Melissa
"White swan. Nah. Black swan as always."
11 months ago...
1 day before Mel ran away...
The echo of gunshots reverberated through the walls of the shooting range, sharp and clear. The air was thick with the smell of metal and gunpowder, a stark contrast to the silence and open space outside. Calm and composed, I stood at one of the firing positions, adjusting the sights. Misha, always ready to support but a bit overly insistent, stood behind me, offering advice that felt more like instructions. And I couldn't understand why he still hadn't figured it outâI was better than him.
But I liked the feeling and his company. The shooting range was always quiet, almost painfully so. Only the sound of the shots, as though an invisible wave of vibration rippled through the air, interrupted the silence. Standing on the line, my hands trembled slightly with tension, but I couldn't afford to doubt. My gaze had to stay focused, and my face expressed not so much concentration, but a battle with myself.
Everything around me was familiar. Always. But not at this moment. Flashbacks, feelings of anxiety and fear, those moments before the shotsâthey mixed with something new. I could feel the cold metal of the weapon in my hands, as though it were not a part of me, but an alien object to be tamed. Fear had always been with me, but now it took on a new form. It didn't paralyze me; instead, it became something sharper, chilling the mind. The realization that every shot could be the last left an unpleasant sense of hopelessness, but that too was part of the game.
I remembered playing with other kids when I was younger, pretending to be shooters. It seemed easy then, even fun. But now, with real weapons in my hands, the feelings had changed. And though fear was present, with each shot, it receded, giving way to calm determination. I couldn't afford to be afraid. Each shot proved that I could control my destiny, even if sometimes that control felt like an illusion.
A strange feeling rose in my soulâa mix of excitement and detachment. This was not just physical training; it was an internal battle. I focused on my breathing, listening to every shift, every gust of wind from the ventilation that could affect my shot's accuracy. In those moments, the world seemed to narrow down to the target, and everything around disappeared.
Often, I had to fight not just external threats but myself. Every shot was not only a test of accuracy but a test of resilience. I understood that not everything in life could be controlled, but here, at the range, I had some chance to win, to not give up.
When I raised the gun again, I felt empty, as if I were resetting myself in that moment. I wasn't thinking about the past or looking at the future. It was pure, momentary concentration. But after each shot, when the hole appeared on Milena's target, a weight settled in my soul. It wasn't a triumph of victory but some invisible heaviness that was becoming more familiar.
Because... I no longer want this life.
"Remember, don't rush." Misha said, his voice calm but firm. "The target isn't going anywhere. Steadily hold the weapon, focus on your breathing."
"Misha, look at your target."
"What?"
"Look."
"Okay."
I nodded, gripping the pistol tightly. My stance was confident, but I couldn't ignore the anxiety growing in my chest. I'd been to the shooting range many times, but today something felt off. Maybe it was because of Leah, who stood in the corner, hugging herself, her eyes wide with fear. Though noâshe always acted like that.
I was sure I pulled the trigger three times. The gunpowder hung in the air, but I placed the weapon on the stand and smiled when all three shots hit dead center.
"Compare that," I turned to him and rolled my eyes. "I'm better."
"I know."
"Then why the hell do you keep teaching me?"
"You always do better what you want to prove." He smirked.
I clicked my tongue but looked at Leah.
"Look at her..." I removed my plastic glasses. "She sits with headphones and glasses but trembles with fear every time."
Leah's gaze darted from me to the target and back, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her hands shook slightly, and the way she stood, almost pressed against the wall, clearly indicated that she was not here by choice. The sound of the shots seemed to tear her composure apart with every shock, every echo, reminding her of her deep unease with firearms.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Misha asked, turning to her, his voice softer when he noticed her state. When she removed the headphones, she could hear him.
Leah didn't answer immediately, her eyes fixed on the floor. Her body tensed with every shot that shattered the silence.
"I... I don't like this," she murmured, her voice barely audible, words intertwined with anxiety. "It's too loud... too much. And you always drag me along." Leah looked at me.
"Right." I leaned against the stand and crossed my arms. "I'm waiting for you to become strong. You work in the mafia world, but flinch like a puppy at every shot."
"Mel..." Misha sighed.
"No, Mel is right, I need to handle this." Leah quickly replied, though her voice gave her away. "It's just... I don't like it. It's too much. But... in time, I'll manage." Her attempt made me smile.
Misha turned his gaze to me again. "Maybe we should take a break? Leah's right. We've been here quite a while."
I hesitated, but then took the gun to hand it to him and stepped back from the stand. The anxiety in my chest was growing stronger, and I could no longer ignore the feeling. I hadn't realized how much Leah's fear was affecting my own concentration.
Or maybe it was that feeling that, with every hour, I longed to be in another world. Far away from Roman, death, and power. I knew I was ready for something else.
Leah, sensing the change in atmosphere, looked up and gave me a grateful glance. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I just needed a little time."
"Don't apologize. Women aren't made for this." I heard Misha scoff, but I didn't care.
"Are you really okay?" Misha asked warily, seeing how pale Leah looked. "You look like you're about to fall over."
"Misha, she's as pale as death, but she's standing firmly on her feet, right?"
