Till Death Saves Me (Forced Mafia Marriages)

6. Ginny

6

GINNY

I wander through the vast mansion, my fingers trailing along the smooth surfaces of expensive furniture. The warmth of the hunter green walls and dark wood accents helps to ease the chill of loneliness settling in my bones. But I still feel trapped, off-kilter.

I don't know how to erase it.

I've already found my room, taken a long shower in what I grudgingly admit is an incredible bathroom, and changed into fresh clothes. Last night, I was so exhausted from the day that I just curled into the softest bed I'd ever been in and slept.

But it's midmorning now, and my husband isn't home. I don't know if he just never came back, and it shouldn't matter. But it bugs me as I walk through my new home, exploring the rooms on my own.

It's lonely.

The front door clicks open, the sound echoing through the quiet house. My stomach clenches instantly, a confusing mix of dread and anticipation coursing through me. I hold my breath, waiting to see who it is.

But it's not Ivan. It's a girl.

Another fucking girl.

My heart sinks, and I can't help but wonder if this is going to be a regular occurrence in my new life. He told me it was none of his concern who he was sleeping with, but I didn't expect him to shove it right in my face.

I sigh heavily, resignation washing over me like a cold wave. "Ivan's not home," I say, my voice flat and emotionless. I'm too tired to even pretend to be polite. What's the point anyway?

The woman – another Black girl to my surprise – waves me off with a bright grin that seems out of place in this somber mansion. "I don't care about him. I'm here to meet you!" she exclaims, her enthusiasm catching me off guard. I blink, unsure how to respond to her unexpected friendliness in this strange new world I've been thrust into.

I blink, caught off guard. "Me?"

"I'm Anya, Ivan's sister." Her warm smile reaches her striking amber eyes, immediately putting me at ease. "And you must be Ginny."

Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. "Sister," I breathe, then clear my throat. "I didn't know Ivan had a sister."

Anya rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Sounds like my brother. He's not exactly the sharing type." And then she looks down at herself and adds, "I'm adopted, obviously."

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected and genuine. "Yeah, I don't know if your brother ever would have told me."

As Anya steps further into the room, I find myself drawn to her energy. There's a fierceness to her, but it's tempered by a warmth I haven't felt since this whole ordeal began.

"So," she says, plopping down on the leather couch, "how are you holding up?" I stare at her a moment, not sure what she means, and she gives me a look. "I grew up in the Bratva family. Don't tell you you married my brother for love."

"I-" My eyebrows scrunch up as I look at her. I've never met anyone quite like her. But I'm not complaining. Quietly, I admit, "I didn't."

"Then tell me." She pats the spot next to her. "How are you holding up?"

The simple question, asked with such genuine concern, nearly undoes me. I've been so focused on keeping it together, on not showing weakness, that I haven't allowed myself to really feel anything.

"I'm..." I start, but the words catch in my throat. How am I? Lost. Angry. Scared. Overwhelmed. "I don't know," I finally admit, sinking down next to her.

Anya nods, understanding in her eyes. "It's a lot to take in, isn't it?"

"That's an understatement," I say with a weak laugh.

As we talk, I feel the tension in my shoulders start to ease. For the first time since this nightmare began, I don't feel completely alone.

"Do you want me to show you around?" she asks.

"How did you?—"

She gives me a knowing look. "I know my brother."

I chuckle. "Yeah. Not exactly opening a tour company any time soon." I get to my feet. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd love for you to show me around."

As Anya leads me through the home, I'm struck by how different it feels with her here. The oppressive silence that had weighed on me earlier dissipates, replaced by the warmth of her presence.

"So, this is the kitchen," Anya says, gesturing to a sleek, modern space. "Ivan's not much of a cook, but he keeps it stocked." She pulls open the fridge, pursuing. "He also hates people in his space—" Ouch. "So there's no servants. He has a chef drop off prepared meals once a week, and there's a gardening service, but that's it."

I was already cataloging the information. I was actually a good cook — a better baker — since I had nothing else to do. Maybe I could cook for Ivan.

But cleaning…we'd need to talk about a maid.

I run my hand along the cool quartz countertop. "It's beautiful. But I can't imagine Ivan in here."

Anya laughs, a rich, genuine sound. "Oh, you'd be surprised. I once caught him trying to make borscht. It was a disaster."

