Set up by the Russian Mob

The airport in Moscow felt less like a gateway to adventure and more like a refrigerated storage unit. White walls. White floors. White fluorescent lights that hummed and flickered overhead like a dying beehive. After the twelve-hour flight, your muscles ached, your stomach growled, and your brain buzzed in that weird state between excitement and exhaustion.

This was supposed to be a vacation. Some sightseeing. A little networking if opportunity struck. At worst, you figured you’d come home with a suitcase full of nesting dolls and cheap vodka.

Then you saw them.

Two women standing near the baggage claim, watching you with unsettling interest. Both tall, wiry, dressed identically in black Adidas tracksuits with three clean white stripes running down the arms and legs. It should have looked like casual streetwear. On them, it looked like uniforms. Predatory uniforms.

The blonde leaned toward the brunette, speaking in a whisper you weren’t supposed to hear.

"Давайте возьмем этого для мамы Светланы, ей он понравится, как вы думаете?" (Let’s take this one for Mama Svetlana. She’ll like him, don’t you think?)

The brunette tilted her head, lips twitching. "Я полагаю, но как нам заставить их следовать за нами?" (I suppose... but how do we make them follow us?)

Your Russian was rusty, but not so rusty that “let’s take this one” went over your head.

The blonde must’ve seen your expression, because she turned to you with a smile so wide it showed a flash of gold tooth.

"Uh... we are tour guides, yes?" she said, her accent heavy and jagged. "You follow, we show sights."

She beckoned with a flick of her wrist, casual, practiced.

Every rational bone in your body told you to run. But then you saw the car waiting outside—a sleek black sedan gleaming under the snowy sky, tinted windows, chrome details. No kidnappers have cars this nice, you told yourself. Right?

So you followed.

---

The car ride was the kind of quiet that makes your skin itch. The city blurred past: gray blocks, snow-covered rooftops, streets teeming with bundled-up strangers. Slowly, the density thinned, replaced by long roads lined with skeletal birch trees.

Finally, the blonde muttered without looking away from the road: "Расскажи иностранцу какую-нибудь хрень!" (Tell the foreigner some bullshit!)

The brunette perked up and nodded earnestly. "Ah... yes! Local restaurants. Very good restaurants here. Very good borscht."

She gave a smile that was both forced and proud, like a child turning in a stick figure drawing.

You forced a laugh. It came out hollow.

The further the car drove, the more the surroundings shifted. First suburbs. Then gates. High walls topped with spikes. And finally, the mansion—looming out of the snow like a gothic fairytale nightmare. Its many spires stabbed upward into the gray sky. Light glowed from too many windows, too warm, too deliberate.

The car purred to a stop before the massive front steps. The blonde killed the engine, then looked over her shoulder at you with a grin that made your stomach drop.

"Okay. We lied," she said cheerfully. "You are dating Mama Svetlana now. Behave, and you’ll be fine."

The brunette giggled behind her hand.

Before you could form words, you were yanked out of the car and marched up the steps.

---

The door opened before you could knock.

And there she was.

Mama Svetlana.

She filled the doorway, towering, broad-shouldered, blonde, her frame cut from equal parts marble and steel. Muscles coiled beneath her black dress, curves wrapped in a dangerous elegance. Her pale eyes swept over you like a spotlight.

"Еще один жених?" she sighed. (Another fiancé?)

Her voice was rich, smooth, and absolutely dripping with irritation.

"Зачем ты все время приводишь мне американцев, я прекрасно могу найти себе пару сама." (Why do you keep bringing me Americans? I can perfectly well find myself a partner on my own.)

The blonde beside you shuffled like a schoolgirl caught stealing candy.

Svetlana’s gaze pinned you next. Her English, though accented, was far smoother. Each word fell like a verdict. "Come in. Take off your shoes."

---

The foyer was obscene.

Marble floors gleamed under chandeliers so large they looked stolen from a palace. Red velvet curtains hung like blood clots over the windows. Animal heads—bears, wolves, a moose with antlers the size of an umbrella stand—stared down from the walls. Servants in crisp black uniforms glided about like shadows, carrying trays or sweeping invisible dust. None of them looked surprised to see you.

Svetlana strode across the expanse without glancing back. Her daughters hustled you along until you reached a sitting room.

It was warm. Too warm. Firelight spilled across fur throws draped over couches, glinting on bottles of vodka lined neatly on a low table. Plates of cheeses, smoked meats, and bread were already waiting.

On one sofa lounged a bald man in a silk robe, chest hair spilling out, gold chains weighing down his neck like he was one bad decision away from sinking into the cushions. He eyed you, then smirked at Svetlana.

"Опять, Света?" (Again, Sveta?)

She cut him a glare sharp enough to silence him instantly. He shrank back into his vodka.

Svetlana gestured at a chair across from hers. "Sit."

You sat. The chair was so plush it felt like it wanted to consume you whole.

Svetlana poured vodka into two crystal glasses and slid one across the table toward you. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, watching with the quiet intensity of a lion studying prey.

"So," she said. "You are... vacationing. And now you are here." Her lips curved faintly. "My daughters... have strange tastes. They bring me strangers. Sometimes I keep them. Sometimes I don’t."

The fire cracked. The bald man coughed. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticked too loudly.

Svetlana raised her glass, but her eyes never left yours. "Tell me," she said. "What do you do? Work. Skills. Why should Mama Svetlana... keep you?"

Her smile widened just enough to be terrifying. "Answer carefully. I get bored... easily."

The brunette leaned against the wall, smirking. The blonde crossed her arms, looking smug. The bald man slurped his vodka and muttered: "Не забудь спросить, умеет ли он готовить." (Don’t forget to ask if he can cook.)

Svetlana ignored him.

The vodka glass gleamed in the firelight. The air seemed to still.

It was your turn to speak.