Vendetta's Throne

Anastasia's heart remained heavy as she learned about the upcoming visitor to Grace Orphanage home.

Unlike the other children, who buzzed with excitement at the thought of potential adoption, Anastasia's heart felt nothing but a deep, unyielding dread.

Her past encounters with potential families had all ended in disappointment. Each time, she'd watch as their initial interest turned into discomfort, their smiles fading as they labeled her 'too weird,' 'too different,' or 'too unusual.'

It has been the same for two years. She stays without friends, except for Jack, the only child who didn't judge her.

The other children whispered behind her back, their voices dripping with the cruel word, "weird."

But life hadn't always been this way. Anastasia had once been an only child, cherished and adored by her loving parents.

Everything had seemed perfect, until that fateful night when her world was consumed by flames. She was only six when the fire tore through their home.

In the chaos, her mother, in an act of desperate love, had thrown her to safety just before the firefighters arrived. It was the last time Anastasia ever saw her mother alive.

Orphaned and without any relatives to turn to, Anastasia was taken in by the orphanage. The longing for her parents never left her, a constant ache that gnawed at her soul.

"Anastasia, why don't you wear this today?" The caretaker gently held up a gown. It was Anastasia's favorite dress, one she rarely wore, reserved for only the most special occasions.

Anastasia didn't respond. The caretaker's gesture confirmed what Anastasia had already suspected: that day's visitor was no ordinary guest. This was someone important.

Meanwhile, in a lavishly decorated sitting room, Igor, a notorious mafia lord of the Taipans gang, sat in brooding silence.

He was thirty-eight years old, tall and strikingly good-looking, with a smooth bald head that contrasted sharply with his well-groomed beard and deep brown eyes.

His seven-year marriage to Polina had been anything but ordinary. She was good looking as well and ten years younger than him.

Their union, forged in power and wealth, had faced many challenges, but none as heartbreaking as their inability to have children.

For years, Polina had pleaded with Igor to consider adoption, but he had always resisted, until now.

His decision to adopt was not born of sudden compassion but of resigned pragmatism. The empire he had built needed an heir, and despite being a Mafia Boss, he isn't the type to womanize.

"I still don't understand why you insisted on not getting a child from Yekaterinburg," Polina remarked, her voice tinged with frustration.

They had been discussing the adoption for days, but Igor had refused to consider children from their hometown.

Igor ignored her, his gaze fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth. Determined to break the silence that had settled between them, Polina tried again.

"We haven't even decided on the gender. Which would you prefer?"

That was a desperate attempt to connect with her husband, who had grown increasingly distant since they had learned the truth about her inability to bear children.

Igor swirled the rich red wine in his glass before taking a slow, deliberate sip, his gaze cold and distant.

Before she could muster the courage to speak again, Cassanova, Igor's trusted right-hand man, entered the room.

"Everything is ready," Cassanova whispered.

Igor nodded, setting his glass aside with finality. Rising to his full height, he adjusted the hem of his luxurious black suit. His shoes, polished to a mirror-like shine, reflected the dim light of the room as he stepped toward the door.

"Let's go," he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Polina opened her mouth to respond, but Igor cut her off with a single glance.

"And I'd appreciate a quiet flight," he added.

Polina felt the heat of embarrassment rise to her cheeks. Swallowing her pride, she nodded and trailed behind him, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor as they made their way to the waiting private jet.

The flight was as silent as Igor had demanded. They landed in Tver City, where two sleek, black cars awaited them in the Altiport. Within minutes, they were en route to the orphanage. The ride was short, barely nine minutes, but to Polina, it felt like an eternity.

When they finally arrived at the orphanage, the staff was already assembled. The reverend sister in charge greeted them warmly, her voice tinged with the practiced cheer of someone accustomed to such visits.

"Welcome, you must be Mister Igor. I am Mother Superior, Reverend Sister Juliet," she greeted warmly

She then turned toward Polina, her expression softening with a touch of sympathy.

"And you must be the wife," she added, her tone suggesting she already knew which of them was the most eager for a child.

Polina offered a brief, polite smile.

"Yes, I'm Polina," she replied.

"Please, follow me to my office so we can complete the necessary paperwork," the reverend sister suggested.

