Page 7 of Bratva Bride
Two PhDs by age 24—computational linguistics and mathematics. Defended her dissertations at Columbia but wasn't allowed to attend the ceremonies. Published research papers under pseudonyms because Viktor wouldn't permit her real name on academic work. Fluent in seven languages. Photographic memory. IQ estimated at 165+.
Fucking genius. Kept as a prisoner in her father's Brighton Beach estate.
I scrolled through the surveillance reports. She never left the property. Never had visitors outside vetted bratva associates. Guards posed as security but functioned as jailers. Every aspect of her life controlled by Viktor—what she wore, ate, studied, who she spoke to.
Used as a tool. Decoder for intercepted communications. Analyst for intelligence operations. Her brilliant mind exploited for bratva business while she was denied any autonomy.
The psychological profile noted severe anxiety disorder. Panic attacks. Possible depression. No treatment allowed. Viktor considered mental healthcare a weakness.
I pulled up the surveillance photos. Routine monitoring we'd done on all Morozov family members.
There were dozens. Anya sitting at a desk, working on a laptop. Anya in what looked like a library, surrounded by books. Anya at a window, staring out at nothing.
Always alone.
Always behind glass.
I clicked through them methodically. Cataloging details. Dark hair, usually in a braid or bun. Slender build—too thin, probably from chronic stress affecting appetite. Expensive clothes that looked uncomfortable. Formal dresses, restrictive fabrics. Everything designed to display her as an object rather than a person.
Then one image stopped me.
She was standing at a window on the second floor of the Morozov estate. The angle was from across the street, telephoto lens, taken three months ago during routine surveillance. She wore a pale blue dress. Her lips were moving silently. Counting something. And her hands—her right hand pressed against the window frame, fingers spread, while her left hand pressed fingernails into her palm.
Hard enough to leave marks.
The body language was familiar. Intimately familiar.
Anxiety tells. Grounding techniques. She was having a panic attack. Or fighting one off. Counting to manage the overwhelming sensation. Using pain to anchor herself to reality.
I zoomed in on her face. Dark eyes that seemed to look right through the camera. Not at it—she probably didn't know it was there. Just looking. Searching. Calculating.
She was analyzing something. Running scenarios. Trying to work out a problem she couldn't solve.
I recognized that expression. Saw it in the mirror every day.
The need to understand. To find patterns. To calculate safety in a world that felt fundamentally unsafe.
She was brilliant and anxious and trapped.
Like me. Except I'd built my own prison. She'd been born into hers.
I sat back. Stared at the image. This was intelligence gathering. Professional. Understanding the enemy's assets and liabilities. Anya Morozova was her father's most valuable tool—her mind gave him strategic advantage we needed to neutralize.
That's all this was.
Except I saved the image to my encrypted personal drive instead of the shared intelligence folder.
Told myself it was for further analysis. To study her patterns. To understand how Viktor used her so we could counter it.
All true. All rational.
But I was lying to myself. I knew I was lying. Because something about her isolation, her anxiety, the way she tried to make herself small and invisible—it bothered me.
I closed her file. Pulled up the Council meeting brief. Went back to analyzing leverage points and strategic options. The Morozovs would push the narrative that we were responsible. We'd need evidence of their involvement. Or at least reasonable doubt.
Sixty minutes until the meeting. I had work to do.
But Anya Morozova's image stayed minimized on monitor seven. Just visible in the corner. Her dark eyes looking at something I couldn't see. Her hands pressed against glass and flesh, trying to hold herself together.
