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3: Gold Lights, Black Hearts
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2025-11-13 15:29:26Anya’s POV
Papa drags me through the big doors. My hand hurts in his grip. The Bolshoi smells wrong tonight. Not the sweet roses and old wood I remember.
It smells like thick smoke, strong drinks, and something sharp; like fear.
The lights are gold, but they feel cold on my skin. People talk in low voices. Men in black suits stand like statues. Women in shiny dresses laugh too loud. No one looks at me with kind eyes.
We walk past the grand hall. My heart jumps.
I know this place. I danced here when I was little. The stage is big and empty now. No music. No soft shoes. No flowers.
We turn left instead of right. Down a hall I've never seen before. The carpet is red and thick. My borrowed shoes sink in. The walls have dark paintings. Men with hard faces. Gold frames.
Their eyes follow me. Dark. Cold. Hungry. Like wolves in the paintings.
I feel them on my back. My neck. My legs. My heart beats fast.
Run, my mind says. Run now.
But my feet stay. Stuck. I want to scream. I want to hide. I want to run far. Snow. Home. Anywhere but here.
A heavy door opens. Gold handle. Cold. Inside is a round room. Seats go up like stairs all around. Men sit high. They drink from heavy glasses.
Smoke curls from cigars. In the middle, a small stage. Bright lights shine down. Too bright. It hurts to look.
A woman stands there. Young, like me. Her white dress is dirty at the hem. Her arms have purple marks. Bruises. Old and new. Her hair hangs over her face. She does not look up.
A man in a suit stands beside her. Black suit, shiny shoes. He holds a small hammer. Talks fast, voice loud.
“Start with fifty thousand rubles! Sixty now! Seventy! Eighty from the back!” He points.
Smiles big. Teeth white. Eyes cold. Sweats a little under the hot lights. Wipes forehead with a white cloth. Keeps talking. Numbers fly.
Hands go up. Bids. For her. My stomach turns like I will be sick.
I grab Papa’s arm. “Papa, what is this?”
He pulls away hard. “Quiet, Anya.”
The woman on the stage shakes. Small shakes. Like a leaf in the wind. Her hands are tied with soft rope.
I want to scream. I want to run to her. Cover her with my coat. Take her out into the snow. But my feet stick to the floor. I can’t move.
The man on stage smiles. “One hundred. Sold!”
A bell rings. Sharp. The woman is pulled away by another man. Her feet drag. Gone.
Tears burn my eyes. I blink fast. I look around again.
This is not my Bolshoi. No little girls in pink tutus. No proud mamas with flowers. No teachers clapping.
This is the dark side. The mafia side. I heard whispers at parties long ago. Private boxes. Rooms under the stage.
Owned by one man. Nikolai Morozov.
The pakhan. The most feared name in Moscow. Stories say he cuts throats with a smile. Burns houses for fun. Takes what he wants. Even Papa fears him. I never saw him. But his name makes my skin cold. Like ice inside.
Why are we here? Papa is not mafia. He is just a drunk man who lost everything. He drinks. He gambles. He cries. That is all. Right?
A man walks up to us. Tall. Shoulders wide. Face scarred. One deep line from his left eye to his mouth. Ugly scar. But his eyes are worse. Gray. Dead. Like fish on ice.
He wears all black. No smile. Papa stands straight. Too straight. “Lev,” he says. His voice is small. Full of respect. Too much respect.
Lev looks at me. Up. Down. No feeling. Papa pushes me forward. “This is her. Anya. Like we talked.”
I step back. My coat slips. “Papa? Talked about what?”
Lev turns. “Follow me.”
Papa nods fast. “Obey, Anya. Go with him. Do what he says.”
My legs move. I do not tell them to. Lev walks ahead. I follow. Out of the round room. Down another hall. Stairs. Up. The carpet is softer here. Walls are red like blood. Gold frames on pictures of old men.
No people now. Just us. My heart beats loud.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Door. Big. Dark wood. Carved flowers. Lev opens it.
Inside is a room. Not big, but rich. Everything shines. Sofa soft like clouds. Red cushions. Gold mirror on the wall. Big. Tall as me.
Chandelier above with crystals. They catch light and throw rainbows. Smells like roses. Real roses. Red ones in a silver vase on a small table. Bottles too. Whiskey. Vodka. Glasses are clean and waiting.
A fire burns in a small fireplace. Warm. But I still feel cold.
A woman waits inside. Old. Hair pulled tight in a bun. Black dress. No smile. She grabs my arm. Hard. Her fingers dig in. She pulls me to a gold chair in front of the mirror. “Sit,” she says. Voice like stone.
I sit. The chair is cold. Cushion red.
She opens a big box on the table. Powders. Brushes. Lipstick. Creams. She starts fast.