Leah quickly nodded, trying to smile. "Right."
"Good girl."
"So, are we leaving?" I stood next to Misha.
Leah fell silent, then nodded. "I want to, but I... I don't want to spoil your fun."
I met Misha's gaze, and we both understood what was going on. Life had been really tough for Leah latelyâwork problems, emotional pressure from recent months, and now this unexpected trip to the shooting range. No wonder she felt overwhelmed. I'd spent a lot of time with them to understand when they were feeling down.
"We can always come up with something else to do," Misha said gently.
I nodded in agreement. "Agreed. Any ideas?"
"For example, you could drag your ass to your own wedding anniversary."
I elbowed him in the side. "No."
"You're avoiding it, but queens don't do that."
Leah smiled faintly, though a shadow of sadness remained in her eyes. "Exactly. You just taught me to be strong, but you're hiding."
"Right, because I don't care." My eyes closed. "My feet won't be at that party."
"You will." My eyes snapped open when I heard Kirill's voice. He was standing at the exit, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.
"Oh, so now you're a dog?"
"And now you're running away?"
"You want me to be there so badly that I realized... I'm not the one who does something on command." I walked up to him.
"Let's go."
"Fuck you."
"Women shouldn't curse."
"Men shouldn't speak."
"Don't play that game." His breath brushed my cheek, and I smiled.
"Then go with me to that celebration as though I'm yours," I whispered. "Because you dream of it."
And I really was going to do it. In black. Because my marriage to Roman is mourning.
***
"You're an unbearable woman, aren't you?" Kirill said as I entered the great hall of the gang's mansion. Next to him. Holding his elbow. In a black dress. On my wedding anniversary. "Whose funeral is it?" His eyes were on my black outfit.
"I haven't decided yet." I looked around. "I prefer yours."
"But not today." He chuckled as we walked deeper. There were a lot of people around, all looking at us, but even if this was a show for my husband who decided that I would celebrate our anniversary, I didn't even want to try to find him with my eyes.
"And then what?" He turned me towards him and pressed my nose into his chest. We were in the center of a large hall.
"I don't like you, but dance with me." I clucked, not knowing what I wanted from all this. "And preferably - keep quiet." He nodded, because I knew he wanted me.
As the music began, a light, barely perceptible waltz, I stood in front of him, my gaze focused, but at the same time there was some hidden sadness in it. Kirill was confident, his eyes were calm, but there was some anxiety in them. He extended his hand to me, and I, without hesitation, placed my palm in his. Our fingers squeezed together, creating an invisible connection that had already existed before that moment, even if we were not yet aware of it. It was not just a gesture, it was a promise that we made to each other in that moment - a promise of power, a promise to tear each other apart when we left here.
The first step was cautious, as if we were both testing how much we could be trusted in this silent tirade we were about to lead through the dance. He led me, and she, like a stream of water, yielded to his movements, following him without feeling resistance. Our bodies moved in the same rhythm, as if obeying an invisible force. He held me close, but not too close. There was a small but noticeable gap between us, like a distance between two worlds that we had to overcome for everyone around us.
My movements were smooth but reserved, as if I was afraid that all this closeness could be ruined by one wrong step. As if I felt that this could end badly for me because of Roman. But he doesn't care, right? His hands were strong but gentle, he led me but didn't rush, giving me the opportunity to follow him, not rush forward. We moved around the room, waltzing, as if dancing with past memories, with our personal experiences that were never spoken out loud. There were no words in this dance, but there was everything - anticipation, and unresolved feelings, and desires that we could not express otherwise.
Once upon a time... I thought he was my friend. When Roman betrayed my love, I really found solace in Kirill, but everything suddenly collapsed when he fell in love with me. And I understand his hatred now and yet I am in love with a man I hate.
My gaze was drawn to his eyes, but there was no fear or desire in them, only a deep sadness, as if I were searching for answers to questions I could not ask out loud. He did not turn away, did not avoid my gaze, but he did not try to unravel my secrets. He simply moved with me, driven by the same inner feeling I felt - a sense of emptiness and a search for something more.
As the music grew louder, his steps became more determined, and he led me to a faster tempo. I gave in, my body relaxed more and more, and at some point, when I raised my head, that invisible distance between us disappeared. Now we were one, and each of our steps, each turn was not just a dance, but a story about what we had experienced and what was yet to be experienced. Perhaps.
As the music faded, the dance slowed, our movements slowed, but we held on to each other. In that moment, the world around us seemed to disappear - there was only the couple, our breath, our movements, and some magical moment when everything seemed possible. We froze in our last movement, and I pressed myself against him, feeling his heart beat in unison with my own.
"What are you doing to me?" I woke up from how hoarse his voice sounded.
"Kirill....It doesn't mean anything."
But his head comes towards mine, but before he can say anything, he is pushed away and then hit with such force that he falls onto the buffet table and plunges into the extravagant food. Blood pours from his nose and instantly covers his face in a red stain.
Did Roman just break Kirill's nose?
There's a collective gasp in the air as my husband stares at his creation with wild eyes.
"I warned you, but you didn't listen."
