3: Gold Lights, Black Hearts

Anya’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?