The image of stern, intimidating Ivan covered in beet juice makes me snort. "Really?"

"Really. He may seem all tough and brooding, but there's more to him than that." She shakes her head. "He just doesn't like to talk much, so you have to learn his language."

I bite my lip, considering her words. Could there really be more to Ivan than the cold, calculating man I've seen?

As we move into the library, my eyes are drawn to a collection of framed photos on a bookshelf. I step closer, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Are these...?" I trail off, surprised by what I see.

Anya nods, coming to stand beside me. "Family photos. That's Ivan and me when we were kids."

I stare at the image of a young Ivan, his arm thrown casually around a grinning Anya. There's a lightness in his eyes that I've never seen before.

"He looks... happy," I murmur, more to myself than to Anya.

"He was. Still is, sometimes, when he lets his guard down."

I turn to her, confusion furrowing my brow. "Are you sure we're talking about the same guy?"

Anya laughs, but her expression softens. "He's not all bad. He's just seen some shit. He's very loyal to the Sokolovs, and that can change a person."

As we continue through the house, Anya shares more stories. Tales of family dinners, of Ivan teaching her to shoot, of the fierce protectiveness he's always shown her. With each anecdote, the image I had of the Bratva – and of Ivan – begins to shift.

"I never knew," I admit, sinking onto the couch in what Anya tells me is Ivan's favorite room. "Not really. I hadn't seen it firsthand like you. My dad always kept me separate from... all of this."

Anya sits beside me, her amber eyes serious. "That's understandable. He wanted to protect you." She sighs. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't been thrust into it all."

Tentatively, I ask, "Are you married?"

To my surprise, she throws her head back with a harsh laugh. When she finally meets my eyes, I can see that she genuinely thinks it was a funny question. "No." She shakes her head. "My papa tried to marry me off when I was 21, but the guy broke it off. Bratva men don't like their women so feisty."

She lifts her hand, showing me the empty finger. "And now that I'm 24, I'm practically becoming a spinster." She sighs. "Ivan takes care of me, though. I always told him he needed to find a wife I'd like because he was stuck with me."

My mouth quirked up. "I don't mind that one bit."

"Good." Anya's expression softens as she leans back on the couch. "Ever since our papa retired, I think everyone's given up hope I'll marry. It's not like I"ll do it voluntarily." She winces. "No offense."

"Don't worry about it." I shake my head, more focused on something else she said. "Your father's retired?" I ask, surprised. I'd always assumed Ivan's father was still deeply involved in the Bratva.

She nods. "Yeah, he used to be close with Nikolai and Lev's father, but now he's enjoying his golden years. Traveling the world, living it up."

I can't help but feel a pang of envy. "That sounds nice."

"It is," Anya agrees. "We don't see him often, but he's a good man. Always made sure we were taken care of."

There's a warmth in her voice that makes me ache for my own family. "That must be nice…" I sigh.

Her eyes narrow as she watches me. "What's wrong?"

Unease crawls through me. "What do you mean?"

"Your mood changed with that." She leans forward. "Is your papa not good to you?"

I shake my head. "No. He was very good. It's just…" Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "I'm scared, Anya."

She reaches out, taking my hand in hers. "Of what?"

"The changes," I admit, the words tumbling out. "I was protected, sheltered. I knew what to expect. And your brother…" I swallowed hard. "He's not at all like what I'm used to."

Anya squeezes my hand. "It'll be okay. I promise you that he's not as mean as he seems. He wouldn't hurt you." Her words assuage the fear I didn't want to voice. He is Bratva after all. "And besides, you have me now!"

I nod, chewing on everything she said. With a small smile, she adds, "He might not show it, but he cares deeply."

I scoff. "Could've fooled me."

"Give him time," Anya advises. "He's not great with change either."

As we continue talking, I find myself opening up more and more. Anya listens without judgment, offering gentle advice and support. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, I feel like someone truly understands.

By the time Anya leaves, a small spark of hope has ignited in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I can find a place for myself here. Anya's kindness has shown me that not everyone in Ivan's family is as cold as I feared.

Feeling lighter than I have in days, I decide to take advantage of one of the luxuries my new life offers. I change into a swimsuit and head out to the pool, humming softly to myself.