"Ana! We're hungry! Anaaa!!!"

Loud noises can be heard from the dining room of the Winters Orphanage as the seven or so children that sit around the table bang their empty glasses and plates against the rigid surface in what could be constructed as a small rebellion, impatient and hungry.

"Ana!! Ana!! Ana!!" They shout in a sing-song voice.

"I'm here!"

Seventeen year old Ana Winters calls out as she walks out of the kitchen, utterly frazzled, balancing a large jug of milk in one hand and a tray with several bowls of pudding in another.

"Here you go, you little pack of demons." She mutters, placing the food on the table.

The children let out happy cheers, greedy fingers reaching out as they attack the food, all except one, a five year old boy whose face is scrunched up with dislike at the sight of the offered food, hands crossed over his chest, huffing and puffing loudly as he refuses to touch his plate.

Ana feels a smile tugging at her lips, hazel eyes shining with fond exasperations as she leans over and ruffles the boy's hair. "What's wrong Noah?" she questions. "Why aren't you eating?"

"You promised that we would get sandwiches this week," the boy named Noah whines, staring at Ana accusingly.

Ana winces internally at the reminder of the promise she had made to the little boy. A promise that had completely slipped her mind when she found herself surrounded by her piling schoolwork, her responsibilities from her part time job and helping out with the younger kids at the house now that one of their three caretakers was on an extended leave.

"I don't want to eat the stinky rice pudding again," Noah huffs. "I hate it."

Ana bites her lip, preparing herself for the tantrum the little boy is bound to throw, before an idea forms in her head and she leans down, whispering conspiratorially in his ear, "If you eat your breakfast now without any complaints then later on I'll make a special batch of cookies and let you have one, okay?"

Noah's eyes light up and she smiles, mentally patting herself for her quick thinking.  She thinks the damage is undone, only for the boy to punch his fist in the air and exclaim loudly, "Ana's special cookies?! Yayy."

At once six pair of eyes snap towards her, before the children begin to speak all at once, voices clamouring over one another to be heard.

"Did he say cookie?"

"I want one too."

"We all want cookies!"

"Stinky Noah always causing trouble but at least we get a cookie now."

"Me too! Me too!"

"Ana's cookies are the bestest."

Ana looks between the kids, smiling exasperatedly. "Maybe if you all behave then I will —"

"Silence!"

A sharp rebuke cuts Ana off mid sentence, the noise in the dining room dying with the arrival of a woman who stands at the doorway, hands on her hips and sternness in her eyes.

The woman is in her early 50s, but looks much older, weary, her head full of grey hair with permanent frown lines etched upon her forehead. She is short, shorter than Ana even, who stands at 5'4", but her small size doesn't fool anyone. Her no- nonsense attitude and grim face makes Ms. Martha Joseph, the most feared of the three matrons that run the Winters Orphanage.

"How many times—" she begins to speak, wagging one index finger towards them, displeasure evident, "—do I need to remind everyone that there is to be no talking on the dining table?"

Ana takes a step back as discreetly as possible, wanting to disappear in the kitchen, anything that would keep the stern woman's attention away from her.

"But Ms. Martha—" Noah starts to whine but the Matron levels the boy with a glare, causing him to fall silent and glare sullenly at the older woman.

"Eat your food silently." Ms. Martha warns. "If I hear a single peep from any one of you then I will make that person scrub all the utensils until they are able to see their reflection in them."

Ana winces at the threat while the children gasp in horror, quickly bowing their heads as they begin to eat quietly.

Except Noah, of course.

The stubborn little boy makes funny faces once the older woman turns her attention away from him, causing Ana to hide her smile behind her fist, only to freeze, when the Matron's blue eyes fall on her.

As a child Ana remembers the fear those eyes always invoked in her. The older woman's stern demeanour and sharp tongue had never made Ana feel comfortable enough to approach her, instead finding the required maternal comfort in the arms of the junior matron, Ms. Jennie Becker.

"Follow me!"

The older woman snaps at her as she turns and begins to walk away, leaving Ana with no choice but to trail after her silently.

