I was twelve when I first understood that I was not born to live—but to survive.
To rule.
To be a weapon.
Or perhaps... just a bargaining chip.
Kostkov. A Russian bloodline known for producing the most terrifying Pakhan in the Russian mafia world.
For generations, the male Kostkovs have ruled the underworld—built on ruthless tactics and spotless transactions that kept the empire alive.
But now, I have become the exception.
A girl born into the Kostkov bloodline.
The eldest.
The one no one expected to rule—because I was a girl.
"Mikhal, I don't think that just because she is the eldest means she can be a Pakhan," Alexei—Part of Avtoritet—said. Avtoritet supports and governs logistics, manages shipments, handles the men—everything that eases the Pakhan's burden.
My father exhaled sharply through his nose, the scent of tobacco clinging heavily to him as it had all day.
"Anastasia is my legal child. The eldest of my first wife," he said, his voice firm and final.
Alexei shifted in his seat, uneasy, while pouring himself another glass of bourbon.
"You still have Maxim," he replied after a brief pause. "And women...women only create chaos. They are meant to stay in the house—wiping children's asses, not ruling the bratva."
That had always been the rule in this world.
Women do not rule.
They were meant to be contained. Displayed like ornaments at bratva parties, and discarded just as easily when they were no longer useful.
"Maxim may be the eldest of my second and current wife—a male," my father said, his gaze turning cold and sharp. "But technically, he is second."
He exhaled another cloud of smoke, slow and deliberate, before speaking again, "And in the group, we follow the order of bloodlines."
Alexei exhaled, disappointment sharpening his expression. The rule would not bend. The order of bloodlines would be followed—without exception.
The door suddenly swung open. It cuts through the tension in the room—abrupt, careless.
And there I was.
Twelve years old at that time, standing at the doorway, clutching my favorite doll—the one my mother gave me before my father threw her out like she meant nothing.
"Papa, I finished my lessons early today. Can we eat together?" I asked, my voice small, my eyes wide with hope I had no right to still carry.
His expression changed the moment he saw me.
Not soft.
Not warm.
It was sour. Full of irritation.
"Didn't I tell you to put that doll away?" His voice snapped like a whip. "Go back to the training room. You will not leave until I say so."
Before I could even react, the doll was ripped from my hands. It was torn clean in half. Its stuffing spilling out like something gutted. Then it was thrown onto the cold marble floor.
My gaze dropped to it.
I felt it—the sting behind my eyes, the tightness in my chest. But the tears refused to fall.
Because my father said so.
Because he ordered me not to cry.
"Yes, Papa." The only words I was allowed to say.
I turned on my heel, my back straight, my head held high. It was controlled. Silent. Unfree.
As I reached the door, I allowed myself one last glance at him.
The man who was supposed to protect me was the same man who had thrown me into a lion's den before I even knew how to survive it.
I stepped out and closed the door behind me.
And there, in the hallway, I caught my reflection in an old mirror.
Young.
Too young.
But the fading scratches and bruises from endless training were already etched into my skin—as if they belonged there. As if I belonged to this messy, complicated life.
And then one tear finally fell. Just one. Because now, I understand that I was never meant to be a child.
I was destined to become a Pakhan.
A ruler.
A weapon.
And that truth was far too heavy for a twelve-year-old girl who was about to change the underworld.