Sinful Embers (Vegas Bratva Kings #2)

7. LEIGH

Chapter 7

LEIGH

The world sharpens into focus, slow and disorienting, like surfacing from a nightmare. My head throbs—a dull, relentless pulse behind my eyes, pounding with every heartbeat. The cold air seeps into my bones, stiffening my muscles, turning them leaden and unresponsive. I try to sit up, but each movement sends sharp stabs of pain through me.

"Careful."

The deep voice slices through the fog in my mind, and I freeze. My head snaps toward the sound, breath catching in my throat. A shadowy figure looms over me, holding out a bottle of water, condensation glistening on the plastic.

For a brief, paralyzing moment, my heart slams against my ribs—panic tightening its grip. Oleksi . But no—this man is older. Silver threads pepper his jet-black hair, his features more defined, his posture too controlled.

"You're not Oleksi," I rasp.

"No." A smirk tugs at his lips. "But I'm flattered you'd think so."

I push myself upright, wincing as another jolt of pain rips through my body. Still, I take the water cautiously. "Who the fuck are you?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walks to a chair near the table, sits, and takes a slow sip from his own water bottle—completely at ease.

"I'm Timir Midrichon," he finally says, his voice smooth, detached, laced with a faint Russian accent that makes it all the more menacing.

I frown. "Midrichon? What kind of name is that?"

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh that sends a chill up my spine. "Russian. With a touch of Greek."

I pop the cap off the water bottle and take a few tentative sips, forcing down the unease twisting in my gut. "What should I call you then? Timir? Murderer? Or maybe Ice Man?"

His icy blue eyes flash with something sharp, dangerous—there and gone in an instant. "Timir is fine."

I press my lips together, steeling myself to meet his gaze. "What do you want from me?"

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "That’s a question with more than one answer," he says, unreadable. "But I’ll start with the simplest one: I want what’s locked in your memories."

A cold dread slithers through me. My memories. The ones I stopped trying to recover long ago. I always figured if they mattered, they'd come back on their own. They never did.

Like an overstuffed closet, crammed full of junk, until one day it bursts open, spilling everything you forgot existed. My past is that closet—one I never wanted to unlock.

"Any particular memory you’d like me to dig out of the dark recesses of my mind?" I ask dryly, my voice sharp despite the tremor beneath it.

Timir chuckles, the sound low and dark. "You're still just as sassy as you were as a child."

That throws me off. My pulse stutters. "How the fuck would you know what I was like as a kid?" My skin prickles. "Have you been watching me since then, you pervert?"

"No," he says evenly, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. "And I certainly wasn’t the pervert in your story." His gaze darkens slightly. "I knew you as a child because your mother and I were… close."

I blink, nausea twisting my stomach. "You mean you were one of her lovers," I say, my voice laced with disgust.

Memories flood back unbidden—Vivienne at seedy hotels after her sets, draping herself over whatever man had caught her attention that night. How many times had I seen her disappear into a bathroom with a stranger?

I shudder, stomach rolling as another memory slams into me. The night I stumbled into the wrong stall.

God. Why that one?

I shake my head, pushing it down. But the mention of the bathroom reminds me—I need to go. Badly. Still, I refuse to move while I’m this exposed.

"Sorry, do you need the ablutions?"

My head jerks toward him. Jesus. Who even uses that word? "No." I shake my head, but my bladder protests sharply. "Yes. But I can’t exactly go when there’s nothing closing it off. I'm not about to piss on display in this damn goldfish bowl."

Timir sighs, pulling out his phone. He taps the screen, then holds it up to me. "This is your cell’s feed. It’s blank."

He places the phone on a chair near the toilet. "I’ll leave it here so you can see there are no cameras."

Then, without another word, he walks out, pausing only to remind me, "You have five minutes." The door clicks shut behind him.

I don’t waste time. My bladder won’t last much longer. I rush to the toilet, yanking my pants down, surprised to find a Velcro band along the side. It runs all the way down to the ankle shackle.

Huh.

I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed by the design.