Ana frets the entire time she follows after the Matron, knows where she is being led, the only room Ana hates stepping into at the orphanage — Ms. Martha's office.

The Head Matron's office is the central point of the entire orphanage. It is small and cramped and entirely impersonal with dark, bare walls, a desk which is stacked high with files and two extra chairs to entertain the couples that often visit the orphanage looking to adopt a child.

Ms. Martha takes her seat behind the desk without any word, and stares at Ana silently, assessing and cold.

But Ana is used to those cold eyes and the dislike in them, and so she keeps her head down while she waits for the tongue lashing she is bound to get, for there is always, always something that she has done wrong.

"You cannot offer sweets to pacify them anytime they cry about little things." The woman finally speaks in a low, frigid voice. "The children need to learn to adjust to their lot in lives, to adapt themselves."

Ana gulps, shifting uncomfortably. "I just... I wanted to make them happy."

Ms. Martha scoffs.

"Do not spoil these children. If you fulfil their one demand then they will ask for another. Who will adopt them if they are so demanding? They need to be on their best behaviour, always," she lectures before condescension leaks in her tone, eyes sweeping over Ana as she mutters, "We cannot afford to raise all of them into their adulthood now, can we?"

Ana's eyes snap towards Ms. Martha at once, a pang in her heart at the thinly veiled jibe aimed at her.

The older woman opens her mouth to speak again, but is interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

Ana doesn't wait for the woman to excuse her, she simply flees out of the office, chest becoming lighter and lighter, feeling it easier to breathe the farther she gets.

Just as she reaches the entrance, the bell rings again and Ana wrenches open the door to find a man standing in the porch.

The man is in his mid 40s, tall and well built, with curly brown hair and a moustache, dressed in the police uniform. His gentle eyes light up at the sight of Ana, who in turn forgets all about Ms. Martha the moment she realises who it is that stands before her.

"Uncle Steve!" She exclaims, surprised to see the (always) busy cop standing before her. "What are you doing here?"

"Ouch, snowflake!" the man frowns, "is this how you greet your favourite cop ?"

Ana laughs at his fake wounded expression.

"You're the only cop I know," she replies, before grinning cheekily, "Are you here to see your sweetheart? Because if you are then I must tell you that she m is visiting a friend and will be back in the evening."

Her words make the older man laugh loudly as he shakes his head. "I'm actually here to drop this off," he says, removing a white envelope from his pocket and waving it in front of Ana's face.

"What's that?" She questions, when the man hands over the envelope to her.

"A little surprise." Uncle Steve winks at her mysteriously. "Jennie asked me to drop it off."

Ana squints at it, as if her eyes contain x-rays in them, trying to figure out what lies in the innocent looking envelope when she feels a soft flick against her forehead.

"Hey! No cheating!"

She chuckles, raising her hands up in surrender. "I'll make sure Ms. Jennie gets it," she promises. "Why don't you come over for dinner tonight? I'm sure she would like it."

Uncle Steve's cheeks colour slightly before he clears his throat and states in a gruff manner. "Afraid not. I need to prepare for travel... will be out of town for the next couple of weeks for a case..."

Ana blinks, only then realising how tired the normally jovial man sounds. She takes a proper look at his face and sees dark bags under his eyes as if he's not slept in days.

"Is everything alright, Uncle Steve?" She questions, concerned for the man who had as good as saved her life once.

Uncle Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Just been a stressful couple of weeks," he mutters, before patting her head softly, "nothing for you to worry about, okay? I'll be back soon and then I'll come over for dinner and catch up properly. I'm afraid I need to leave now."

She nods in understanding and bids the older man farewell, watches him walk up to his cruiser and turns around to shut the door when she hears him call her out—

"Hey, snowflake?"

Ana turns at once.

Uncle Steve is looking at her with warmth and assurance in his eyes. "I know you'll win," he calls out confidently, "but just keep your head down and be careful, okay?"

