Page 32 of Porcelain Lies

Sofia tosses her head, looking mad enough to spit bullets. But she knows better than to push me further. She spins on her heel and marches across the room as she storms out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows. The sound echoes through my office like the aftermath of one of Diana’s lectures about “proper relationships” and “family obligations.”

My sister means well. She always has. After our mother vanished, Diana stepped into that void, trying to protect me the only way she knew how — by creating structure, routine, expectations. The same way she arranges her designer suits by color and season, she tries to arrange my life into neat, predictable patterns.

I drop back into my chair, rubbing my temples. Diana doesn’t understand that her careful plans, her calculated arrangements, feel like chains around my throat. The same suffocating grip our father used to maintain control.

My phone buzzes with Diana’s familiar ringtone. Of course. Sofia’s already run crying to her about my “unacceptable behavior.”

I let it ring. My sister’s disappointment is a weight I’ve carried since childhood — her sad eyes watching me train with knives instead of studying, her tight smile when I took over the Bratva instead of pursuing the legitimate business career she’d mapped out.

“You’re better than this life,” she told me once, straightening my tie before a meeting with the other families. “You could be so much more.”

But she never understood that this life — the power, the control, the freedom to break anyone who threatens what’s mine — is exactly what I need to ensure no one ever disappears from my life again. No more unanswered questions. No more silent dinners with empty chairs.

The phone buzzes again. Diana’s face lights up my screen — a candid shot from her last birthday, caught mid-laugh with a glass of champagne. My twin. My protector. My conscience.

And sometimes, my jailer.

The memory rises unbidden — Father sprawled in his favorite armchair, reeking of cheap liquor. The same chair where he sat the day Mama vanished. But this time, I’m not a helpless child. I’mPakhan.

“I want you out of here.” My voice carries the weight of every bruise, every broken bone, every silent dinner spent avoiding his rage.

He tries to laugh it off, but fear flickers in those bloodshot eyes. “You can’t—”

“I already have.” I toss the papers onto his lap — bank accounts emptied, properties seized, his precious reputation in tatters. “You have one hour before my men arrive.”

His hands shake as he reads, decades of careful tyranny crumbling. “I’m your father—”

“No.” The word cuts through years of pain. “You’re nothing.”

The satisfaction of watching him stumble out, suitcase clutched to his chest like a shield, still burns sweet in my memory. That moment when power finally balanced the scales.

A sharp sound pulls me back. Sofia is back in my doorway, her perfect mask cracking to reveal something uglier beneath.

Jesus Christ!

“I spoke to your sister. I won’t be dismissed like some common—”

“And yet.” I rise from my chair, done playing games. “Here you are, still talking when you should be gone.”

Her fingers clench around her purse strap — the same possessive grip my father used on his bottle. The same need to control, to own, to break.

Sofia’s mouth opens for another tirade, but I cut her off with a raised hand. “We’re done here.”

My mind drifts to the woman last night — to soft gasps, genuine pleasure, the way she moved against me without calculation or agenda. No power plays. No family expectations. Just pure, honest desire.

Sofia’s expensive perfume feels cloying, artificial. Everything about her is carefully constructed — from her designer clothes to her practiced smile. The perfect Bratva wife, groomed since birth for her role.

Unlike the woman from the hotel, who tasted like champagne and freedom.

“Are you even listening?” Sofia’s shrill voice grates against my nerves.

“No.” I turn to my desk, dismissing her. “I have actual work to do.”

“The other families expect—”

“Leave through the door, or you can go through the window.” I snap. Her eyes widen. Something in my stance tells her I’m not joking.

The slam of the door signals Sofia’s final exit.

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