Chapter 2: Vodka and Gunmetal
The silence that had enveloped them in the corridor was shattered as they rounded a corner into the main artery of the ministry. A functionary in a cheap suit hurried toward Alexsi, his face pale.
“Commander Volkov. Your father requires you.Immediately. In the secure annex. It’s… procedural. Signatures for the transfer.”
Alexsi stopped. Andrey took half a step forward, a subtle block between the functionary and Mila. Alexsi’s mind raced. The “transfer” paperwork—her civilian identity being formally dissolved into his military file. If he didn’t sign now, in front of witnesses, his father could use the delay to claim non-compliance, to void the fragile protection of the ceremony. It was a trap, but one with legal teeth.
He looked at Mila. She was swaying on her feet, her eyes glazed, lost in whatever cocktail they’d pumped into her. The bloody footprints were a trail leading right to her. He couldn’t take her into that annex. It would be a room full of men like his father, staring, commenting. It would break whatever was left inside her.
“Andrey,” he said, his voice low. “Take her to the small reception room off the Hall of Mirrors. The one with the green settee. Wait with her.”
Andrey’s brows drew together. “I should be with you.”
“She cannot be alone. Not for a second. You know this.”
Andrey’s gaze flicked to the tremors in Mila’s hands. He gave a tight nod. “Five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” Alexsi affirmed. He turned to Mila. He forced his voice softer, though it felt alien in his throat. “You go with him. Sit. I will come soon. Yes?”
She didn’t react. She was a doll, stuffed with sawdust and fear. Alexsi fought a surge of helpless anger. He gave Andrey a final, meaningful look—guard her with your life—and turned to follow the functionary.
The secure annex was exactly as he’d imagined: windowless, smelling of ink and disinfectant. His father and two junior ministers stood over a spread of documents. The conversation was cold, bureaucratic. They needed his signature in twelve places. Each pause, each question Alexsi asked about the clauses pertaining to her medical care and civilian rights, was met with impatience.
“She is your responsibility now, Alexsi Borisovich,” his father said, tapping the paper. “The state has transferred her. Sign. We have a gallery to return to.”
Every second felt like a minute. His skin prickled with the wrongness of it. He scrawled his name, the pen scratching like a nail on stone. The moment the last signature was done, he didn’t wait for dismissal. He turned and walked out, his stride eating up the polished floor.
He detoured to a service closet, grabbing a clean linen cloth meant for polishing silver and a carafe of water from a startled kitchen maid. A blanket. She was shivering. He needed to get her warm, get her out.
The Hall of Mirrors was deserted, the party’s noise a distant murmur. The door to the small reception room was ahead. Andrey was not outside it.
Alexsi’s pace faltered. A cold wire of dread tightened around his ribs.
Then he heard it. Muffled, from behind the heavy oak door. Low, male laughter. A wet, choking sound.
All tactical thought vaporized. He dropped the carafe and blanket. It shattered on the marble, water spreading like a dark stain. He didn’t draw his sidearm. He simply moved.
The door wasn’t locked. He shoved it open.
The scene imprinted itself on his mind with the blinding, permanent detail of a muzzle flash.
The room reeked of cheap cigars and spilled vodka. Three men. Lieutenant Colonel Sokolov, the wife-killer, stood by the sideboard, a service pistol lying carelessly next to a half-empty bottle. He was grinning, his lips wet. Captain Lermontov, a soft-spoken man from logistics with a reputation for kindness, was kneeling on the floor in front of the green velvet settee. And Mila was on her knees between them, held there by Major Zaitsev—the brute from the hall. Zaitsev had a fist twisted in her hair, yanking her head back. Her mouth was forced open, her throat working convulsively as Sokolov tipped a bottle of vodka, the clear liquid sluicing over her lips, chin, and down her neck.
Her dress—the awful lace dress—was ripped open from the neckline to her navel. The fabric gaped, exposing her small breasts, pale skin glistening with spilled alcohol. Lermontov, on his knees, had his hands on her thighs, pushing them apart, his voice a low, soothing murmur. “Shh, little bird. It’s easier if you don’t fight. Just relax. We’ll have a taste, then the commander can have what’s left. It’s just a bit of fun.”