                          ~~~~~

Later that night Ana sits in the silence of her small room. She is (fortunately) the only one amongst all the orphans to currently have a room all to herself  (the older two girls whom she used to share a room with had moved out years ago once they turned eighteen)

She quietly works on her assignments, eyes involuntarily flickering in the direction of the wooden table after every few minutes, the wooden table upon which lies the sealed envelope.

What is in that?  She thinks to herself. And what did Uncle Steve mean when he said that I would win? Win what? A prize?

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door to her bedroom creaking open, causing Ana to jolt, only to sigh in relief when she sees the head of her favourite matron peaking inside the room.

"Ms. Jennie!"

"Oh good you're awake," the woman smiles at her in her relief, a strange excitement in her eyes, before entering the room and closing the door shut behind her. "I have a surprise for you."

Ana's eyes widen. "A s-surprise?"

Ms. Jennie picks the envelope from the desk with one hand, and removes her other hand from behind her back, her fingers clenched around a crinkled white and blue flyer.

Ana recalls seeing the flyer plastered on a wall outside some high end store in the rich side of the town when she had been running errands along with Ms. Jennie.

It is a flyer of an Arts Competition calling all artists to showcase their talent.

She remembers how excited she felt at the prospect of being able to participate in what appeared to her a grand Arts event but she also remembers the crushing devastation that overtook her when she saw the event would be happening in New York and the high entry fee required for its participation.

“Where did you get this from?" Ana questions the woman, who in turn places the white envelope in Ana's lap, eyes gleaming with warmth as she whispers, "Happy early 18th Birthday, my child."

Ana shakes her head in disbelief. "My birthday is not for another four months," she replies, causing the matron to laugh.

"Hush, you!" She says, nearly vibrating with excitement. "Open your present now. I want to see your expression."

Ana looks at the innocent looking envelope, and thinks how she has never received a real birthday present before, not truly.

With growing excitement and slightly unsteady hands, Ana tears open the envelope and sucks in a sharp breath to find a bus ticket to New York along with —

She gasps, stunned, blinking owlishly at the matron. "You got me an access pass to the Arts competition? H-How?"

The entry fee alone had been too high, not something they could possibly afford.

"Steve pulled some strings," Ms. Jennie replies, a flush creeping up her neck at the mention of her not so secret sweetheart. "Besides, I was saving up. A girl turns 18 only once and I wanted to get you a gift this year and I could see how excited you were at the prospect of this competition so I thought this was the perfect time."

Ana feels her chest tighten with love.

"I know that we don't have a lot." The older matron continues. "And we have not been able to provide you with all the necessities that a girl your age deserves but—"

"I have enough." Ana interjects firmly.

She never wanted the woman who was the closest thing to a mother she had, to ever think that Ana was unhappy and wanting in her life.

They had their fair share of struggles, but again, who did not?

It did not matter to Ana if her clothes came from a thrift store or if she had to spend days fixing up the holes in her old dresses. It did not matter if the kids at the school turned up their noses at her, the poor girl from the local Orphanage. It did not matter if some nights she slept with an aching belly, full of hunger.

She had a roof over her head and a bed to sleep on. She needed nothing else.

Ms. Jennie evidently did not seem to agree with the sentiment, as she removed a thin bundle of twenty dollar bills from her coat pocket, placing it in Ana's palm and closing her fingers around it.

"In case of an emergency." The matron says at Ana's questioning look. "You'll be all alone in a big city and this is the first time in years when you'll be leaving the town."

"What about Ms. Martha?" Ana suddenly questions.

Ms. Martha was dead set against Ana practising art, calling it a frivolous activity despite the many accolades she won at school, not something that would ever help her earn money, something that was not meant for a poor girl like her.

One would think that after having spent more than half of her seventeen years of life in the orphanage, Ana would be more accustomed to the acerbic taunts of Ms. Martha, who seemed to downright despise the sight of her.

But no matter how much she tried, Ms. Martha's words never failed to pierce her heart like an arrow.

Ana does not know what wrong she had ever done to make the woman hate her so.

As a child she had always listened to the adults, always following orders, never wishing for anything, never complaining, never demanding,

Except the one time.

The only time she had ever begged for something.