As they approached the office, Igor's steps slowed slightly, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a calculating gaze.

"Normally, we recommend a home visit first, to ensure you're comfortable with the child you've chosen," the reverend sister gently said as she reviewed the paperwork.

Polina responded politely.

"We don't have time for that. I'm sure we'll be satisfied with the choice we make today."

The reverend sister paused, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"May I ask why you've come all the way from Yekaterinburg? There are orphanages closer to your home."

Before Polina could reply, Igor cut in, his voice sharp and dismissive.

"Can we see the children now?" He made it clear that he had no intention of answering questions that delved into their personal affairs.

The reverend sister rose from her chair, gesturing for them to follow. She led them through the orphanage, stopping first in the section reserved for newborns and toddlers.

The room was filled with the soft coos and cries of infants, a gentle cacophony that seemed to wrap around Polina's heart. Her eyes welled with tears at the sight of the tiny, innocent faces.

Igor, however, remained unimpressed. His eyes scanned the room with a cold detachment.

His heart, hardened by years of dealing with betrayal and violence, remained untouched by the innocence around him. With each passing minute, his impatience grew.

They moved on to the next section, where slightly older children played quietly. As they walked, Polina picked up a crying baby, instinctively cradling the child against her chest. The baby's cries softened into small whimpers, soothed by Polina's gentle touch.

"Do you want this baby?" the reverend sister asked softly, noticing the way Polina held the child.

Polina looked over at Igor, seeking his approval, but he barely glanced in their direction.

"We haven't decided yet," she replied, her voice wavering slightly.

The reverend sister nodded, sensing the unspoken tension between the couple.

Igor, his face set in a mask of stoic indifference, seemed far removed from the emotions swirling inside Polina. For him, this was merely a transaction, a necessary step to secure an heir and maintain his legacy.

Frustrated, he excused himself and wandered out of the waiting room. As he strolled through the garden, something caught his eye. Off to the side, partially hidden behind a hedge, was a young girl, lost in her own world.

Igor's instincts told him she was hiding, but it wasn't fear that kept her secluded, it was focus. She was hunched over a piece of paper, painting with intense concentration.

Intrigued, Igor observed her quietly. Just then, her caretaker appeared.

"There you are, Anastasia!" she scolded. "Look at your dress! You've ruined it with all that paint!"

The caretaker's voice was sharp, but Anastasia barely flinched, her eyes lingering on her work until the woman hurriedly pulled her away.

Igor watched as the caretaker led Anastasia inside, but his curiosity was piqued. He walked over to the spot where she had been sitting and picked up the piece of paper she had been painting. The image on it stopped him cold.

A dagger. Stark and menacing, yet intricately detailed, the blade seemed to glint on the paper as though it were real.

Igor scoffed, there was a flicker of something unexpected, impressed curiosity. How could an eight-year-old girl conceive of such a thing, let alone draw it with such precision?

He folded the paper carefully and made his way back inside.

When he found Polina, she was surrounded by a group of children, her eyes sparkling with the joy he hadn't seen in years.

"I love these children, Igor. I wish I could take them all," she said, her voice filled with genuine emotion.

"Of course, you always desire what you can't have."

Polina's smile faltered, her joy evaporating in an instant. His words struck her like a physical blow, leaving her heart aching.

Igor's eyes locked onto the reverend sister as he held up the drawing. "I want the girl who drew this in the garden," he announced.

The sister hesitated, taking the paper from him and examining the intricate dagger drawn with such unsettling precision. There was no mistaking the artist.

"Anastasia?" she asked. "You want her?"

"I didn't stutter," Igor replied coldly.

The reverend's sister's mind raced. Normally, a man with Igor's demeanor would have been met with resistance, adopting a child wasn't a decision made lightly, especially with someone who exuded such darkness. But Anastasia was a special case, and not in a way that endeared her to the staff.

For two long years, Anastasia had been a thorn in their sides, her mischievous antics causing more trouble than good. She had a knack for getting even. Whenever she was reprimanded, she would find a way to exact her revenge.

There was the time she'd gone to the garden, collecting a swarm of soldier ants only to hide them in the reverend sister's gown. The aftermath was a disaster, her body was left swollen and itchy for days.

