krovavaya🥀

The morning began the way most mornings in the Volkov house did loud, dramatic, and entirely unnecessary.

Shouting echoed through the marble halls like thunder trapped inside crystal walls.

“Ублюдок!” my mother’s voice rang out. Bastard

“Шлюха!” my father replied without missing a beat. Whore.

It might sound shocking to outsiders, but in this house, those words had become something of… a greeting. A twisted form of familiarity between two people who had despised each other for longer than I had been alive.

Their voices traveled easily through the grand staircase that separated their worlds.

My mother lived downstairs.

My father ruled upstairs.

Fifteen years ago, my father had given a strict order: Natalia Volkov was not to step foot on the upper floor again.

Not the bedrooms.

Not the study.

Not my wing of the house.

She had her own rooms, her own kitchen, her own sitting area below. She wasn’t a prisoner far from it. She spent her days shopping with my father’s endless supply of money, sipping tea with her friends, and praying to God that the evil in this family would eventually die.

By evil, of course, she meant two people.

My father.

And me.

Still, today was… different.

For the first time in fifteen years, my mother had come upstairs.

And naturally, chaos followed.

The occasion?

My brother’s return.

The prodigal son was finally coming home, and apparently that miracle was enough for my mother to break every rule my father had ever set.

The last time she had been upstairs was during a grand ball our family hosted years ago. A carefully crafted illusion where we smiled for the Russian elite and pretended we were a perfect family.

We danced.

We laughed.

We lied.

And now she was here again.

Because of him.

Over the years, too many questions had been asked about my brother’s absence. Too many whispers within the Russian circles. Business partners had begun to wonder why the Volkov heir had simply vanished.

So his return had become inevitable.

I didn’t know how I felt about it.

Truthfully… I didn’t know if I felt anything at all.

But optimism never hurt anyone.

So I chose the safest thought possible.

Let’s hope for the best.

I slid out of bed and walked toward the mirror.

My reflection stared back at me like it always did calm, composed, untouchable.

After showering, I dressed casually for once. Flared jeans hugged my hips while a fitted white top traced every curve my father’s enemies would happily pay fortunes to see.

Effortless elegance.

Dangerous, but effortless.

I made my way downstairs.

And then I saw her.

For the first time in fifteen years.

My mother.

It almost felt surreal.

But then again, my life had always been surreal a strange mixture of luxury, violence, and family dysfunction that most people would assume only existed in movies.

Natalia Volkov looked exactly the same.

Her skin glowed with that almost unnatural shine she was so proud of. Not a wrinkle in sight. Her posture perfect, her hair neat, her movements delicate.

She always dressed like a saint from a cathedral painting.

White.

Powder pink.

Soft blue.

Today she wore blue.

Oh, how shocking.

A color that definitely doesn’t scream “holy martyr suffering among sinners.”

Her eyes landed on me.

And instantly filled with disgust.

The kind of disgust one might feel when staring at something unholy.

Like the devil herself had suddenly appeared at the breakfast table.

I gave her a polite smile.

Just to make it worse.

She quickly looked away, refusing to let my presence ruin the excitement of planning her beloved son’s welcome party.

My father spotted me next.

His expression softened immediately.

“Roza.”

I walked over and hugged him, breathing in the familiar scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke. He squeezed my shoulder gently.

Then he gave me the look.

The I know, but what can we do? look.

I gave him a small nod.

Sometimes even powerful men had to bow to reputation.

Breakfast was usually simple.

Just three people.

My father.

My sister.

And me.

But today the table had an extra guest.

And the air felt so thick with tension it was almost edible.

Right on cue, my sister Anya entered the dining room, still dressed in her Pilates outfit. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her hair tied into a soft ponytail.

She hugged our mother first.

Then our father.

Then me.

When she pulled away, she gave me a sympathetic look.

Hang in there.

We all took our seats.

Silence stretched across the table like a tightrope.

Clinking cutlery.

Pouring tea.

No one speaking.

Finally, my father cleared his throat.

“We’ll be hosting a gambling night this week.”

Ah.

Business.

The one language everyone at this table understood.

The Volkov family controlled several private gambling houses across Moscow and Saint Petersburg. High stakes poker rooms. Exclusive baccarat tables. Invitation only casino nights where money flowed like water and fortunes were won or lost before midnight.

Politicians came.

Business tycoons came.

Even the occasional oligarch looking for entertainment.

The bets were never small.

Six figures.

Seven figures.

Sometimes entire companies.

A single hand of cards could decide alliances, ruin reputations, or forge new partnerships.

And my father?

He loved watching it all unfold.

“This one will be important,” he continued. “Several investors will be attending.”

My mother scoffed softly but said nothing.

I leaned back in my chair, sipping my coffee.

Important gambling nights meant one thing.

I would be expected to attend.

Because in certain circles, I had developed my own reputation.

People didn’t call me Krovavaya Roza for nothing.

The Bloody Rose.

Beautiful.

Charming.

And dangerous at a poker table.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparations.

Staff rushed through the halls arranging decorations for my brother’s upcoming welcome party.

Florists arrived.

Caterers followed.

Security doubled.

My mother walked through the house giving orders like a queen reclaiming her throne.

And through it all, one thought kept circling my mind.

He was coming back.

After all these years.

Alexei Volkov.

My brother.

I stood by the tall windows of my room as evening slowly painted the sky in deep shades of gold and crimson.

Something about the air felt… different.

Like the calm before a storm.

I had spent fifteen years building walls around my past.

But now the person responsible for tearing them down was about to walk straight through the front doors of this house.

And no amount of elegance, wealth, or family power could stop that.

I closed my eyes.

Let’s hope for the best.

Even though deep down

I already knew that hope was the most dangerous gamble of them all.