Goddess Of Vengeance.
Chapter - 9.
People think being born into an ultra-wealthy, powerful mafia family is a blessing.
They think having money that you can spend like water and powerful connections that can buy even the president of the country is amazing.
Fabulous.
Mind blowing.
No kidding, because I have genuinely seen edits of being in the mafia or same kind of shit being romanticized on social media.
Saying I was flabbergasted to know that people romanticize this life would be an understatement.
Because why would you want a life where you can't even walk around freely?
Living your life freely, without a camera constantly watching you?
Completing your own dreams freely, without feeling any internal pressure from the people around you?
To love freely?
To be loved freely?
If I hate something more than myself, it is this mafia life.
Even "hate" is a small word for what I feel for this life. No word can describe the sheer loathing I feel for it.
What hasn't this fucking life snatched from me?
My childhood? Check.
My innocence? Check.
My self-love? Self-esteem? Self-respect? Check.
My parents’ love? Check.
My teen life? Check.
My adulthood? Check.
And now my fucking life was at stake again?
Again?
How many times do I have to prove my worth by dying, just to tell the universe that I want to live?
I want to have a normal life, too.
A normal family.
Was that too much to ask? Apparently, yes.
Because when you're Maya Sokolov, you do not have dreams like this.
You have dreams of what people consider big, powerful—something worthy of your last fucking name. Something that matches the reputation of your parents.
But I know I can never achieve it. I can never do anything as legendary as my parents.
Because even if I win the world, my parents have already won the universe in their prime.
So I do what I have always done best: survive.
Boris and Lev—whatever his name was—both thought I had lost consciousness.
I hadn't.
The bullet grazed the side of my stomach, and I was bleeding, but the wound was not so deep that I would lose consciousness entirely.
My eyes had simply rolled back due to sudden shock and blood loss.
I looked around with my half-lidded eyes, searching for a way to exit.
But it wasn't easy.
The staircase leading to the central line was blocked, as I had been informed by the guards.
And I was in the east wing, anyway—too far from the central line. So I couldn't, under any circumstances, reach the tunnel. That was for sure.
The grey smoke and dust were filling the air of the corridor, making it harder to see anything.
Bodies—dead or still half-alive—were scattered around me like leaves around a tree.
Boris and Levi were still fighting, their bodies trying and failing miserably to form a shield around me.
But they were at least trying.
Why does this happen?
Why does your own family sometimes make you feel like a stranger, while strangers make you feel like family?
I couldn't care less if they were doing it on Nikolai’s or Dad's—no, not my dad; Mia’s and Nikolai’s dad’s—orders.
But I know they can't handle it much longer. Their bullets were running out, and the Irish were greater in number than us.
A metallic gleam shined in my peripheral view. I looked there, and yes, there was a gun beside a dead body.
I tore my sweatshirt in half. Pure adrenaline can make you do things you don't even know you're capable of.
I tied the torn cloth around my waist securely before slowly crawling toward that gun.
A small sense of hope gleamed in my chest as I gripped the weapon and checked to see if it had bullets.
Yes, it had four bullets.
The self-defense classes I took were finally paying off. Unlike Mia, I didn't take training from our brothers or father. I was afraid around them. Afraid that maybe they would judge me? Make fun of me? What if I looked pathetic in front of them?
So, I learned it outside.
I quickly tucked the gun into the pocket of my jeans and unzipped the leather jacket from the body of that dead man.
He was a huge man, so it was a bit difficult to take the jacket off his frame. But remember what I said about adrenaline before? Yeah, that.
I quickly threw the jacket on top of my torn sweatshirt.
At least I was now safe from the gazes of men.
I looked around once again. Both Boris and Lev were now taking cover.
And I knew that no matter how hard they tried, they wouldn't be able to save me and themselves both.
I am becoming a burden on everyone. I can't become the reason for their deaths, too.
I have to save myself. By myself. For myself.
Their bullets were almost gone, and the Irish assassins were at the one and only exit of the east wing.
Thoughts started running through my mind—I am surprised that organ still works, though.
From the way they are attacking, it's quite clear they came prepared out of nowhere, with solid strategies.