There was also a night when a little girl refused to share her toy with Jack, Anastasia's only friend. Later that night, Anastasia had quietly gathered every toy that the girl owned and burned them in hearth. The reverend sister caught her but it was too late.

Anastasia was a challenge, a child whose darkness seemed to mirror that of the man standing before her.

"Very well," the sister finally said, a faint, almost relieved smile. "I'll get her for you."

Igor was not the kind of man who would be easily manipulated or frightened. If anyone could handle Anastasia, it was him. And if not, well, the orphanage would finally be rid of the girl who had caused them so much trouble.

When Anastasia heard that she was going to be adopted, a rare smile spread across her face.

"But... I'll have to leave Jack," she whispered, her voice tinged with sadness. It was the first time she had expressed vulnerability in years. The reverend sister allowed her to say her goodbyes to Jack.

"We typically conduct follow-up visits after an adoption, to ensure the child is adjusting well," the sister began.

"But considering the distance... I suppose I can handle that over the phone." Her words were carefully chosen, her tone revealing a subtle relief.

Igor gave a curt nod, his focus already elsewhere, as if the conversation was merely a formality.

As soon as they left, the reverend sister wasted no time. She walked briskly to the records room, carrying Anastasia's file in her hands. It was a thick file, filled with years of documented mischief, warnings, and incidents that had caused endless headaches for the staff.

Without hesitation, she shoved the file into a dusty, forgotten corner of the reductant shelf, a place reserved for cases of children above eighteen and living on their own, and children that died.

There would be no follow-ups, no phone calls, no concern for what might become of Anastasia.

Anastasia's heart raced with excitement as the plane ascended into the skies, carrying her away from the familiar yet suffocating world of Tver City and toward the unknown life awaiting her in Yekaterinburg.

When they finally touched down and made their way to the mansion, Anastasia's breath caught in her throat.

The mansion was nothing short of a grand spectacle, a sight more magnificent than anything she had ever seen, even in the vivid stories she'd read or the images she had glimpsed on television. It loomed before her like a castle from a fairy tale.

The entrance was flanked by imposing security personnel. A line of uniformed maidens stood at attention, with white uniforms.

"Take her to the room allocated to her, and make sure she's properly cleaned up," Igor ordered.

One of the maidens, a woman with a gentle smile stepped forward and motioned for Anastasia to follow her. She followed, her small feet echoing softly on the polished marble floors.

They ascended a grand staircase that spiraled upward, each step taking her further into the heart of this majestic home. The walls were adorned with lavish tapestries and ornate paintings, each one telling stories of wealth and power that were far beyond her understanding.

Finally, they reached a large, double-door room. The maiden pushed the doors open.

"This is your room," the woman announced.

Anastasia stepped inside, her wide eyes taking in every detail. The ceiling seemed to stretch on forever, adorned with intricate designs that caught the light from a grand chandelier hanging overhead.

A plush, king-sized bed dominated the side of the room, its silk sheets a rich shade of deep crimson. The windows, draped in heavy velvet curtains, overlooked the sprawling gardens below.

It was more than a room, it was a realm of luxury and comfort she had never imagined in her wildest dreams. Everything was extravagant, tailored for someone who was meant to be more than ordinary.

The woman led her to an adjoining bathroom that was equally grand. The mansion's beauty was undeniable, but there was something else beneath it, something that made her uneasy.

"What's your name, little one, and how old are you?" the lady asked, her tone gentle.

"I'm Anastasia. I'm eight years old," she replied.

"That's a sweet name, Ana," the lady responded with a warm smile. "Call me Nana. While you're here, be sure to be respectful."

As she spoke, she began tending to Anastasia, carefully helping her to freshen up and changing her into a new outfit.

Anastasia's old belongings were discarded, her past life literally burned away. She took a small bracelet from her items, one of the few remnants from that tragic night when her parents had perished.

In the months that followed, Anastasia began adjusting to her new surroundings. The mansion was a world of abundance, food, clothes, toys, and so on. Yet, the fourth floor, where Igor's office was located, remained a forbidden zone, its access strictly off-limits.

