Kyla had always admired "normal families." She saw them on television or out in public—smiling, carefree, untouched by the shadows that loomed over her own life. After her mother's death, she realized a normal family would never be her reality. Not with her father in the picture. Not with the life he led.

As a child, she didn't fully understand the kind of man her father was. He wasn't just any man—he had a title, one that carried weight. People respected him. People feared him. People hated him.

Kyla knew enough to recognize the darkness that surrounded him. The screams, the cries, the gunshots—they were as much a part of her world as bedtime stories might be for another child. Wherever her father went, violence wasn't far behind.

It wasn't easy being the only daughter of a Russian Bratva boss.

"Papa" the young female yelled out as she sat by the bay window in her room, closing her book and watching in disbelief as black SUVs pulled onto their lawn, crushing the flowers she'd planted just last month. She knew some was about to happen, and it wasn't going to be good. "Kellen!" she called again this time for her Fathers right hand man, her voice rising with urgency as several men stepped out of the vehicles, all armed with firearms. Shots rang out almost immediately as the men advanced toward the estate.

She remained frozen in place, paralyzed by fear and unable to move. She had broken her father's first rule: Fear nothing, not even death.

The door to her room burst open with a violent crash, slamming against the wall. She flinched, her heart pounding. One of her father's men stood in the doorway, a gun clutched in his hand. "Poydem seychas!" he hissed urgently in Russian.

Before she could react, a deafening bang shattered the air. Blood sprayed across the walls and her pristine white carpet as the man collapsed, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud. Her ears rang from the gunshot, her vision blurring.

A second man stepped into the doorway, a wicked grin stretching across his face. He held a gun, still hot from the shot, his gaze locking onto her. "Boss is gonna be real happy with you," he drawled, his grin widening.

With chilling deliberation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe, holding it up like a prize as he advanced toward her.

Kyla backed into the corner, panic tightening her chest. She had nowhere to run.

In an instant, he lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of her black hair and yanking her toward him.

"Get off me!" she hissed, tears spilling over as she clawed at his arm. Where was her father? Why wasn't he here? Her struggles were futile. Before she could process what was happening, the man drove the syringe into her neck.

A cold numbness spread through her body. Her vision blurred, her movements slowed, and darkness crept in until she fell into unconsciousness.

Kyla's POV

When I began to regain consciousness, all I could see was darkness. It didn't take long to realize I was blindfolded—the rough fabric pressed against my face, suffocating and disorienting.

Panic rose in my chest as the memories of what had happened came flooding back. My heart thundered in my ears as I felt the sharp bite of plastic zip ties digging into my wrists, forcing them together behind my back

I was lying on my stomach, the surface beneath me reeking of something foul. It felt lumpy and grimy—what I could only assume was an old couch. The stench clung to the air, making it hard to breathe as fear tightened its grip on me.

"Ah! She's awake! I was starting to think Dren overdosed you," a male voice, thick with an Albanian accent, drawled from somewhere beside me. The sound grew closer until he moved in front of the couch.

Rough hands gripped my forearm, yanking me upright. He forced me to sit, but I still couldn't see him.

"How are you doing this fine evening?" he asked, amusement dripping from his tone.

Swallowing my nerves, I forced myself to speak with as much venom as I could muster. "When my father finds you—"

"Your father is no longer in the picture, sweetheart."

He yanked off the blindfold. My eyes blinked rapidly, struggling to adjust to the dim lighting. When I could finally take in my surroundings, my stomach twisted.

The place was a disaster—a filthy, crumbling room reeking of mold and decay. Trash littered the floor, and the stained walls looked as if they hadn't been cleaned in years.

But it was him who unsettled me the most. He sat on an old wooden coffee table directly in front of me, his posture relaxed, as though this were a casual meeting. A grin stretched across his acarres face his dark eyes glinting with malice.

"You are now my property," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "Think of it as… an owed payment. Your father was deeply in debt with me"

"That has nothing to do with me!" I snapped, my blood beginning to boil. Of course, he owed him—who didn't my father owe?

"Oh, but it does." His voice dropped, cold and cutting. "Your father's dead. So, tell me—who's going to pay his debt now? You… the spawn of the Russian Wolf himself."

He whispered the last words, his breath brushing my ear as he reached out, tucking a stray strand of my black hair behind it. I flinched and jerked back, but his grip on my arm tightened, sharp pain shooting through me. His hold would no doubt leave a bruise.

Dead? My mind reeled. I shook my head, refusing to believe it. All his life, people had tried to take him out, but no one ever got close. Why now?

"Let's go meet the others yeah?," he said, yanking my arm to force me to stand.

We left the dingy apartment and headed down the hall. Noise spilled from the other rooms—shouting, laughter, and muffled cries. He probably owned this entire building.