Alexsi didn’t shout. Sound died in him. There was only a roaring vacuum and a calculus of violence.
He crossed the room in three strides. Zaitsev, facing the door, saw him first. The Major’s grin faltered, replaced by surprise. He opened his mouth to say something.
Alexsi’s fist caught him square on the jaw. It wasn’t a punch; it was a demolition. Bone crunched. Zaitsev’s head snapped back, his grip on Mila’s hair wrenching free as he spun and crashed into a mahogany table, sending a lamp shattering to the floor. He didn’t get up.
Sokolov dropped the vodka bottle. It hit the carpet with a thick thud. He went for the gun on the sideboard.
Alexsi was faster. He lunged, grabbing Sokolov’s wrist before his fingers could close on the grip. He spun the older man, driving his knee into his kidney. Sokolov grunted, sagging. Alexsi wrenched the arm up behind his back, high, until the shoulder joint gave a sickening pop. Sokolov screamed, a high, thin sound. Alexsi shoved him face-first into the wall, his nose flattening against the plaster with a wet crack.
He turned. Captain Lermontov had scrambled back, hands up, his face a mask of placating fear. “Alexsi Borisovich! A misunderstanding! We were just—”
Alexsi drew his Makarov. He didn’t aim at Lermontov’s center mass. He aimed at his thigh. The report in the small room was catastrophic, deafening. The bullet tore through Lermontov’s uniform and into the meat of his leg. The captain shrieked, collapsing, clutching at the blossoming red ruin.
The door flew open, rebounding off the wall. Andrey filled the doorway, his face a storm of confusion that resolved into pure, cold fury as he took in the scene: the two men broken on the floor, the third writhing and bleeding, the girl curled into a fetal ball on the settee, clutching the torn fabric of her dress over her breasts, her body wracked with silent, screaming tremors.
“They were here,” Andrey said, the words flat.
“They were starting,” Alexsi replied, his voice scraped raw. He was breathing hard, his knuckles split and bleeding. He looked at Mila. She was staring at him, her eyes wide with a terror so absolute it had gone beyond panic into a kind of shattered blankness. He couldn’t tell what they had done. The dress was open. Lermontov had been between her legs. How far? The question was a knife twist. He made himself assess, clinically. Her skirt was rucked up, but her underthings, those plain cotton things, they were still in place. Untouched. For now.
“Get her out of here,” Alexsi said, holstering his pistol. His hands were steady. Cold. “Use the east stairwell. Take her to the motor court. Get the Chaika. Not the sedan. The Chaika.”
Andrey didn’t question it. The Chaika was a ministry staff car, big, black, armored glass. A statement. He moved toward the settee, his massive form suddenly gentle. He shrugged out of his own dress jacket, the fabric vast, and draped it around Mila’s shoulders. She flinched at the touch, then seemed to sink into the warmth and the sheer size of it, disappearing inside.
“Your feet, little one,” Andrey murmured, his voice a rumble meant to soothe. He looked at the bloody prints on the carpet, then back at her. “I will carry you. Yes?”
She didn’t respond. Andrey simply bent, sliding one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. She buried her face against his chest, a small, shattered thing in a cage of muscle and wool.
Alexsi watched them go. Then he turned back to the wreckage of the room. Sokolov was moaning against the wall. Zaitsev was unconscious. Lermontov was sobbing, trying to staunch the bleeding in his leg.
Alexsi stepped over him. He picked up the service pistol from the sideboard, ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, and pocketed the ammunition. He left the useless weapon on the floor.
He found his father in the main gallery, holding court near the ice sculpture of the ministry’s emblem. Minister Volkov’s smile was thin, practiced. It vanished when he saw his son’s face, the blood on his knuckles, the icy fire in his eyes.