(Eight year old Ana wakes up to loud noises coming from outside the room. She jumps down from the bed, body aching, as she silently crawls towards the door.

She is good at it now. At making no noise, at making herself inconspicuous and silent.

A lesson she has learnt the hard way.

She presses her ear against the door and listens to the muffled voices

" —mean you promised ? What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means exactly what it sounds like," a familiar voice argues. "We all saw what those monsters did to her! The girl is practically skin and bones, Martha. If staying here helps her heal, then we must do all we can for her."

"Do I need to remind you that this is an orphanage, Jennie!  The girl cannot stay here forever. If someone decides to adopt her, the girl will have to go—")

Ana blinks.

"Don't worry about the old crow," Ms. Jennie waves her hand dismissively, ignorant of the dark memories in her head. "She will be visiting the neighbouring town for funds collection and will not be back for a week."

Ana feels hope in her heart at her words, a budding excitement.

Was this really happening? She looks at the entry pass, her smile falling slightly as a new worry creeps up her mind.

"What if I don't win?" She whispers, hazel eyes shining with flecks of gold in the dim light. "All the money that you spent would be in vain."

Ms Jennie laughs at her question, amused. "There is no competition that you have not won at your school, Ana", she says proudly causing the younger girl to blush, eyes lowering," and even if you don't win, it can be a learning experience. It says in the brochure that there are going to be plenty of people from those big universities at the event and it might be your chance at something better in life."

"What if it's not?" Ana insists in a small voice.

Ms. Jennie smiles at her, warm, motherly, takes her hand in between hers and whispers, "Oh child, but what if it is? What if destiny has planned something beautiful for you, something that you will find away from here?"

And throws her arms around the matron, tears in her eyes.

Two days later, Ana excitedly waves goodbye to Ms. Jennie from the window seat of the bus.

She is on her way to New York,  a little scared, a little alone, but with joy sparkling in her eyes and hope burning in her heart.

              ~~~~

Cassandra Kozlov peers out of the tinted window shield of the car, her fingers tapping against the arm of her leather seat with ill concealed impatience as their car passes through yet another security check.

She is anxious, nearly vibrating with restlessness, much to the chagrin of her husband whose left eye twitches now and then, a telltale sign of his growing annoyance.

Cassandra cannot help herself though, for, in the forty five years of her life, twenty one of which she has spent married to Sergie Kozlov, the head of Kozlov family, and one of the high Sovietnik's, it is the very first time that she would be meeting him. The Pakhan.

(Not that she hadn't seen him from afar, either visiting her husband at their manor on those very rare occasions or at extremely important social events he deemed fit to attend, but it wasn't the same as being in his presence)

"Why is there a need to go through such tight security check?" She grumbles to her husband. "This is the fourth check-post we're passing through."

Sergie Kozlov does not move his eyes away from the file in his hand. "It is a standard protocol," he says in a rather dismissive tone. "One cannot enter the Romanov estate without appropriate security clearance."

"Standard protocol?" Cassandra grimaces, red lips turning into down in a frown. "Why do we have to go through it? You are practically our Pakhan's family. Why can't Azriel—"

She stops short at the sound of a low growl coming from the opposite side of the car seat, can feel a pair of eyes, so similar to her husband's, glaring holes through her head.

"Father, please tell your wife to take our lord's name with the respect he is due."

Cassandra's eyes snap towards the young man who speaks, and oh, how she hates the very sight of him!

The man is twenty eight years old but he's a near carbon copy of her husband, from his light blonde almost silver hair, to his nose and smile, and to his blue eyes currently hidden behind a pair of dark aviators.

And why would he not be? After all, Damien Kozlov was the first son of her husband, his eldest. His heir.

She looks at him and resists the urge to claw the skin out of his face.

Oh, how she hates him!

"Damien!" Her husband warns his son, before his eyes settle on her and she realises her slip and backtracks quickly, plastering an apologetic smile on her face. "I just meant that you, my love, are his godfather, and as such exceptions can surely be made for your family ?"

She hears Damien snort at her words.