Someone grabs Roman's hand.
"Everything is fine..."
He pushes her away before I can even think about her presence next to him, grabs my hand and drags me along with him.
"Roman, wait..." I literally jog in my heels to keep up with his long strides.
"I'm tired of waiting," He pushes me into the back room, slams the door and pins my back against the wall.
"Don't you think you've gone too far..."
My words are cut off when his angry ones reach my ears.
"You're happy with this bastard now and you don't feel disgusted?" He barked. "With him?"
My lips part as I look into Roman's eyes.
Cold.
Harsh.
Filled with rage.
I've never seen him like this around me lately. He's calm and collected down to the last detail. It's alien to me to see him lose his composure, let alone become lawless in anger. And he's jealous and it seems I've achieved my goal, but I'm not sure I'm happy about it now.
He squeezes my hands tightly, his fingers digging into my flesh. It hurts, but I show no reaction, and I make no sound. I am enchanted and completely captivated by his merciless aura and...
Grayness.
His eyes are so grey and furious that it's a miracle they don't flare up in darkness and suck me into their depths.
"Answer the question," His calm words are deceptive, too harsh, too cruel.
"W-what..." I swallow, ignoring the dryness that makes my tongue stick to the back of my throat. "What do you mean?"
"You know perfectly well what I mean. You decided to dance with another man with my ring on your finger, krasavica?"
I glared at him. "So you have the right to live like it's not true and I can't dance? Fuck you!" I screamed. He abruptly lets go of me as the words leave my mouth, flips me over, and pins me against the door. His fingers press against the back of my head and his warm lips meet my ear. "I'm the only man who will ever pay attention to you, and my dick is the only one you'll ever feel between your legs. I'm your husband. It doesn't matter what you think of me."
Then he's on top of me, his hand lifting my dress up to my waist, his heavy body pressed against my back as he spreads my legs.
I hear the rustle of clothes before I feel something large and obvious pressing against my pussy.
A shaky breath escapes me as I grip the jagged edges of the door, the cool surface making my nipples harden and irritating my warm skin.
He slides the head of his cock up and down my slippery hole, causing a sharp, terrifying pleasure from the depths of my soul.
"I'm going to fuck you hard until you're my official property and dripping with my cum, babe. Until you remember who the hell you belong to."
Every protest I make ends in a stifled whimper as he penetrates me.
My body tenses, my insides tighten, and I can't breathe.
No, I stop breathing.
The world stops spinning.
His hand wraps around my throat, pulling my head back so his lips are inches from mine.
I scream, the pain spreading from my pussy to my stomach and then straight to my heart.
Everything hurts - both my body and my soul, but I bite my lower lip to endure this pain.
"Mine."
"Only on paper but never in reality."
"Fuck," he mutters, searching for a rhythm, deep but slow and sinfully absorbing.
My head hits the door as the pain slowly turns to pleasure. My tongue licks my bottom lip, leaving aching marks from my teeth. I'm shaking, my legs are weak, my head is in a fog. In a way, my husband's hand around my throat is the only thing keeping me upright.
And common sense.
So I bite his index finger that rests near my mouth and sink my teeth into it as I rock on him.
"Fuck," He moves faster, his rhythm becoming deeper and more intense, and he breathes heavily.
His thumb finds my clit and he rubs and teases me in circles as he fucks me senseless.
I'm so wet that the sound of his cock echoes through the room like a dark symphony of lust. It's inappropriate that I'm so into it, given the circumstances, but I am, and I'm getting more and more aroused with each measured thrust.
Roman pulls almost completely out of me and then enters again, hitting a sensitive spot inside.
A furious sensation shoots through me. White stars dance before my eyes as I let him wash over me in an all-consuming wave. I bite his finger harder, muffled moans escaping me.
The orgasm was the strongest I had ever experienced, but also the most painful.
"Oh my God. Fuck!" He grabs me by the waist and thrusts deep and fast, his teeth sinking into my neck, sucking on the flesh.
"Mine, everywhere, Mrs. Kirillova." He growls into my neck as he enters me with one merciless thrust, and warmth fills me.
And then his lips are replaced by his fingers, and he kisses me senseless. It's a mess of teeth and tongues and primal frustration that spreads from inside me to where we connect.
Being kissed by Roman is a beautiful torment. It is addictive. It is toxic. Sweetly poisonous. Always.
He pulls out of me and I feel the sticky wetness sliding down my thighs.
I'm still recovering from the pulsating orgasm when he nibbles my lips one last time before pulling away.
He holds my hand as I turn, probably feeling like I can't stand on my own. My dress is still hiked up to my waist, and I watch his darkened eyes, reflecting his cum mixed with my shame. The white liquid slides down my thighs and pools in my precious shoes.
"You're right. But I don't want to hit you anymore." I pushed him. "I hate you."
"If hate is the only thing you can give me, then I'm willing to take everything I can. But only from you." He lifts his pants and begins to tidy himself up.
"Why?"
"Because one day I realized - the world with you... is difficult, but without you? I can't even imagine it."
When the door slammed, I just wanted to understand...if this is so, then why am I not happy and why has our marriage become so ugly?