“A word, Minister,” Alexsi said, the title a deliberate insult.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and walked toward a recessed alcove housing a bust of some forgotten general, knowing his father would follow. The murmur of the gallery faded behind them. The marble here was cooler, the light dimmer.
Minister Volkov arrived, his expression taut with controlled annoyance. “This is not the time for your theatrics, Alexsi. Your bride is waiting. The photographs—”
“Sokolov. Zaitsev. Lermontov.” Alexsi cut him off, his voice a low, metallic scrape. “They had her in the green reception room. They’d ripped her clothes open. They were pouring vodka down her throat while Lermontov had his hands between her legs.”
He delivered the facts like a battlefield report.Clean. Brutal. Unadorned.
His father’s face didn’t pale. It hardened, the skin drawing tight over his cheekbones. He processed not the horror, but the implications. The political damage. The challenge to his authority within the ministry’s savage hierarchy. “Lermontov? He’s a weak man. He wouldn’t.”
“He did. I put a bullet in his thigh. I broke Zaitsev’s jaw and Sokolov’s shoulder. They were starting to rape my wife, Minister. In your house. Five minutes after you made her your legal problem.”
The word ‘wife’ hit the air between them, a shield Alexsi now wielded.
“You shot a captain?” His father’s voice was dangerously quiet. “Over a border girl?”
“Over the woman whose name is now in my service file, signed by you.” Alexsi leaned in, the scent of Zaitsev’s blood still on his knuckles. “If I find anyone near her again, I won’t shoot them in the leg. I will scatter their brains on the wallpaper. Make that understood. To everyone.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked away, leaving his father standing in the shadow of the stone general, the calculation already beginning behind his eyes. The cost of this girl was rising.
The Chaika was a black beast idling at the service entrance, its opaque windows reflecting the sodium glow of security lights. Andrey stood beside the open rear door, a monolithic sentry. Alexsi slid into the back seat.
Mila was curled in the far corner, Andrey’s huge dress jacket swallowing her whole. She’d drawn her knees up to her chest, making herself impossibly small. The car’s interior held the faint, formal scent of official leather and petrol. Her breathing was the only sound, a quick, shallow panting that hitched every few seconds.
Andrey got behind the wheel. The big car pulled away smoothly, gliding from the ministry grounds into the sparse late-night traffic. The silence was a physical thing, thick and choking.
Alexsi looked at her. The jacket had slipped, showing the torn lace at her shoulder, the stark line of a bruise on her collarbone. He saw the glint of her eyes in the intermittent streetlight, watching him, wide with a fear so profound it seemed to have its own temperature.
“Mila,” he said, her name soft in the dark car.
She flinched. A full-body tremor.
He didn’t reach for her. He moved slowly, deliberately, leaning forward to open the small refrigerator built into the console. He took out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and held it out toward her, not too close. “You should drink.Water. Not vodka.”
She stared at the bottle, then at his hand. The hand that had just broken bones. That had fired a gun. He kept it steady. After a long moment, one pale hand emerged from the jacket sleeve, shaking so violently she couldn’t grasp it. He didn’t move to help. He just waited.
Her fingers finally closed around the plastic. She pulled it to her chest, clutching it, but didn’t drink.
“It is open,” he said. “It is only water.”
From the driver’s seat, Andrey spoke, his rumble softened. “The blanket is in the boot. Should I stop?”
“No,” Alexsi said. He shrugged out of his own uniform jacket, the wool still warm from his body. He leaned over and draped it carefully over her legs, on top of Andrey’s giant one. It was a gesture of covering, of warmth, not of confinement. She stared at the addition of fabric, her breath catching.
“You are safe now,” Alexsi said, stating it as a fact, willing it to be true. “Those men will not touch you again.”
Her eyes finally lifted to his. The terror in them was now mixed with a desperate, searching confusion. Her lips, chapped and stained with red lipstick and vodka, parted. A whisper crawled out, hoarse and broken. “You speak… to me?”
Russian. She understood. She had understood everything the whole time.