"It is an exception that our flight was given access to the Pakhan's private airstrip, Cassandra," he drawls, cocks his head in faux innocence, "you wouldn't know of course, since you've never had the honour of visiting his ancestral estate before now."

It is a poorly concealed jibe, one aimed to remind Cassandra of her true position in his eyes and the Kozlov family.

"Father," he addresses her husband in English before switching to Russian, knowing full well that she is unable to speak or  understand even a word of her husband's mother tongue. "Pochemu ona dolzhna byla priyti? Nashego gospodina ne volnuyet yeye prisutstviye."

Her husband merely raises an amused eyebrow, too used to his son's antics, before replying in English, giving her a good idea of what the blonde bastard could have asked his father.

"It is traditional." Sergie replies. "If our Pakhan's mother had been alive or if he had a wife then protocol would dictate that Cassandra extend the invitation to the lady just like we're doing with our lord, but since neither of them are available, her symbolic presence becomes a necessity."

Cassandra grits her teeth, an untrue smile on one her lips at the blasé tone of her husband, as if he did not just disregard her presence with something as meagre as a 'symbolic necessity.'

Her eyes dart towards Damien, who grins at her, shark like, and she burns with fury.

Cassandra is used to wealth and riches, she is after all the wife of Sergie Kozlov, the mother of his second son, but as she steps out of the car, her eyes nearly pop out of their sockets at the sheer size of the sprawling estate, no, the fortress that she stands before.

Had heard only the rumours about their Pakhan's home, but to see it with her own eyes, the sight is indescribable.

"Was it wise for us to have come here today?" she hears Damien mutter to her husband as they are escorted through the receiving hall by two guards.

There's something ominous hidden behind his too simple question, something that makes an unknown fear curl in her belly and it takes Cassandra several moments to realise why.

Today. The 31st of August.

The very same day, when fifteen years ago the entirety of the Romanov family was brutally massacred, shaking the very foundations of the Bratva.

Cassandra clenches her fist, anxiety suddenly mounting.

She was too close to her goal now, had waited months and months for the day, the event that now stood on the horizon and which had led her to their Pakhan's doorstep. She couldn't let anything wrong happen now just because her husband thought himself too above checking a fucking calendar.

"It is perfect timing," her husband replies gruffly. "Not only do I need to formally invite him to preside over the signing of the treaty —

"It is not just the signing of a treaty," Cassandra interjects before she can stop herself, tone sharp and insistent, "it is also the engagement celebration of my son, our son, the Pakhan's god-brother."

Her husband stops to look at her, his face empty, his gaze heavy. (Damien's lips are curled back with visible disgust on his face at her choice of words)

"Of course, dear," he says, emotionless and blank. "Like I said, perfect timing."

Dark amusement flashes in his eyes.

"Our Pakhan doesn't spill blood on this day."

They are led to an open training arena.

It is a large, circular field surrounded by rows upon rows of chairs, almost like an archaic amphitheatre, and it is bustling with noise and energy.

Countless men are spread across the area, either in the stands or around the edges of the field, standing a respectful distance from the centre.

In the centre of the field two men fight.

She recognises only one of them.

The man who looks down at his opponent with a bored expression in his dark eyes, his sleek and sturdy muscles rippling as he moves with lethal grace, sidestepping the punch his opponent aims at him with a practiced ease.

In the background her husband and stepson exchange quiet greetings with someone.

Cassandra does not care whom, for her eyes are glued to the young man on the field.

He is tall, standing at a good 6'2" height, with dark, thick, messy hair, high cheekbones covered with dark stubble and a jawline sharp enough to cut through stone, a rather obvious trait of his oligarchy lineage. There are a few tattoos on his body, inscriptions inked in a foreign language on his biceps or other small symbols that she fails to understand, except one on his back, just below the nape of his neck. Everyone knows what it signifies.

He is sixteen years her junior, merely twenty nine years old, but Cassandra would be lying if she said she didn't agree with the sentiments of every other female that had ever had the fortune of laying their eyes on the roguishly striking man before her, can feel a flush creeping up her neck, a familiar ache in her lower belly at the sight of the sweat the clings to his well toned, bare upper body, muscles rippling with every move he makes.

