~CHAPTER 1~
I cowered in a corner with my back pressed against the cold wall as I tried to make myself as small as possible.
My eyes were fixed on the man who was supposed to love and protect me, "You're just like your mother," he spat, "Weak and useless." The words cut deep, and I flinched. I'd heard them many times before, but they still had the power to hurt me, to make me feel more worthless.
My father -Boris Volkov- was as heartless as they come. He had no qualms about using his words to cut me down. You would think that being the only child and daughter to someone would be a fairytale, but for me, it was a never-ending cycle of pain and nightmares.
My mother died while giving birth to me, and every day I wished I had died with her. It was a morbid thought, but it was one that I couldn't shake because of my father.
He always reminded me that I was a killer, calling my mom weak for dying and blaming me because I looked like her. It was a cruel thing to say, but it was something that he repeated often, using it to justify his own cruelty.
I looked uncannily like my mother, a woman I had never known but whose features I had inherited. I had only seen one picture of her, that I had stumbled upon when I was 10 years old.
I had been both fascinated and intimidated by the picture; She had blue, bright eyes and curly snow-white hair. I was a miniature version of her, but it was both a blessing and a curse as it became a constant reminder to my father of the woman he had lost.
To him, my resemblance to my mother was a cruel joke, he couldn't bear to look at me, couldn't bear to see the features of the woman he loved staring back at him from my face. And so, he took it out on me, using me as a punching bag for his emotions.
A slap brought me back to reality, and I held my already bruised cheek, wincing in pain. I wasn't shocked, though – this was my everyday life. Kicked, thrown, and insulted, I had grown accustomed to the feeling of being helpless and alone.
"You worthless bitch," my father spat as he dragged me by my hair, pulling me across the room with a strength that belied his age.
I stumbled, struggling to keep up with him, but he threw me against the wall, and I hit it with a thud.
I slid to the floor with my head spinning and my body aching all over. I knew better than to cry, though – that only made things worse. So I sat there, silently, waiting for the storm to pass. But it never did.
My father matched over to me with a snarl twisted on his face. "Why don't you just die?" he bellowed, and I didn't respond. What was the point? I had heard it all before.
I didn't know why I didn't just die, either. I had thought about it so many times, wondered what it would be like to just slip away into nothingness. Darkness, silence, peace – it was a tempting prospect, especially when faced with the hell that was my life.
My father's hand shot out to deliver a punch, and I hoped that it would be the one to end it all. I hoped that it would be the blow that would finally silence the screams in my head and quiet the ache in my heart.
But as soon as his hand connected with my face, a loud explosion shook the ground beneath us.
The force of the blast sent both me and my father far apart. Rapid and loud gunfire began to erupt from outside.
My ears were ringing, making it hard to hear anything else. I struggled to sit back up as I watched my father stumble to his feet. He was shaken, but he quickly regained his composure and he reached into his waistband, pulling out a gun.
With his gun, he moved quickly, running towards the door that had been blown out of its hinges and disappeared through it, leaving me shaken and bewildered.
I pushed my small frame away from the wall, grasping for anything to hold onto, I silently made my way to the door and peered through the opening. What I saw made my blood run cold.
Men dressed in dark suits were firing guns at my father's men, who were also wearing suits. I didn't know what was going on, but I had always wondered why my father had men around our house, always guarding, always watching.
He seemed to be involved in some shady business, but I never had the guts to ask. Fear and intimidation had become a constant presence in my life, and I had learned to keep my questions to myself, never knowing when my father's temper would flare up or when his "business associates" would come knocking on our door.
A bullet whizzed past me, making me duck for cover behind the shattered remains of the doorframe. I didn't know what to do, Should I hide and wait for the violence to pass, or was this my chance to finally run away from my father? Was God giving me an opportunity to escape the hellish existence I had endured for so long?
I peeked around the doorframe, I could see my father's men returning fire, but they were outnumbered and I knew I had to quickly make a decision.
I could stay there, cowering in fear, or I could take a chance and try to escape. The thought of leaving my father's grasp was exhilarating, but it was also terrifying. What if I couldn't make it on my own? Or worse, I get caught? But despite my reservations, I had to try, right?
I took a deep breath, peered around the corner, and saw my chance. The hallway was now clear, and I could see the stairs leading down to the front door. It was now or never. I took off in a sprint, I didn't dare look back, fearing what I might see. My heart was pounding in my chest, threatening to burst free from my ribcage.
But as I took the last step that would lead to my freedom, I was suddenly confronted with a figure who strode through the front door like he owned the place. He was dressed to perfection, his tailored suit accentuating his lean, athletic build.
His piercing eyes bore down into my very soul as he stopped in front of me.
In one hand, he lazily held a gun, and in the other hand, he grasped a smoking cigarette, but that was not what truly caught my attention; it was his face.
Half of it was covered with a slick black mask that seemed to be molded to his flesh. The other half, however, was breathtakingly beautiful. Chiseled features, dark gray eyes, and a strong jawline all combined to create a face that was both captivating and terrifying.
For a moment, we simply stared at each other, the only sound the heavy breathing and the distant gunfire. Then, in a movement that was both fluid and menacing, he raised his gun and pointed it directly at my head.