The realization was a punch to his gut. She had heard every vile comment in the hall, every grinding joke. She had heard his flat “Da” at the ceremony. She had heard Lermontov’s soothing lies as he pushed her thighs apart.
“Yes,” Alexsi said, his own voice rough. “I am speaking to you.”
A single tear broke free, tracking through the ruined makeup on her cheek. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I did not answer before. I was… they said not to speak. I am sorry.”
She was apologizing. To him. For being silent while they sold and savaged her. The injustice of it choked him. It was several seconds before he could form words. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”
She didn’t believe him. He could see it. She saw a commander, a Volkov, a man of violence who had just claimed a damaged commodity. She was waiting for the bill to come due. She took a tiny, convulsive sip of water, then another, like a bird at a frozen puddle.
“Where are we going?” The question was so small.
“A place to rest. A hotel. Not my father’s apartment. A clean place.”
She nodded, a mechanical bob of her head. Her eyes drifted to his hands, resting on his own knees. She saw the split knuckles, the smears of blood that weren’t his. She looked away quickly, her shoulders hunching further. The Chaika moved through the sleeping city, past monolithic apartment blocks where a million unseen lives played out behind identical windows.
After twenty minutes, Andrey pulled under the porte-cochère of the Aurora, an opulent, old-world hotel used by the ministry for sensitive guests. Its cream facade was impeccably maintained, its awning a deep maroon. It spoke of discreet service and no questions.
Andrey killed the engine. “I’ll secure the suite.”
He disappeared inside, a mountain moving with purpose. Alexsi turned to Mila. “Can you walk?”
She looked at her bare feet, tucked under the jackets. She nodded again, that same awful, automatic motion. She moved to push the jackets aside, her movements stiff and pained.
“Wait,” Alexsi said. He got out, circled the car, and opened her door. He offered his hand, not his arm this time. A choice. An offer of balance, not possession.
She stared at his open palm. Then, with a tremulous breath, she placed her icy, shaking fingers in his. Her touch was feather-light, ready to snap away. He closed his hand gently, providing a stable anchor as she slid out, the oversized jackets pooling around her like a stole. Her feet were dirty, cut, stained with dried blood from the marble floors. She winced as they touched the cold pavement.
Without a word, Alexsi bent and gathered her into his arms. She went rigid, a stifled gasp catching in her throat. “Your feet are injured,” he said simply, and carried her through the rotating doors.
The lobby was a cavern of muted gold and crystal, empty save for a night manager who took one look at Andrey’s lethal expression and Alexsi’s bloodied hands carrying a shrouded woman and silently proffered a key. The elevator ascended in a hum of polished brass.
The suite was vast, coldly luxurious. A sitting room with brocade furniture, a bedroom with a giant bed, a bathroom of shining black marble. Andrey had already opened the windows a crack, letting in the faint, cold breath of the night to chase out the sterile smell.
Alexsi set Mila down on a low, wide divan in the sitting room. She immediately drew her feet up, hiding them. Andrey returned from the bedroom, holding a thick hotel robe. “I’ll stand watch in the corridor. No one gets on this floor.”
“Thank you,” Alexsi said, and the words carried the weight of their shared life.
Andrey left, closing the door softly. The silence in the suite was different now. Private. Heavy with unspent trauma.
Alexsi knelt on the carpet before the divan, putting himself below her eye level. He saw her watching his every move, a rabbit tracking a wolf. He pointed to a door. “That is the bathroom. There is a shower. The water will be hot.” He pointed to the robe Andrey had left. “That is for you. It is clean.”
She just stared, her arms wrapped around herself inside the jackets.
“Mila,” he said, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Do you need a doctor?”
The reaction was instantaneous. Her eyes flew wide, and she shook her head violently, a frantic, side-to-side motion. “No. Nyet. Please. No doctor.” The words tumbled out, laced with fresh panic. “No one. Please. They… they report. They tell. They touch. No.”
Her fear was crystalline, specific. Doctors were part of the system. They would examine, document, report to the ministry. They would touch her hurting body with clinical, violating hands.
