Chapter 3 Curiosity

"Go," Igor commanded.

Anastasia's mind swirled with confusion and hurt. Why was he angry?

She returned to her room. In a sudden burst of fury, she snatched her toy and hurled it against the wall with all the strength her small frame could muster.

Nana, the maid who had always been a source of comfort and care, entered the room. The sight of Anastasia's trembling form made Nana's heart ache.

"Ana, what's the matter?" Nana asked softly, her voice a balm to Anastasia's wounded spirit.

"Igor slapped me," Anastasia's voice cracked as she spoke, her small shoulders heaving with the effort to hold back fresh tears.

Nana sighed deeply, she knew Igor demanded Anastasia to call him by his name, never 'father,' a rule that didn't seem okay.

"I'm sorry," Nana whispered, placing a gentle hand on Anastasia's shoulder. "Try not to offend him, okay?"

Anastasia wiped the tears from her eyes with a fierce determination, her small hand trembling as it clenched into a fist. The desire for revenge began to take root within her.

"You should eat dinner," Nana suggested.

Anastasia shook her head, a faint, almost imperceptible gesture, indicating that she wasn't hungry.

"Come on," Nana coaxed. "I'll prepare your favourite fish soup." She tried to inject a sense of cheerfulness into her words.

A small, reluctant smile began to creep across her face. Nana's own lips curled into a quick, relieved smile, a mirror to Anastasia's, before she turned and made her way to the kitchen.

Though Polina was Anastasia's foster mother in name, she wasn't always present. Polina was always too busy, too preoccupied with her own affairs to notice the small, everyday moments that were shaping Anastasia's life.

It was Nana who had been there through it all: comforting her nightmares, tending to her bruises, and celebrating her small victories.

Nana wondered if Polina even realized what she was missing, how precious these fleeting moments with Anastasia were.

The next morning, Igor prepared to leave the house. Polina placed a steaming omelet before him. He took a bite, his expression shifting from indifferent to disgusted in an instant.

He spat the food back onto his plate, his face contorted with anger.

"What is this?" he snarled, pushing the plate away with a force that rattled the silverware.

Polina froze in confusion. She had made the breakfast herself.

Without another word, Igor rose from the table, his chair scraping harshly against the floor as he stormed out of the room.

Polina leaned down to taste the omelet herself. The overpowering saltiness hit her tongue, and she quickly spat it out, bewildered at how something so simple could go so wrong.

From the doorway, Anastasia watched, her small frame hidden but her eyes sharp with satisfaction. A smirk tugged at her lips as she witnessed the chaos she had sown.

The guilt pricked at her for involving Polina, but the satisfaction of seeing Igor suffer even in a small way was worth it.

This was her first act of rebellion, a childish revenge that brought her fleeting joy. Yet, as days turned into weeks, Anastasia began to understand that not every slight could be avenged.

Her once carefree existence began to wither under the oppressive shadow that Igor cast. The man she had known as cold and distant was now revealing himself to be something far more sinister.

One evening Igor left the house. Whispers, once ignored became undeniable.

Igor was not just a tyrant within the walls of their home, he was a Mafia Boss, leading the notorious Taipan gang. His life was a web of deceit, power, and violence, entangled with government officials who turned a blind eye in exchange for his favors.

In the dimly lit warehouse, the air was thick with the scent of dust. Igor stood at the center his eyes cold.

The flicker of a single overhead bulb cast eerie shadows across his face as he took a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette.

Across from him, the police lieutenant shifted uncomfortably, flanked by six of his men who stood with a misplaced sense of confidence.

"Igor, this is too much," the lieutenant began. "You have to wait a little while before exporting those drugs. I'm not done wrapping up the last one."

Igor remained silent, his presence alone enough to command the room. His four men stood like statues behind him, their expressions unreadable.

The lieutenant cleared his throat, pushing forward despite the dread creeping into his bones. "I suggest you wait until next month to export the drugs."

Igor, unhurried and seemingly unaffected, tapped his cigarette, letting the ashes fall to the concrete floor like grains of sand in an hourglass.

"John, there are only two types of people I know," Igor said. "Those on my side and those against me."

The lieutenant's confidence cracked. His throat tightened, and he quickly stammered, "There's no need to say that, you know I'm by your side."

Igor's lips curled into a subtle smirk, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he exhaled his cigarette smoke. Without breaking his gaze, he snapped his fingers. The sound echoed through the warehouse.

The sharp retorts of suppressed gunfire echoed briefly, then faded, leaving behind the cold, lifeless bodies of the lieutenant and his men sprawled across the concrete floor.

Igor stood unflinching, he used his finger to wipe the blood on his forehead. The smoke from his cigarette mingling with the gunpowder that lingered in the air.

"Well," he mused, his voice dripping with dark amusement, "I think this town will need a new obedient lieutenant."

He cast a sidelong glance at Casanova, his ever-loyal right-hand man and bodyguard, whose presence was as imposing as it was unshakable.

Casanova nodded slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the bloodshed. This was the world they ruled, a world where loyalty was absolute, and betrayal met with swift, merciless retribution.

Igor's dominance was absolute, his power extending far beyond the shadowed corners of the underworld.

Rival gangs crumbled beneath his iron fist, their leaders eliminated with a precision that left no room for resistance. The town, once rife with competing factions, now bowed under the weight of his control.

Politicians, once untouchable in their ivory towers, found themselves seeking Igor's favor, aligning their ambitions with his deadly influence. They knew that to oppose him was to invite their own downfall, their integrity sold to the highest bidder.

As the bodies were swiftly cleared from the warehouse, Igor knew that this was just another victory in his relentless rise to power.

Back at home, having finished cleaning her room, Anastasia found herself adrift in a sea of boredom.

Igor had given her strict instructions about where she could and couldn't go, but her curiosity, sharp and insistent, urged her to explore beyond those boundaries.

Her room on the second floor became her starting point. As she stepped into the hallway, a nervous flutter tightened in her chest.

The creak of the old stairs echoed in the silence as she ascended to the third floor. Here, she discovered the separate rooms of Igor and Polina. Two other doors lined the hallway.

Anastasia found herself standing at the base of the stairs leading to the fourth floor. She hesitated, this part of the house felt different. But the curiosity that had pushed her this far wouldn't let her turn back now.

With a deep breath, she ascended further, her footsteps light and cautious. At the top, she found herself in a narrow passageway. The silence here was thick, almost tangible, pressing against her as she approached the first door.

Gingerly, she pushed it open, revealing a vast conference room. The sight of the neatly arranged chairs around the large table, all facing forward as if waiting for some clandestine gathering, sent a shiver down her spine. She quickly exited.

Her hand hovered over the next door, her heart pounding in her ears. With a trembling resolve, she turned the knob and stepped inside. It was Igor's office.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed the disturbing art that adorned the wall. A gruesome painting dominated the room, depicting a man drenched in blood, surrounded by a sea of lifeless bodies.

The horror of the image rooted Anastasia to the spot, her breath hitching. She quivered, every instinct screaming at her to leave.

A soft whimper escaped Anastasia's lips as she turned, her wide eyes landing on a polished black sculpture of a naked woman, the gleaming surface reflecting the room's eerie, muted light.

Panic surged through her, and she decided she had to leave, now. But just as she reached for the door, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hallway. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she froze, terror rooting her to the spot.