So it's totally obvious they know the east wing has only one exit, and they are all there killing the guards assigned to the mansion, or the guards are killing them.
I had one option only.
I stood up, ignoring the way my stomach clenched, and ran upstairs—back toward where I had just come from.
I faintly heard Boris saying something to Lev in a frantic voice, but now wasn't the time to care.
And as I thought, the upper floor was ruined, yes, but it was silent as well.
I don't think there are any assassins here. Clutching my gun tightly in my shivering hands, I started walking slowly towards the end room.
I know a room.
Back then, when we came to Russia for our annual vacations, I came into the east wing out of curiosity.
The mansion was huge and beautiful, built in a Gothic style, so of course I wanted to have a look at every corner like the curious cat I have always been.
That room is a store room.
But that's not all.
The store room is connected directly to the basement. And the basement—though it can hold dangers—was the safest option to go from here.
I was taking a risk. But what else could I do? I have to die anyway, so why not die after making some effort.
The air in the upper hallway was freezing, thick with the scent of old dust.
My feet made no sound against the cold floorboards as I dragged myself closer to the heavy oak door at the very end of the corridor.
The store room.
I pushed the door open. It didn't creak, but the heavy silence inside the room rushed out to greet me.
It was dark.
The only illumination came from a high, narrow window covered in grime, casting a pale, sickly grey beam across stacks of covered furniture and dusty wooden crates.
I stepped inside, my eyes instantly scanning the floorboards for the iron ring of the trapdoor.
I knew it was here.
Near the back corner, hidden beneath an old wool rug.
I took two steps forward into the shadows.
Click.
The sound was tiny, but to my ears, it was as loud as a bomb. The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.
My entire body went rigid. Before my brain could even process the movement, my instincts took over.
I spun around, raising the gun, my finger instantly tightening against the cold metal of the trigger.
The barrel of my gun settled directly between a pair of cold, dark eyes.
But I wasn't the only one with a weapon.
Another barrel, heavy and black, was pressed firmly against the center of my forehead.
The world stopped spinning. The gunfires outside became a distant hum.
Ilya.
Do you even realise how beautiful you're?
You don't know what effect you have on me, Miss Sokolov.
Shh. Calm down. I am here. You're safe, Maya.
Safe, huh? What a joke that was.
He stood there, framed by the dark doorway, looking entirely unchanged yet completely stranger.
He wore a dark tactical vest over a black shirt, his chest rising and falling in a slow, calm rhythm that infuriated me.
We were frozen. One pull of a trigger from ending each other.
"Move a single muscle, and I will paint this wall with your brains, Miss Sokolov," he whispered.
"Than pull the trigger," I whispered, my teeth chattering from a lethal mix of blood loss and absolute hatred. "Do it. Because if you don't, I will blow your fucking brains out right here."
A cruel, humorless smirk touched the corner of his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Still pathetic, aren't you? Disappointed to see that you're still that mean, jealous, overconfident girl who think she can kill me."
His voice dropped an octave. "Heard you even orchestrated the death of your own sister."
My heart stopped for a fraction of a second.
No. I did not orchestrated her death. I would never do that.
Never.
'Oh, stop fucking lying,' a voice sneered inside me death. 'See, he knows this and he is already disgusted. What will happen when he will got to know that he fucked a slut?' The voice laughed.
No, No, No. Come back Maya, Come back.
This bastard knows which buttons to push and he is doing exactly that. Don't give him the reaction he want.
"Shut the fuck up," I snapped, staring in the dark pits of his eyes.
The sheer betrayal—the memory of his hands on my skin, his voice telling me I was safe while he prepared to sell me—turned the blood in my veins to pure acid.
His eyes trailed over me. Making me consious about every goosebumps erupting on my skin.
"You look disgusting in that jacket," he muttered coldly, his eyes tracing the oversized leather jacket I had stolen from the dead assassin. "Whose is it?"
"A man's. Sorry you wouldn't know. Cause you're hardly a man." I snapped, refusing to show him the pain roaring through my body.
"You piece of shit. You absolute coward. Kill me when you have chance. Because someone out their is finding me. And when they will, they will tear your skin apart." I hissed.
Even i know how hollow those last words sounded. But he don't need to know that.
