Page 2 of Day Shift

Growing up, I had been known as Anastasia Volkov, the daughter of Viktor and Valentina Volkov. My father, a man of formidable stature and chilling brutality, was a powerful Russian businessman. Despite our shared blood, he was as much a mystery to me as the underground operations he ran. The one thing I was familiar with was his callous reputation. He was not a man to be trifled with.

My mother was beautiful yet distant, more an aloof figure than a source of maternal warmth. I struggled to remember any heartfelt exchanges or tender moments I’d ever shared with her. It was as if her capacity to connect on an emotional level was reserved for a part of her life I was not privy to. The only blood relative I had any connection to was my twin brother, Nikolai, who, unlike me, was deeply entrenched in our family’s business affairs back in Russia.

My parents had ambitions that soared higher than any skyscraper in Manhattan. Their eyes were set on forming an alliance with one of the most influential American mob families—the Genoveses. The key to this ambitious plan lay with my Aunt Elena, my mother’s sister, who had married into the Genovese family. She had hoped to bear an heir to maintain the line of succession since her husband’s older brother’s injuries prevented him from doing so. Aunt Elena had tried everything to have a baby, but not even IVF had worked for her and Uncle Luca. That’s how I got dragged into this.

At twelve years old—when most girls were worrying about getting good grades and impressing their crushes—I’d been plucked from Russia to become merely a chess piece in their political games. Elena had taken me under her wing as my legal guardian and rebranded me as Anastasia Genovese—an American girl with an innocent smile and a last name that bore no trace of my Russian lineage.

I’d left behind one of Moscow’s cold, utilitarian public schools to be enrolled in one of the most elite boarding schools in America, the Austen Elmhurst Preparatory Academy for Girls in Upstate New York. It was a place where affluent families sent their daughters off to learn etiquette and social graces alongside algebra and English literature.

After being sent away to boarding school, any semblance of closeness with my mother had evaporated. Our interactions had become sporadic, each conversation feeling more like a formal assessment of my performance rather than a chat between mother and daughter.

Yet despite this new identity and the many miles separating me from Russia, I’d never been able to fully shake off my ties to the Volkovs. My knowledge of my family’s illicit dealings was vague and shadowy. For many years, I’d known my father was a powerful businessman, but had no idea he was part of the mafia. That, I had learned more about well after I’d finished college when my aunt had laid out what it meant for my future.

But for now, I just wanted to be like any other American girl. My dreams were big, and I wanted to live life on my own terms. I wanted to be more than just a pawn on the chessboard of mafia politics, more than just Viktor Volkov’s daughter or the Morettis’ future daughter-in-law. Dammit, I wanted control over my life!

The thought of marrying Frankie Moretti, a man from deep Brooklyn whose personality was as dry and tedious as the financial ledgers he so meticulously managed, loomed over me like an impending life sentence. His role as CFO for the Moretti family had him accounting for the dark money flowing into their coffers, which was buried deep within offshore accounts in the Caymans. To me, spending time with him was about as exciting as watching paint dry.

Elena and my parents had secured an arranged marriage between me and the pretentiously named Francis Aloysius Moretti. It was all an element of their strategy to unite two of the most powerful American mob families in New York.

I dragged my tired feet down the hallway and into the kitchen, tossing my cardigan onto a table between the kitchen and the living room. My stomach grumbled, reminding me I’d skipped lunch in favor of work. Craving something warm and comforting, I pulled out my phone and ordered delivery from my favorite little Italian place just around the corner. A steaming bowl of spaghetti carbonara would hit the spot.

While I waited for my food, I thumbed through the day’s mail. Among the usual bills and junk, a thick Bridal Guide magazine caught my eye, an unsolicited reminder of the future I was dreading. My fingers clenched around its glossy cover as my skin prickled with irritation. With an indignant huff, I flung it onto the kitchen counter. Just because I was entering into an arranged marriage, it didn’t mean I had any interest in planning a wedding.

Sure, I’d resigned myself to marrying Frankie, but I was not about to embrace it with open arms. The thought of planning a wedding, of picking out floral arrangements and choosing color schemes, felt like a mockery of my freedom. It was as if they were asking me to plan my own funeral instead.

