Page 2 of Rafi

2

TAYANA

People will have you think that unicorns are real, and that human trafficking is not. It doesn’t exist in our perfect little world. It’s a made-up horror, a lie conjured to sell dramatic headlines or Hollywood scripts. That’s what they tell themselves. It’s easier to sleep at night when you think monsters aren’t real.

But I know better.

The spreadsheet on my laptop stares back at me, a digital map of suffering: names, ages, destinations. Each cell is a story, a scar carved into someone’s life. None of this is fiction. It’s a raw, ugly reality. A child sold for the price of a used car. A woman stolen and dragged across borders, her name lost in the void. A man lured by promises of work only to find himself chained in servitude.

And then there’s me.

I push a strand of dark hair behind my ear, the glow of the screen painting shadows across my face. Every name I save is one I couldn’t save my mother from. That truth burrows deep, wrapping around my ribs and squeezing every time I think about her.

Most people don’t get a second chance; they get lost in the void of time and place and are never seen again. But I’m here now, fighting for the people no one believes are real.

My phone buzzes beside me, snapping me back to my reality. Another tip, another lead. Someone, somewhere, needs saving. My hand hovers over the keyboard for a moment, my mind already running through the logistics. Which team can I send? How fast can we move?

This work isn’t glamorous. There’s no applause, no parade for the people we bring back. Just quiet reunions, tears of relief, and the long, brutal journey of healing that begins the moment they’re free.

But it matters.

Because human trafficking isn’t a story. It’s a war. And I’ll fight it until my last breath.

The shelter is everything to me — the one thing that feels real, a sharp contrast to the gilded cage I was raised in. In this moment, in this place so far from the one I came from, I’m the opposite of everything I used to be. I’m the axis to what I was born into. I stand for freedom, for a future that doesn’t carry the weight of my past.

My father, Anton Aslanov — the Czar of the Russian Bratva — is the poison that runs through my veins, and I like to think of myself as the antidote. I am the calm to his storm, the redemption to his corruption.I amhis redemption.

I came here to further my education, a chance to escape, a ticket out of the life he tried to trap me in. That’s what I like to tell myself when I try to forget that he exiled me. Sent me away at fourteen when my mother died. Like he couldn’t stand to look at me and remember his overwhelming loss.

It hurts, that he sent me way, yet in a way, I consider myself lucky. I had an opportunity many will never get — the chance to break free, to escape his grasp, to avoid the worldhe had planned for me. A world of control, manipulation, and bloodshed.

Now, I’ve carved a path of my own, but even still, the shadow of The Czar looms over me. It’s in the bodyguards he insists follow me around everywhere I go. It’s in the big fat bank account that just keeps getting bigger and fatter day by day. It’s in the quiet recriminations of his voice when it filters down the line,judging mefor being so cold towards him. When he is the one who gave up on me. He’s the one who threw me away like I never existed.

I know the time will come when he may call me back, when he’ll demand I return to the family, to take my place by his side, to marry a man he chooses — likely one of his Bratva associates — and bear the stain of blood on my hands. I am his one and only child, after all. I can feel it, the weight of that future waiting for me, no matter how far I run from it. It’s written in invisible gold script in the book of Bratva – this is what happens to every Bratva princess, and I am no different.

There’s a quiet authority that follows me as I step into the main room of the shelter, my eyes immediately scanning the space. My dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, and my gray eyes sweep over the faces of the women and children who’ve found sanctuary here. They look up as I move through the quiet aisles, some with tentative glances, others with quiet relief. The walls hold their stories — stories of escape, of survival.

Now and then, men find their way here, too. The human trafficking trade isn’t selective anymore. It’s a war against all, and the victims come in every shape and form.

“Tayana,”a volunteer calls, hurrying over with a clipboard. “We’ve got a supply run scheduled for tonight, but we’re short on drivers.”

“I’ll take it,”I say without hesitation. “Who’s the contact?”

“Sasha,”the volunteer replies. “Same as last week. Meet up at the dock at midnight.”

I nod, already running through the logistics in my head. I grab my coat from the back of a chair and head toward the door, but not before glancing at the photo taped to the wall near the exit. It’s old and slightly faded, showing me as a young girl with my mother. It’s the only photo I have of her, the only reminder that once upon a time, she existed; she was a living, breathing human being with demons just like everyone else. My mother’s smile is soft, almost melancholic, a stark contrast to the cold, unyielding expression I associate with my father. It’s a reminder of why I do this work—why I fight to dismantle the very world that gave me life.

The feud with my father is an open wound, a huge, gaping one that batters at my heart. The laceration grows bigger every time his name is brought to life

And then there’s his brother Igor, my uncle, the man I hate with a venom I didn’t think I’d be capable of. Igor’s operations are the kind I fight against every day, his name whispered in fear by the very people I’m trying to save. That we share blood feels like a cruel joke the universe is playing on me.

By the time the sun sets, I’m behind the wheel of an inconspicuous old van, its battered body loaded with supplies. The city blurs past me, neon lights casting fleeting glows on the windshield. My mind drifts to the message I’d received earlier. Another girl. Another life dangling by a thread. The thought steels my resolve, my grip tightening on the steering wheel.

I pull up to the dock, the air thick with the sharp bite of salt and the acrid scent of diesel. The sound of distant waves crashing against the pier is drowned out by the low rumble of engines.

Sasha is waiting for me, his figure half-hidden beneath the dark hood of his jacket. The streetlights cast a pale glow over thescene, but the dock is otherwise shrouded in shadows. He and I have known each other for years. We’ve both seen things — heard things — that the world would rather pretend don’t exist. In our line of work, trauma doesn’t wait. And escape routes have expiration dates. A delay in getting someone out could mean a lot more than a missed opportunity. It could mean theownerfinding their property again. It could result in death. And it could mean our operation gets blown sky high.

Sasha’s gravelly voice cuts through the silence, pulling me back into the present. “I wasn’t expecting the big boss herself.”

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