“Alright,” Alexsi said, his voice steady, an anchor in her terror. “No doctor. I promise you.”
She searched his face, looking for the lie. Finding none, some of the frantic energy bled out, leaving behind a vast, exhausted trembling. She believed him. In this, at least, she was starting to believe. The two men had gotten her out. They had not hurt her. Yet.
“What do you need?” he asked. “Tell me.”
It was too big a question. He saw her mind struggling with it, like a machine given an impossible equation. Her needs were a mountain she had no strength to climb. Autonomy was a curse when every choice was laced with fear.
She looked down at herself, at the torn lace, the drying vodka, the blood, the unseen filth of their hands. Revulsion twisted her features. “I am… spoiled,” she whispered, the word wretched. “For you. I am ruined.”
He understood then. She wasn’t just afraid of punishment. She was convinced she was now a defective object, a purchase fouled before it could be used, and that his rage—hidden behind his calm—was because his property had been devalued. The heartbreak he felt was a physical crack in his chest.
“Mila, no. Look at me.” He waited until her wet, dark eyes lifted. “You are not spoiled. You are not ruined. You are hurt. By criminals. That is all.”
She didn’t believe that either. Her hand, still trembling, moved from clutching the jacket. It strayed toward his waist, fingers reaching hesitantly for the belt of his uniform trousers. A gesture of terrified submission. An offer to perform the wifely duty she assumed he must now, in his anger, want to claim. She expected violence. She was trying to preempt it. She doesn’t want to get shot too.
Alexsi captured her wrist before her fingers could touch the leather. He didn’t grab. He simply enclosed her slender wrist in his hand, stopping its progress. Her skin was freezing. “No,” he said, the word final and kind. “That is not what I want. That is not what will happen.”
Tears welled again, silent and overwhelming. She was lost, adrift in a script she no longer understood.
He kept her wrist in his gentle hold, a tactile connection to pull her back. “Listen to me. You are safe. You are in a room with a lock. Andrey is outside the door. I am going to help you, but you must tell me how. Can you do that?”
She swallowed, her throat working. She tried to gather herself, to calm the tempest inside. She looked toward the bathroom door, then at her own dirty hands. “I want…,” she began, her voice cracking. “The smell. I can smell them.The vodka. Their cigars.”
“You want to wash,” he said.
She nodded, a grateful, pathetic little motion.
“Okay.” He released her wrist. “Can you wash by yourself?”
A flicker of shame. She looked at her arms, her body, assessing her own weakness. The adrenaline was gone, leaving a bone-deep fatigue and a pain that seemed to radiate from every bruise. She tried to stand, her legs buckling immediately. Alexsi caught her elbow, steadying her. She shook her head, defeated. “I… cannot reach. My back. My hair. I am… tired.”
“I can help you,” he said. “If you allow it. I will only help you wash. Nothing else.”
She studied him for a long, long moment. The man who had carried her from the hall of vultures. Who had covered her with his jacket. Who had promised no doctor. Who had just refused her terrified attempt at offering her body. A fragile, impossible trust began to knit itself together from sheer exhaustion and desperation.
“Can you… help?” she finally breathed. “Clean me up. Maybe.”
“Of course.”
He rose. “Wait here.” He went into the bedroom, stripping the heavy coverlet from the bed and carrying it back to the divan. He wrapped it around her, a giant cocoon of soft cotton. Then he went to the suite door, opened it, and nodded to Andrey. “I need you inside.”
Andrey entered, filling the room. He saw Mila bundled on the divan and his expression softened. “What’s the plan, boss?”
“We’re going to get her clean. I need you here.”
Understanding dawned on Andrey’s broad face. His presence was a chaperone, a witness to Alexsi’s honor, a safety for her. “Right.”
Alexsi went to his luggage, retrieved a simple, grey cotton shirt of his own. It would be enormous on her. He held it up. “Would this be acceptable to wear after? It is clean.”
She nodded silently.
“Alright.” He approached her. “Andrey is going to carry you to the bathroom.