Igor has been watching her closely but from afar, hoping she was exactly what he needed.

One evening, he summoned her from the garden. Anastasia, lost in her own world of games and television, took her time to respond.

Igor's anger was noticeable as she approached. "Why are you just coming?" he demanded.

Before she could even begin to explain, Igor's hand shot out in a swift, brutal motion. The back of his palm struck her cheek with a force that sent her sprawling to the ground. The impact was sharp and sudden, a searing pain that made her vision blur.

Anastasia rolled on the gravel path, clutching her stinging cheeks. The pain radiated through her face, and she whimpered, her small body trembling from the shock and hurt. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the dirt as she lay there.

Igor watched her from above, his expression cold and unfeeling. The punishment seemed less about discipline and more about asserting dominance, a reminder of the unyielding control he wielded over her new life.

As Anastasia lay on the ground, the reality of her situation settled in, this grand, beautiful prison came with its own set of harsh rules, and the line between comfort and cruelty was thin and easily crossed.

"Go," Igor commanded.

Anastasia's mind swirled with confusion and hurt. Why was he angry?

She returned to her room. In a sudden burst of fury, she snatched her toy and hurled it against the wall with all the strength her small frame could muster.

Nana, the maid who had always been a source of comfort and care, entered the room. The sight of Anastasia's trembling form made Nana's heart ache.

"Ana, what's the matter?" Nana asked softly, her voice a balm to Anastasia's wounded spirit.

"Igor slapped me," Anastasia's voice cracked as she spoke, her small shoulders heaving with the effort to hold back fresh tears.

Nana sighed deeply, she knew Igor demanded Anastasia to call him by his name, never 'father,' a rule that didn't seem okay.

"I'm sorry," Nana whispered, placing a gentle hand on Anastasia's shoulder. "Try not to offend him, okay?"

Anastasia wiped the tears from her eyes with a fierce determination, her small hand trembling as it clenched into a fist. The desire for revenge began to take root within her.

"You should eat dinner," Nana suggested.

Anastasia shook her head, a faint, almost imperceptible gesture, indicating that she wasn't hungry.

"Come on," Nana coaxed. "I'll prepare your favourite fish soup." She tried to inject a sense of cheerfulness into her words.

A small, reluctant smile began to creep across her face. Nana's own lips curled into a quick, relieved smile, a mirror to Anastasia's, before she turned and made her way to the kitchen.

Though Polina was Anastasia's foster mother in name, she wasn't always present. Polina was always too busy, too preoccupied with her own affairs to notice the small, everyday moments that were shaping Anastasia's life.

It was Nana who had been there through it all: comforting her nightmares, tending to her bruises, and celebrating her small victories.

Nana wondered if Polina even realized what she was missing, how precious these fleeting moments with Anastasia were.

The next morning, Igor prepared to leave the house. Polina placed a steaming omelet before him. He took a bite, his expression shifting from indifferent to disgusted in an instant.

He spat the food back onto his plate, his face contorted with anger.

"What is this?" he snarled, pushing the plate away with a force that rattled the silverware.

Polina froze in confusion. She had made the breakfast herself.

Without another word, Igor rose from the table, his chair scraping harshly against the floor as he stormed out of the room.

Polina leaned down to taste the omelet herself. The overpowering saltiness hit her tongue, and she quickly spat it out, bewildered at how something so simple could go so wrong.

From the doorway, Anastasia watched, her small frame hidden but her eyes sharp with satisfaction. A smirk tugged at her lips as she witnessed the chaos she had sown.

The guilt pricked at her for involving Polina, but the satisfaction of seeing Igor suffer even in a small way was worth it.

This was her first act of rebellion, a childish revenge that brought her fleeting joy. Yet, as days turned into weeks, Anastasia began to understand that not every slight could be avenged.

Her once carefree existence began to wither under the oppressive shadow that Igor cast. The man she had known as cold and distant was now revealing himself to be something far more sinister.

One evening Igor left the house. Whispers, once ignored became undeniable.

Igor was not just a tyrant within the walls of their home, he was a Mafia Boss, leading the notorious Taipan gang. His life was a web of deceit, power, and violence, entangled with government officials who turned a blind eye in exchange for his favors.