"Save your breath, Maya," he said coldly, his barrel pressing harder against my forehead, forcing my head back half an inch. "Your family forgot you. You're nothing but left-behind baggage."
The words stung worse than the bullet wound in my side, but I refused to let him see it. "I don't need them. And I definitely don't need you."
With a sudden, violent surge of movement, I twisted my body to the side, trying to knock his arm away.
Ilya didn't hesitate.
He anticipated the move, his hand flying out with terrifying speed.
His fingers locked around my wrist like an iron vise, twisting brutally until a gasp of pure agony escaped my lips.
My fingers convulsed, but I didn't drop the gun. I used my other hand, driving my elbow hard against his jaw.
The impact made a sickening crack. Ilya grunted, his head snapping back, but he didn't release his grip.
Instead, his dark eyes flared with a sudden, vicious heat.
"I love when you fight, Maya."
He threw his weight forward, slamming my back into the nearest stack of wooden crates.
The force knocked the remaining air from my lungs, and the makeshift bandage around my waist tore open completely, a fresh rush of warm blood soaking through my clothes.
My knees gave out, but he didn't let me fall.
He pinned me against the crates with his massive frame.
His hand shifted from my throat, his rough fingers sliding slowly down to my jaw, gripping it tightly, tilting my face up to force me to look at him.
His thumb pressed hard against my bottom lip, almost bruising it.
It wasn't a caress.
It was a claim of dominance.
A reminder of who he was.
I clawed at his face, my nails digging into his cheek, drawing thin lines of red.
I kicked, my feet connecting with his shins, fighting with every single ounce of strength I had left.
"Let... go of me..." I choked out, my vision swimming with dark spots.
"Shut up," Ilya hissed, his face inches from mine.
I could smell the familiar scent of rain and on him.
His eyes traveled down to the wet, dark stain spreading across the jacket, his expression hardening into a cold, clinical detachment. "You're bleeding out. You can't even stand, yet you're still trying to fight."
"I'll... kill you," I whispered, my voice breaking.
With a brutal jerk of his arm, he twisted my wrist completely behind my back.
The pain was blinding.
My fingers finally lost their grip, and the heavy gun slipped from my hand, clattering against the dusty floorboards before rolling out of reach beneath a covered table.
I was entirely at his mercy.
"You're not killing anyone, Maya," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low hum that vibrated against my skin. "Because you will the one killed."
"Then do it," I screamed into his face, my voice raw and cracking with pure hatred.
Tears of frustration and physical agony finally blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall. "Put the gun to my head and pull the trigger! Or are you too much of a coward to look me in the eyes when you do it?"
"Death is too easy for you," he whispered, his eyes dropping to my mouth before snapping back to mine with an icy finality. "You're going to live. And you're going to remember exactly who owns your life now."
He released my jaw with a harsh shove, making my head snap back against the crates.
Before I could slide to the floor, he hooked his arm around my waist, lifting my limp, bleeding body against his side with brutal efficiency.
I kicked weakly, my hands striking his back, but the blood loss was finally catching up to me.
The world was turning grey around the edges.
"Put me down! I'll kill you, Ilya! I swear to God I'll kill you—"
"Save it," he muttered, completely ignoring my struggles as he walked toward the back corner of the room.
He used his boot to kick the old wool rug aside, revealing the iron ring of the trapdoor.
HOW THE FUCK HE KNOWS ABOUT IT?!
With one swift, powerful motion, he yanked the heavy wooden hatch open, revealing the secondary escape route leading straight out of the eastern perimeter.
He shifted his grip, lowering me down into the dark with himself.
I tried to bite his neck, but he was faster.
He striked on a particular point of my neck.
And finally, I lost my consciousness.
... And faith in my fucking family as well.
A/N : So, hey Divas. I see, you completed the target of last chapter earlier than i expected. Are you all liking the ff this much? *Shy, Shy.*
Well, on your demand I have written a long chapter. And this chapter is the longest chapter I have written till now for this Ff.
From this chapter, the plot will be taking a major twist. So keep reading and supporting.
Target - 30 likes and 20 comments.
(Do not spam. I want honest reviews).
Meet me soon.