I despised this patriarchal tradition my family held dear—this system that treated women like commodities rather than human beings. It wasn’t just about not being able to choose the man I would marry; it was about losing control over my life. My future husband had been carefully selected for me based on alliances and power struggles, not love or compatibility.

The whole thing left an acidic taste in my mouth—much like swallowing vomit. The notion that, in this modern age, where women were CEOs and world leaders, I was being bartered off like some medieval maiden for political gain was sickening.

My resentment toward this impending union ran far deeper than mere personal aversion to my fiancé. The arrangement symbolized everything wrong with our family and its dynamics—the criminality we perpetuated and the lives we ruined under the guise of preserving our lineage and power.

I longed for freedom from these invisible chains—freedom from being dictated to by men who saw me as nothing more than a tool in their quest for power. But for now, playing along seemed to be my only means of survival. My mother had made it clear that, if I wanted to remain breathing, I would marry Frankie and give them no trouble about it.

I opened my phone and scrolled through my planner, forming a mental checklist of everything I needed to do at the club tonight. As the business manager, I had several tasks to complete: reviewing the night’s VIP guest list, checking inventory levels, ensuring proper staffing, and confirming security protocols. The last thing we needed was unwanted attention from the police or the IRS.

Although there was a lot for me to get done, tonight also held the promise of pleasure. I hoped Lucian would be interested in more than just working. Our no-strings-attached arrangement allowed us to let off steam in the most delightful ways and was exactly the kind of release I needed after the week I’d had.

There was just enough time before my food arrived for me to take a quick shower. Setting my phone on the counter, I headed upstairs to my bedroom. Here in the privacy of my apartment, I could drop this whole Goody Two-shoes act and relax. This was my sanctuary, a place where I allowed myself to indulge in all the creature comforts I usually avoided. Every piece in this room felt like a well-deserved splurge, making it my little world of comfort.

I began to shed the day’s pretense, quickly unbuttoning my blouse. The garment slipped from my shoulders and fluttered to my feet. I shimmied out of my skirt and panties, letting them drop to the growing pile on the floor.

With a sigh, I stepped into the shower, where the warm water washed away any remaining traces of my day job. Steam filled the bathroom, blurring the edges of reality as the water drummed against my skin. A little shot of adrenaline coursed through me at the thought of who might show up at the club tonight. We often hosted actors, artists, and political elites who enjoyed a night out in an exclusive venue where cameras couldn’t follow.

Lucian would be there tonight too, which usually meant the night would be more entertaining. His smoky gaze had a way of sending fire through my veins, and his touch never failed to deliver exactly what I needed.

Club Xyst wasn’t just a business venture for me; it was an act of rebellion. It was my declaration of independence wrapped up in velvet ropes and champagne-soaked celebrations. Every night spent within its walls felt like stolen time—hours snatched away from sleep and gifted to pleasure instead.

And I loved every moment of it—from managing its operations to mingling with patrons who knew nothing about the club owner’s double life. The thrill that surged through me as I observed deals being sealed behind closed doors matched no other high.

Sleep deprivation? That didn’t bother me one bit. Compared to living a life shackled to a suffocating heritage, it was no contest. As long as I had Xyst, I had a taste of autonomy, and that was worth every minute of lost sleep.

I wrapped a towel around my damp hair and slipped into a silky robe, reveling in its softness as it slid over my skin. The intercom buzzed, announcing the arrival of my dinner. Eager to see my favorite delivery boy, I buzzed him in and hurried to the vestibule. With a wide grin, I swung the inner door open.

“Hey, Elliot,” I greeted him, a bit breathless. “You’re right on time, as always.”

“Uh, hi, Ms. Genovese… Anastasia,” he stammered, his cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of red. He held out the bag of food, his hands shaking ever so slightly. His father owned the Italian restaurant I often ordered from. It had immediately become one of my favorite places as soon as I’d moved here after graduation. I could remember when Elliot was just a thirteen-year-old boy in braces with a goofy haircut. He was currently home from college for the summer. Even after all this time, he was still a sweet guy. And although he had grown up a bit, he still got bashful around me.

“Please, call me Ana,” I purred, tilting my head and giving him a cheeky little side-glance. “Everyone else does. So how’s school going?”

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