In the dimly lit warehouse, the air was thick with the scent of dust. Igor stood at the center his eyes cold.

The flicker of a single overhead bulb cast eerie shadows across his face as he took a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette.

Across from him, the police lieutenant shifted uncomfortably, flanked by six of his men who stood with a misplaced sense of confidence.

"Igor, this is too much," the lieutenant began. "You have to wait a little while before exporting those drugs. I'm not done wrapping up the last one."

Igor remained silent, his presence alone enough to command the room. His four men stood like statues behind him, their expressions unreadable.

The lieutenant cleared his throat, pushing forward despite the dread creeping into his bones. "I suggest you wait until next month to export the drugs."

Igor, unhurried and seemingly unaffected, tapped his cigarette, letting the ashes fall to the concrete floor like grains of sand in an hourglass.

"John, there are only two types of people I know," Igor said. "Those on my side and those against me."

The lieutenant's confidence cracked. His throat tightened, and he quickly stammered, "There's no need to say that, you know I'm by your side."

Igor's lips curled into a subtle smirk, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he exhaled his cigarette smoke. Without breaking his gaze, he snapped his fingers. The sound echoed through the warehouse.

The sharp retorts of suppressed gunfire echoed briefly, then faded, leaving behind the cold, lifeless bodies of the lieutenant and his men sprawled across the concrete floor.

Igor stood unflinching, he used his finger to wipe the blood on his forehead. The smoke from his cigarette mingling with the gunpowder that lingered in the air.

"Well," he mused, his voice dripping with dark amusement, "I think this town will need a new obedient lieutenant."

He cast a sidelong glance at Casanova, his ever-loyal right-hand man and bodyguard, whose presence was as imposing as it was unshakable.

Casanova nodded slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the bloodshed. This was the world they ruled, a world where loyalty was absolute, and betrayal met with swift, merciless retribution.

Igor's dominance was absolute, his power extending far beyond the shadowed corners of the underworld.

Rival gangs crumbled beneath his iron fist, their leaders eliminated with a precision that left no room for resistance. The town, once rife with competing factions, now bowed under the weight of his control.

Politicians, once untouchable in their ivory towers, found themselves seeking Igor's favor, aligning their ambitions with his deadly influence. They knew that to oppose him was to invite their own downfall, their integrity sold to the highest bidder.

As the bodies were swiftly cleared from the warehouse, Igor knew that this was just another victory in his relentless rise to power.

Back at home, having finished cleaning her room, Anastasia found herself adrift in a sea of boredom.

Igor had given her strict instructions about where she could and couldn't go, but her curiosity, sharp and insistent, urged her to explore beyond those boundaries.

Her room on the second floor became her starting point. As she stepped into the hallway, a nervous flutter tightened in her chest.

The creak of the old stairs echoed in the silence as she ascended to the third floor. Here, she discovered the separate rooms of Igor and Polina. Two other doors lined the hallway.

Anastasia found herself standing at the base of the stairs leading to the fourth floor. She hesitated, this part of the house felt different. But the curiosity that had pushed her this far wouldn't let her turn back now.

With a deep breath, she ascended further, her footsteps light and cautious. At the top, she found herself in a narrow passageway. The silence here was thick, almost tangible, pressing against her as she approached the first door.

Gingerly, she pushed it open, revealing a vast conference room. The sight of the neatly arranged chairs around the large table, all facing forward as if waiting for some clandestine gathering, sent a shiver down her spine. She quickly exited.

Her hand hovered over the next door, her heart pounding in her ears. With a trembling resolve, she turned the knob and stepped inside. It was Igor's office.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed the disturbing art that adorned the wall. A gruesome painting dominated the room, depicting a man drenched in blood, surrounded by a sea of lifeless bodies.

The horror of the image rooted Anastasia to the spot, her breath hitching. She quivered, every instinct screaming at her to leave.

A soft whimper escaped Anastasia's lips as she turned, her wide eyes landing on a polished black sculpture of a naked woman, the gleaming surface reflecting the room's eerie, muted light.

Panic surged through her, and she decided she had to leave, now. But just as she reached for the door, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hallway. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she froze, terror rooting her to the spot.