Blood of the Obsidian Queen

ANYA

In Anya’s dreams, her mother’s blood was never red.

It was black, thick and glistening as it crept across the floor of her bedroom, moving slowly toward Anya no matter how far she tried to run. Thirteen years had passed since that unforgettable morning, yet the dream always ended the same way. Her mother's body appeared in every room Anya stumbled into, and somewhere behind her, a pair of dark eyes chased her through the hallways.

Anya shivered, thinking of the familiar nightmare. She’d had the same recurring dream for the last eight years. She was twenty-one now, and she had spent the last several hours getting ready for a birthday party that felt less like a celebration and more like a coronation she wasn't ready for.

She could hear the music playing through the walls of the private suite. It thumped from the main floor of Obsidian below, vibrating the glass beneath her heels and making the vanity lights shimmer softly in front of her. She could almost see the people mingling and laughing under the black crystal chandeliers, sipping expensive liquor while pretending they hadn't come to measure how close Sam Volkov’s daughter was to taking his place.

Most are probably half-drunk. She thought sardonically.

Anya rolled her eyes before looking at herself in the vanity mirror. She was sitting in front of it, practicing the smile she would be expected to wear tonight. It was pretty and brightened her already elegant features, but it felt wrong on her face.

Her full lips wore a dark shade of red, and she’d touched her pale cream cheeks lightly with the luxury makeup her father had ordered from Paris, because apparently domestic brands were beneath the Jewel of the Volkov Empire.

Her strong jaw and dark curly hair showcased her father’s Russian blood, while the storm-grey of her eyes belonged to her mother. She wore her hair long tonight, and it feathered over her bare shoulders, which framed the delicate straps of her slim black satin dress. The material hugged her body before falling elegantly to the floor, the slit high enough to reveal one leg and the black holster strapped against her thigh.

She lifted her shoulders a couple of times, feeling sexy as she twisted sideways to peek at the daringly low back of her dress. A thick gold band hung around her neck, and a long string of pearls rested lightly between her breasts. Beneath both, hidden where no one could see it, the small gris-gris pouch rested against her skin.

When she met her own eyes in the mirror, she couldn’t help but drop the fake smile she wore. She refused to lie to herself.

Hard eyes stared back, and a heavy sigh filtered through her lungs as exhaustion seemed to sap the energy from her bones.

As if she’d said the maid’s name, Celestine walked up and placed a petite stemmed glass down on the edge of the vanity.

“The guests are arrivin’, chérie, an’ I tink you could use dis. I don’ tink yo papa would mind.” The maid’s rich Creole accent gave her words a slow, melodic drawl, but more than anything, it brought a genuinely rare smile to Anya’s face.

“Thank you, Celestine.” Her voice, which was unusually deep for a lady, dragged across her dry vocal cords like smoke. She couldn’t help but lightly clear her throat.

Reaching out, she grabbed the crystal flute and drank half its contents to ease the dryness.

There would be dancing and private tables surrounded by women looking to snag a man with money, blood, or both. Anya expected fights tonight, even if the Pakhan, her father, had forbidden any brawling in Obsidian. That was what he had called it too. Brawling. As if the men downstairs were boys scuffling over bruised pride instead of killers testing boundaries under black lights and gold ceilings.

“You lookin’ mighty fine tonight, chérie,” Celestine said with a warm smile. “Need anytin’ else, or you ready to shine at dat party?”

Anya’s gaze swung to the maid standing to her right. She heard the unspoken words urging her to get down to the party, but the woman’s face held no judgment. Only concern.

“You’re right. Of course.” Anya said, almost bitterly, before smiling up at Celestine. “I’ll finish my drink and make my way down. Let the Master of Ceremonies know I’m on my way, please.”

Anya’s heart sped the moment the words left her mouth. This was the moment she dreaded the most. All eyes would turn to her, and she would hold all the attention in the room.

All of that forced attention was almost too much, even though she could already handle herself well enough. Ever since her mother’s murder, training had become her life. Combat, weapons, ledgers, surveillance reports, bribed officers, shipment routes, and the quiet language powerful men used when they meant to threaten without dirtying their hands.

However, hundreds of people looking to her to bear the full brunt of their expectations and relentless scrutiny... was something entirely different.

Anya shivered, thinking about it, and downed the rest of the sweet drink in her glass.

Standing, she glanced once more at her attire before setting the glass on the vanity and making her way out of the suite.

The hallway outside was guarded on both ends by Volkov men in black suits, each with a small obsidian pin fixed near the lapel. They straightened the moment she stepped out, and she ignored how quickly their attention sharpened. Tonight, everyone would look at her like that. Not because she was beautiful. Not because it was her birthday. Because she was Sam Volkov’s only child, his Obshchak, and the future most of them either feared or doubted.

Anya stood for a moment outside the glass doors that led to the suspended stairwell overlooking Obsidian’s main floor. Her father had demanded that she use it and not sneak in through the private elevator where no one would notice her.

Through the glass, she could already see the haze of vape smoke and theatrical fog lifting from the crowd below. The smell of premium liquor, expensive cologne, and hot Creole food made its way to her, and she scoffed.

The Obsidian Volkov Bratva owned New Orleans’ underworld, controlling the flow of weapons, drugs, gambling, and blood money, all led by Anya’s father, Sam Volkov.

She peeked through the glass at the room below.

Black marble floors reflected gold light from the chandeliers above. Velvet curtains in deep burgundy framed the floor-to-ceiling windows, showing off the glittering city beyond the club and the dark stretch of river in the distance. Tables laden with top-shelf liquor and Creole delicacies gave the room a spicy aroma, while the casino level beyond the dance floor flashed with muted screens, private dealers, and men who pretended they had the money to spare.

Movement on the far balcony caught her attention, and she saw a flash of black.

Luca? Or did Father place extra enforcers? Her thoughts came, distracting her from the excitement below.

Luca was her one weakness. A dark storm that battered at her meticulously built walls.

Will he come?

She knew enforcers in dark suits would patrol discreetly all night, blending celebration with underworld power, but was Luca among them? Her father rarely wasted him on public displays anymore, not when Luca was better used in shadows and locked rooms where problems could be made to disappear. Still, some foolish part of her searched anyway.

“Anya Volkov,” the Master of Ceremonies announced, pulling her from her thoughts.

Anya straightened her spine and let the practiced smile return to her mouth. Then she breathed in slowly, forcing her body to remember what her father had spent years teaching her.

They could stare.

They could judge.

They could whisper.

But she would never give them the satisfaction of seeing her shake.

“Here we go,” she whispered, and the glass doors opened before her.