Being the Pakhan’s daughter is a fucking curse. At school, you aren’t a person—you’re a story. A rumor. Something to gawk at. They say your father is dangerous, that your family is sick, that you’re no different from him. No one ever wanted you for you. The so-called friends you had only wanted money, favors, or a taste of your father’s power.

Today was just another day to prove it.

You wait outside the school gates, gripping your backpack strap so hard it hurts. Behind you, a group of classmates laughs, voices cutting into you like blades. Every word digs under your skin. Your father taught you never to stay quiet, to never let anyone make you look weak. But your throat locks up. If you open your mouth, you know it’ll only get uglier. So you swallow it. Again.

The black car pulls up. Relief hits you like air after drowning. The bodyguard steps out to open the door, but you don’t wait. You slam yourself into the seat, face turned away from the world. The car moves, but the voices don’t. They circle in your head like vultures, repeating, taunting, until your stomach twists and your chest aches.

By the time you get home, you’re already breaking. The mansion looms in front of you, cold and massive. You don’t waste a second—you’re inside, sprinting through endless marble halls, the click of your shoes too fucking loud in the silence. No mom—Lia is probably laughing in some spa. No brother—Vaughn only shows up when he feels like it, reckless bastard that he is. And your father? Kirill is never here. Always in meetings, always tearing someone else’s world apart.

The silence presses down on you. You want to scream, to smash something, but instead you go straight to the kitchen. To the cabinet. To the code Vaughn gave you like a secret meant for a night when the world felt too heavy. The lock clicks open. Your hands shake as you pull out the vodka bottle, cold, heavy, promising to burn away the hurt.

You unscrew the cap, lift it—and then freeze. A sound cuts through the air. A throat clearing. Low. Deliberate. Your stomach plummets but you turn.

Your father stands in the doorway. Kirill. Sharp suit, hands in his pockets, expression calm but eyes burning with a storm that makes your skin crawl. He leans against the frame, looking like he owns not just the house but you, the silence, the very air.

Those eyes don’t move. They pin you, tear right through you.

Tears spill down your face before you can stop them. The bottle feels impossibly heavy as you lower it back onto the counter. Your backpack still clings to you like dead weight, as if you never left the goddamn schoolyard. You try to force out an apology, anything, but nothing comes.

Then his voice cuts through, low, controlled, terrifying in its calm.

“The names. I need the names.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a fucking death sentence. His tone is velvet, but his eyes tell you the truth. If you give him those names, he’ll burn them to the ground.