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.