I Surrender to Them のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 121 - チャプター 130

PROLOGUEPAST — 14 YEARS AGODARYA GREENNEW YORK, NY — GREEN MANSIONMy mother instituted the number system out of pure logistical necessity.Imagine five armed-to-the-teeth men responding at the same time when a child yells "Dad!" in the middle of dinner. Ever seen the chaos of five Glocks being drawn simultaneously because Yakov slipped on dried blood from training and called for help? Yeah…That's how we learned:FATHER 1 ➻ HEROESThe patriarch had heavy hands that served both to bandage scraped knees and to dislocate traitors' jaws. Our first-aid manual was him muttering, "Press here, daughter, until the bone stops creaking," while threading needles through open wounds.FATHER 2 ➻ LUTHERThe family strategist. Not the behind-the-scenes planner type—but the one who sketched tactics with empty cartridges over coffee-stained maps while his cigarette smoke veiled the most crucial details."A direct attack is predictable," he'd say, dragging his finger over an alternative route. "True

At night, in my apartment, I observe the wine-red dress I sketched during my visit to Maison Dumont, now hanging on the mannequin.Illusion neckline—toide microphones. A high waist—forccessing weapons. A secret pocket—foroisons.A mafiosa must always be prepared, wouldn't you agree?In the mirror, two Daryas stare back at me:On the left: Daughter of Faina Green, who knows 14 ways to kill with a hatpin.On the right: Award-winning Parsons student, who cries the first time she sees Chantilly lace.I even enrolled in a real fashion school—withxams, internships, and sleepless nights over sketches and fabrics—justo every detail of my charade would be flawless.My phone vibrates. It's Yakov."Darykins!"The nickname slips through the line like it always has, three drawn-out syllables between his teeth, where the prolonged "Kins" is our signature. Only Yakov pronounces it that way, since we were five, when he saved me from a kidnapping by pulling my ponytail and stabbing the man's eye with

PRESENTELIZABETHMy mother settles into the wine-red velvet sofa like a queen on her throne, while my sisters scatter across the room like cats sniffing new territory. The apartment still smells of fresh paint and polished wood — an elegant disguise for the bulletproof walls Yakov installed."Daryushka, tell me everything." Mom murmurs, sinking her black-painted fingers into a crystal glass filled with vodka. Her green eyes gleam with the same predatory curiosity from when we were children and she'd interrogate me about stolen candy.I take a deep breath as I describe Maison Dumont: the hallways are wide as runways, the scent of Italian leather and Turkish coffee, the way the older designers watched me as if I were an intruder—which, technically, I am."And this Pierre Dumont?" Alicia interrupts, sharpening a nail with the tip of her stylus. "Is he as charming as they say?"Before I can answer, Mom lets out that low laugh that makes even the furniture tremble. Her high heels rest on

ELIZABETHThe Parisian sky was still tinged with a grayish blue when I arrived at Maison Dumont, so early that even the pigeons were still dozing on the eaves. First-day anxiety had driven me out of bed like a shot, leaving me planted here before the imposing neoclassical facade, with the access key freezing between my fingers—a small metal cylinder that weighed like a sentence.My mother and sisters had left the previous night, as I knew they would. Two days was the maximum Mom could handle away from my fathers—just as they couldn't handle being away from her, her biological clock marking the hours like a sentry on guard. The twins had left lipstick marks on the mirror and a stash of ammunition hidden in my bed's lining—the same ones I'd given them.The streets are quiet; only the whisper of tree leaves and the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakeries beginning to open break the silence. I breathe deeply, absorbing the sweet aroma of croissants and coffee from the café across t

PRESENTPIERREPARIS, FRANCEThe morning light pierces through the smoked glass of my office with surgical precision, but my eyes remain fixed on that damn quadrant of the monitor. Already dressed in an impeccable Tom Ford suit, the knot of my tie tightens like a reminder of the restraint I should maintain.On the screen, the studio camera captures a close-up of her fingers — long, precise, deadly — gliding over the fabric as if exploring a lover's skin. Every movement is a provocation. The way her index finger presses a pin, the curve of her wrists as she smooths a fold, the shadow between her fingers when they test the thickness of the silk.Holy fuck…The Chinese porcelain cup trembles in my hand, the bitter coffee spilling onto the saucer. The drink that should wake me only feeds the poison she insists on injecting into my veins.Elizabeth transforms the mundane act of creating clothing into an intimate performance. And I, like a voyeur in my own hell, can't look away. The aroma o