Powder on my face. Cold puff. White. Then pink on my cheeks. Brush soft but fast. Eyes next. Black line. Slow. Careful. Like painting a picture. Mascara.
My lashes feel heavy. Lips. Red. Too red. Like fresh blood.
“What is happening?” I ask. My voice shakes. Small.
She does not look up. Keeps painting. Does not answer. Like, I am not here.
“Why am I here?” I try again. Louder.
Nothing. Lev stands by the door. Arms crossed. Watching. No blink. No word.
I look in the mirror. Not me anymore.
A stranger stares back. Pale skin. Big eyes with black lines. Red mouth. Cheeks pink.
Like the woman on stage. My heart beats faster. Bang. Bang. Bang. Tears want to come. I blink them away.
The woman steps back. Looks at my face. Turns to Lev. Bows low. “She is ready.”
Me? Ready for what?
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Anya’s POVMy knees want to fold. They feel weak.I try to pull away, jerking my wrist hard, twisting it like I have done a hundred times before when someone held me too tight. But Nikolai’s fingers stay locked around me like iron. Cold, strong, unbreakable. Blood from his glove smears on my skin.I stare at the red line running down my arm like a warning. Then I look at the man on the floor. His chest moves slow, so slow it might stop any second. His eyes are open, but they are empty. Just holes where a person used to be. My throat closes. I whisper, “You are lying.” My voice cracks. It sounds small. Childish.Nikolai says nothing. Not a word. His ice-blue eyes watch me. No blink. No pity. Nothing.He lets go of my wrist. The sudden freedom makes me stumble back half a step. He turns to Lev. “Clean the trash.”Lev does not hesitate. He grabs the man’s ankles. Drags him across the thick carpet. A wet line follows; red, long, glistening under the soft light. The door opens. The
Crimson vows 4: Ice and Blood
Anya’s POVLev’s hand sits heavy on my back. He pushes me down a narrow hall. My shoes click too loud on the marble. Click. Click. Click. The sound bounces off the walls. Private boxes line both sides. Gold numbers. Velvet curtains thick and red. Some doors are open. I see shadows inside the open boxes. Men sit deep in chairs, glasses of dark drink in their hands. Smoke floats up. Women next to them have red lips and big smiles that look painted on, not real. Their eyes are empty. I dread every step. My legs feel heavy. The air is thick. I want to turn back.What just happened? The powder on my face. The red on my lips. The woman on stage with bruises. Where is Papa? Why did he leave me? My mind screams the questions over and over. He dragged me here, then vanished. Did he run? Did he sell me and walk away? I picture him outside in the snow, coat collar up, not looking back. My chest hurts. He was supposed to protect me, not trade me like a bag of coins. I feel small, alone,
Crimson vows 3: Gold Lights, Black Hearts
Anya’s POVPapa drags me through the big doors. My hand hurts in his grip. The Bolshoi smells wrong tonight. Not the sweet roses and old wood I remember. It smells like thick smoke, strong drinks, and something sharp; like fear. The lights are gold, but they feel cold on my skin. People talk in low voices. Men in black suits stand like statues. Women in shiny dresses laugh too loud. No one looks at me with kind eyes.We walk past the grand hall. My heart jumps. I know this place. I danced here when I was little. The stage is big and empty now. No music. No soft shoes. No flowers. We turn left instead of right. Down a hall I've never seen before. The carpet is red and thick. My borrowed shoes sink in. The walls have dark paintings. Men with hard faces. Gold frames. Their eyes follow me. Dark. Cold. Hungry. Like wolves in the paintings. I feel them on my back. My neck. My legs. My heart beats fast. Run, my mind says. Run now. But my feet stay. Stuck. I want to scream. I want to
Crimson vows 2: White Lies in Snow
Anya’s POVI stand in front of the cracked mirror. The red dress clings to my hips like a bad memory. Too big at the waist, I have to hold it with pins. Too short at the hem, it shows my knees that shake. The silk is thin now, faded from too many washes in cold water. I see my ribs under it. My collarbones stick out. The color looks wrong on my pale skin. I look small. Lost. Like a girl playing dress-up in her mother’s old clothes.I pin it again. My fingers shake badly. The pin is small and sharp. It slips. I try once more. I hate how the silk feels now. Rough. Cheap. Used. Like old rag. Once it was new. Soft. Shiny. Mama picked it. Said red is for brave girls. Once I was new. Clean. Happy. No pins. No hate.Downstairs, voices. Papa and Igor. Low. Angry. Papa’s words come fast, like he is scared. Igor answers slow, like stone. “You promised,” Igor says. Papa whispers, “I tried.” A chair falls. Silence. Then Papa cries softly. I stop breathing. I hate his tears. They are fake
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