Page 26 of Captured By the Bratva

“What is wrong?” she asks softly, her voice a quiet invitation. “Are you unwell?”

I hesitate, words tangling up in my throat, but the relief of finally speaking, of letting someone else share even a piece of this burden, is too strong to resist. “Ivan… he’s…” My voice falters. I shake my head, trying to find the right words. “He’s a monster.”

She nods, her expression patient, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she listens. She sits beside me on the bed, her hand resting gently on my shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring.

The kindness in her eyes, the way she watches me without judgment—it disarms me. For the first time, I feel a crack in the isolation that’s kept me prisoner here, and as I look at her, I feel a flicker of something I haven’t felt since I arrived here: hope.

Her gaze turns distant, softened by time and perhaps a sadness she rarely lets others see. “This house,” she begins, her voice low, almost reverent, “it was different once, ruled by a woman with a gentle soul. Ivan’s mother.”

I watch her, sensing that these memories are precious, carefully guarded, and yet there’s a need in her to share them, to let someone else see the hidden side of Ivan’s life. She continues, her voice slow and steady, each word weaving a portrait I didn’t expect.

“She was a lovely woman, full of light,” Anya says, a faint smile touching her lips. “Always softly spoken, always kind. But…”

Her smile fades, and she glances away, gathering herself. “She was also controlled by Ivan’s father, a monster who believed love was weakness. He kept her warmth under his own cold shadow, did his best to freeze it completely.”

I lean in, unable to help myself, captivated by this glimpse into Ivan’s past. This mansion—so dark, so filled with silenceand control—it once held someone gentle like me, someone who wasn’t hardened by the life around her. The thought is both comforting and disorienting. If she could keep her soul, why can’t I?

Anya’s voice softens, as if she’s talking to herself now, her eyes still distant. “I keep this place clean every day, a tribute to her memory. She loved beauty, loved to see things shining, cared for every inch of this place even when she wasn’t allowed to be herself fully. That was when her husband wasn’t here.

“Igor was not a kind man but Sofia, she was not of this world. Her light was subdued when he returned, but it was there. She brought something rare, something kind, to this house.” She pauses, her gaze growing sharper. “And Ivan adored her. She was his entire world, his only warmth in a life that his father made like ice.”

Her words sit heavily in the air, and I feel a strange pang, a stirring of sympathy I didn’t expect. I can’t picture it—Ivan as a young boy, finding whatever affection he could from a mother forced to hide her own love, smothered by a man who demanded discipline above all else. The image feels like a ghost haunting these walls, something deeply embedded in the darkness that surrounds him.

“Was she trapped here?” I ask, barely realizing the question has slipped out.

Anya’s eyes flicker with something unreadable, and she sighs, her voice resigned. “She had no way out. He married her in Russia, brought her over here. Took her passport. Then she fell pregnant. For Ivan’s sake, she tried to make peace with her life here, tried to give him what little softness she could. But she was berated by Igor for her ways, silenced… any sign of love or weakness was punished.”

I watch Anya’s face, absorbing her words, feeling a growing unease settle over me. Ivan’s mother’s love was restrained,caged. She could only give him fragments of affection, small moments stolen from a life bound by control. “So Ivan…” I start, but I can’t finish the thought, the enormity of it sinking in. What does that do to someone?

Anya nods, her expression heavy with understanding. “A boy so young, taught that love is a weakness, that kindness is something to be hidden. Can you imagine what that does to a heart?”

Her gaze meets mine, as if daring me to look deeper, to see Ivan through her eyes, the boy who learned to build walls, who was trained to survive in a world where vulnerability was a threat.

I struggle with what I’m hearing, my anger toward Ivan tempered by an unexpected pang of compassion. “He’s… he’s ruthless,” I say, almost to myself, still caught between what I’ve seen of him and what Anya describes. “Does he even have a soul?”

Anya’s voice is gentle but firm. “Ruthless, yes. But only because he was raised to be. He learned early that softness is a liability, that showing warmth would bring pain. What you see in him now—this coldness—it is something he learned to wear, a shield that was placed on him before he could choose anything else. The kindness is still there, underneath. I know it.”

A heaviness settles in my chest, a strange blend of anger, empathy, and a hint of sorrow. The image of Ivan—young, vulnerable, learning to lock away any emotion that could be used against him—lingers in my mind, reshaping the man I thought I knew.

I hesitate, absorbing Anya’s words, then the thought slips out before I can stop it. “Did Ivan… did he have a sister?”

Anya’s face shifts, her open expression hardening just a touch, her gaze flickering with something I can’t quite place. “Why do you ask?” she says, her tone gentle but guarded.

I feel a pang of nervousness but push through. “There’s… there’s a room I found, like an art studio. It looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. And the paintings—they looked like they were done by a young girl.”

For a moment, Anya’s gaze grows distant, her face softening with sadness before it closes again. She nods slowly, almost as if confirming something to herself. “Yes,” she says quietly, a faint tremor in her voice. “Ivan had a sister. Her name was Elena. She passed away five years ago.”

There’s something in the way she says it—a finality, a wall that rises up between us. I can tell she won’t say more, not about this. Her face has closed, her eyes no longer willing to share more than the gentle insights she’s already offered.

A strange relief washes over me as Anya finishes her story, even if it leaves as many questions as answers. I feel lighter somehow, as if I’ve finally found an ally, someone who understands Ivan’s world but hasn’t succumbed to the darkness that seems to swallow everyone else in it.

I let out a slow breath, grateful for her compassion, her presence—a balm to the isolation that’s surrounded me since I came here.

But a sliver of wariness remains. This is still Ivan’s domain, and I can’t afford to trust blindly. Still, I cling to the sense of connection, of shared understanding, savoring the reminder that maybe I’m not as alone as I thought.

Anya’s expression softens, a glint of something playful appearing in her eyes. “He is different with you, I think,” she says, studying me with an amused gaze that I don’t entirely trust. “Perhaps you are the heat that can melt the ice in his heart.”

I scoff, the skepticism slipping out of me. “I doubt that.” Images of Ivan flash through my mind—the coldness in his eyes, the rigid set of his jaw as he watches me, his iron control pressing down on me, suffocating.

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