worried about; it's the little lives blossoming inside me. The ones who don't know chaos yet.

Viktor's name burns through the terror, igniting a spark of cunning. I need to leave a trail, something Viktor can follow. Eyes darting, I spot a trash can near the stall. A receipt from today's shopping—a code he'll understand, a breadcrumb back to me.

"Move!" They're on me again, pushing, pulling. I let my earring slip from my pocket, fluttering down as I stumble forward, hoping, praying Viktor will see it, will know.

"Let's go," one growls, and I'm herded toward the door, away from safety, away from Yelena, away from Viktor. Away from everything.

The cold metal of my bracelet chills my skin as I unclasp it. My fingers work swiftly, the charm catching light one last time before I let it drop silently to the floor. A symbol, a plea—find me, Viktor. The second earring follows, a tiny glint of gold winking out as it tumbles away from my earlobe, its mate left alone to grieve its absence.

"Keep moving," one of the figures hisses, thrusting me forward with a force that nearly sends me sprawling. I stumble, regain my footing, and focus on each step that takes me closer to the exit, each step further from my old life.

The bathroom door swings open, and the noise of the mall crashes over me like a wave. Shoppers bustle by, oblivious to the drama unfolding within their midst. The transition is jarring—the bright lights, the cacophony of voices, the scent of fast-food mingling with perfume samples. It's all a blur, a kaleidoscope of normalcy that I'm no longer a part of.

"Watch it," someone mutters as we brush past a young couple. I want to scream, to reach out, but I'm a ghost in this crowd, invisible beneath my disguise with a gun pressed to my side.

Then, silence descends as we slip through a service door, the din of the mall muffled as if by a thick curtain. The air here smells of oil and concrete—a stark, foreboding welcome to the world that waits outside.

"Remember, Scarlett," I whisper to myself, committing every detail to memory—the number of steps to the doors, the sound of the men's voices, the pattern of the driver's breathing. Clues. Evidence. Hope.

A part of me, a fierce and unyielding fragment, clings to the belief that Viktor will come. That he'll see the breadcrumbs I've left behind and follow them straight into the lion's den.

A van waits ahead, its dark windows reflecting nothing, revealing nothing. It sits like a predator, patient, and expectant. I'm pushed inside, the interior swallowing me whole. The doors slam with a finality that echoes through my bones.

I sit, breath shallow, mind racing. But amidst the fear, there's a thread of steel. For my child, for Viktor, I will survive this. Somehow.

The van's interior closes around me, a metallic beast with darkened windows and the stench of oil and fear. My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat a drum of war within the confines of my chest. The engine roars to life, tearing through the silence like a declaration of intent.

"Drive," commands a voice, cold and detached.

We lurch forward, the world outside morphing into a blur of colors as we speed away from the mall, from Yelena, from everything familiar. I press my hands against the cold floor, trying to ground myself amid chaos.

I narrow my eyes, scanning the van. It's bare, stripped of any feature that could give away a hint of identity or purpose. Steel panels and a cage separate us from the driver. A single, dim lightbulb swings overhead, casting sickly shadows that dance along the walls.

"Stay strong," I tell myself, even as another part of me shivers, curling into a tight ball of dread and uncertainty. But that steel thread? It remains, woven into the fabric of my being, unbreakable. For the sake of what—no, who—I carry within me, I have to be.

The van sways, tires screeching against the pavement as it weaves through traffic. I grip the metal beneath me, knuckles white, while my body sways with each sharp turn. My thoughts spiral but then suddenly snap to focus on the tiny life inside me—my unborn child.

"Stay safe," I murmur, hand instinctively resting over my belly. It's a silent pledge, a vow that surges through every fiber of my being: I will protect this baby at all costs.

I think of Viktor, his stern face that softens only for a moment when he looks at me. The thought of him finding us, of his resolve mirroring my own, injects a shard of hope through the fear. He's out there and he won't rest until we're safe. I cling to that hope like a lifeline.

"Viktor will come for us," I whisper the words a mantra. Each syllable is a step closer to him, to home.

A bump in the road jolts me from my reverie, and my heart clenches. I close my eyes, letting my mind paint a picture of a future where we are free, where our child knows love—not this cold, terrifying uncertainty.

"Survive," I tell myself. For the babies. For Viktor. For the love that, despite everything, remains unshaken. I take a deep breath, steadying my racing heart.

After about half an hour into the drive, I begin to think of delay tactics. Something I can do to stall so that Viktor and his men can catch up with us. I knock on the dividing hatch, a hollow thump echoing in the cramped space of the van. "Please, I need to use the bathroom," I plead, my voice barely louder than the hum of the engine. Silence greets me at first, and I can almost hear my own heart pounding against my ribcage.

"Stop asking," grunts one of the assailants through the metal barrier, his voice devoid of empathy.

I knock again, harder this time. "I can't hold it anymore," I insist, fake desperation coloring my tone.

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of tires rolling over uneven asphalt. Then, with a suddenness that catches me off guard, the connecting hatch swings open. The one on the passenger seat – broad-shouldered and stone-faced – leans into the back, his eyes glinting coldly.

"Didn't you hear me?" he snarls, and before I can react, his hand shoots out.

I brace myself for a slap or a punch, but instead, he shoves me. Hard. My body tumbles backward, and I land on my bum. The world tilts violently as pain explodes through my lower back. All I can do is lie there, gasping for air, the metallic taste of fear sharp on my tongue.

Cradling my aching back, the brutality of the shove leaves me with no illusions about my captors. Unlike the Makarov Bratva men, who adhered to some twisted code of honor, these are different; they're callous and cruel. A shiver of dread snakes its way down my spine as I realize that not even the tiny swell of my belly, the clear sign of my pregnancy, is enough to stir a shred of compassion in their cold dead hearts.

I lean against the hard metal wall of the van, the vibration from the tires humming beneath me like a relentless beast. The stench of grease and sweat permeates the air, sticking to the inside of my nostrils. I close my eyes, trying to find solace in the darkness behind my lids, but the fear clings to me, a second skin I cannot shed.

Time becomes an elusive specter as the van continues its merciless trek. I'm adrift, lost in a sea of uncertainty, my mind reeling with questions. Are we heading north, towards the icy edges of the country? Or south, where the city's heartbeat fades into rural silence? Every turn, and acceleration, adds to the tangled web of directionless travel. The men converse in low tones, words muffled by the barrier that separates us. Their language is familiar yet foreign, a reminder of Viktor and the life that seems a universe away now.

I draw my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. It’s a feeble attempt at self-comfort, but it's all I have. My thoughts churn, but I keep my lips sealed, knowing better than to provoke another encounter with the faceless brutes driving me further into this nightmare.

The road stretches on, endless and unforgiving, swallowing miles and the last vestiges of hope I harbor. I am alone with my fear, rolling through the darkness, the unknown destination pulling me deeper into despair. I can only ride out this journey in silence, praying for a miracle I'm no longer sure exists.