For, Azriel Ilyas Romanov, the Pakhan of the Bratva, is a sight to behold.

glorious, red cheeked and glazed eyes women would whisper over clinking glasses.

She watches as he land a swift kick to his opponent's ribs.

His actions seem well controlled and calculated, just enough strength behind each punch or kick to cause a bruise but not to puncture through skin.

He doesn't spill blood on this day.

Her eyes flicker around the field to find some familiar faces; sees Igor, the Pakhan's most loyal shadow leaning against a grand, stone pillar that is the farthest from the field, eyes focused on his lord and opponent.

(The distance does not fool her, knows, that if required, then Igor would reach Azriel first, no matter who or what stood between them)

Around her, the men yell and hoot barbarically, her stepson included, egging their Pakhan on for a fight he is bound to win.

They look at him with a sacrificial sort of loyalty in their eyes, a devotion that cannot be bought, would jump in the fire at Azriel Romanov's one command.

Her husband stares at him with a fondness in his eyes that she has never seen him direct towards their son.

Something in her heart turns sour at the sight.

She huffs, tucking the loose strand from her bun behind her ear, not expecting the sunlight to catch off her diamond studded bracelet, and flash like a glittering rainbow directly in Azriel's eyes.

It happens for a moment, less than a second even, but that moment of distraction is enough, for Azriel raises his hand that he might have used to counteract any attack, in an attempt to protect his eyes from the glaring flash of light, and so, does not see the fist that connects with the side of his left cheek.

A sharp intake of breath sounds across the amphitheater.

Cassandra watches with bated breath as Azriel flexes his neck side to side, before he swipes a thumb against his cheek, the digit colouring crimson with his blood.

(Igor begins to move,  looking ready to rip someone apart)

He doesn't spill blood on this day.

The man who had unwittingly made the King of the Bratva bleed, cowers in fear.

She can practically see the shake of his nerves and bones as he begins to step away from Azriel, who in turn cocks his head to the side, a few strands of hair falling in his dark and cold eyes, before a feral grin splits his lips

.

.

.

His opponent stands no chance.

Within a blink, Azriel pounces on his attacker, his arms going around the other man's neck in a choking hold.

He doesn't spill blood on this day.

Cassandra sucks in a sharp breath, shock and

nausea rising like a tidal wave as she watches the man flounder desperately, trying and failing to loosen the ironclad hold against his windpipe.

She begins to turn her head away from, not wanting to see the vicious sight, when her husband takes a hold of her wrist in a bruising grip.

His face is blank, eyes looking straight ahead at the man being choked to death by Azriel.

"Do not turn your eyes away," he warns in a low voice, and it is only then she realises that every person in the arena is staring unblinkingly at the sight before them.

It's like she's missing something, something she's supposed to understand, something hidden behind their determined gazes and her husband's command.

"But—"

The pressure on her wrist increases.

Defeated, she pulls in a shaky breath, and turns her head to watch the bloodless slaughter with fearful eyes.

It ends as soon as it began.

The man falls at Azriel's, no, at the Pakhan's feet like a heap of potatoes, eyes rolled in their sockets, saliva drooping and tongue hanging outside his mouth.

It is the most gruesome sight she has ever seen.

The Pakhan pulls in a deep breath, sighing like it's all so tedious as he steps over the rapidly cooling body.

His eyes flicker around the silent field, before falling on the three Kozlovs', dark and cold, before he begins to walk in their direction.

There is a rustling movement beside her and she knows it is her husband and stepson who are bowing low in greeting to their lord.

Cassandra too, wastes no time in falling into a deep curtsy.

(And if she discreetly slips the diamond bracelet off her wrist and into her tightly clenched fist, well, no one needs to know that little detail)

****

Pochemu ona dolzhna byla priyti? Nashego gospodina ne volnuyet yeye prisutstviye — Why did she have to come? Our lord doesn't care for her presence

Soveitnik - advisor

Pakhan- Don/ godfather/ head of the organisation.