After washing my hands—relieved to find antibacterial soap and a towel wedged between the basin and the shower—I glance at Timir’s phone. Could I use it to call someone?

I shake the thought away. No chance.

Instead, I return to the cot, noting the small nightstand beside it. I must have been too preoccupied with Timir watching me sleep to notice it earlier.

There’s a knock. "Leigh, are you done?"

I consider yelling "No," just to be difficult, but I sigh. "Yes. Thank you."

Timir re-enters, taking his seat at the table once more. "Feel better?"

"I do." Before he can say another word, I blurt, "Why was Vivienne so scared of you?" My gaze flicks toward the door. "And where’s the man with my father’s face? Wasn’t he your sidekick?"

Timir’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s around. But trust me, it’s better if you don’t meet him. He doesn’t like Vasilikis.”

I stiffen, his words hitting a nerve. "Then why the fuck does he have my father’s face?" The words spill from my lips before I can stop them, my chest tightening as I realize how easily I’ve just referred to Nikolas as my father. "Didn’t he live with Vivienne and me for a while when I was young?"

Timir leans back, crossing one ankle over his knee, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. "What do you remember?" His voice is careful, almost too measured.

It reminds me of the way therapists talk. What do you remember, Leigh? How does that make you feel, Leigh?

Like I want to punch you in your stupid face.

I shake off the memory of those useless therapy sessions—the ones Mark insisted I needed. Therapy never unlocked my memories. It only pissed me off.

"Not much," I admit. Pieces of memories claw at the edges of my mind, just out of reach. The ones that have surfaced don’t make sense yet.

I shift on the cot, trying to get comfortable, but the thin mattress makes it impossible. "This fucking cot is a goddamn torture device," I mutter, stretching my stiff limbs.

Timir raises an eyebrow, his tone dry. "Look at you—a few patches of memory from your old life, and you’re already pining for all the luxury you grew up with."

"I was never rich," I snap defensively. "I grew up with Vivienne and Mark, remember? There was no fucking luxury in that life. No money for anything luxurious."

Suddenly, the memories—the ones I’ve spent years burying—start clawing their way to the surface, demanding to be seen.

I hear Vivienne’s voice now. The real one. Not the twisted, softened version I’d reconstructed in my head. I’d spent a decade convincing myself she was someone she wasn’t.

Then a memory hits me like a wrecking ball.

My breath hitches. "Why did we have to leave England?" I demand, my eyes locking onto Timir. "It was because of you, wasn’t it?"

Timir’s expression hardens slightly, but he doesn’t look surprised. "Vivienne thought Carlos and I were trying to kill her."

My heart pounds. "And were you?"

They want to kill us, Leigh. We have to leave now.

Vivienne’s voice echoes in my head.

Timir exhales slowly. "That question has multiple answers."

He coughs suddenly—harder this time. He reaches for his water bottle, taking a slow sip, but I don’t miss the flicker of pain in his eyes.

"How about this one then?" I press. "Who is Carlos?"

Timir’s gaze sharpens. "My sidekick, as you so eloquently put it earlier." A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

I frown. "So his name is Carlos?" The name tugs at something in my brain, just out of reach.

"Yes."

I hesitate, the weight of my next question pressing against my ribs. "If he doesn’t like Vasilikis, then why does he have my father’s face?"

Timir’s expression remains unreadable. "Because he wanted to take over your father’s life," he says simply. "To gain access to you. To use you as his way back into the Vasiliki fold."

A sick feeling curls in my stomach. "Why me?" I demand, the chain around my ankle rattling as I step forward. "Why would he want me? Why do you want me? What the fuck am I doing here?" My voice cracks, my frustration boiling over. "Why am I chained in a dungeon like a fucking dog with a shock collar?"

Timir sighs. "Don’t you recognize this room at all?"

My frustration spikes. "Should I?"

"Carlos thought being down here might trigger some of your memories."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, my God. Did Vivienne chain me up in a dungeon like this? Is that why I hate her so much?"

Timir shakes his head. "Not that I know of."

"That’s not a no," I snap. "That’s a ‘maybe she did.’"

My fingers curl into fists. I want to hit something. I want answers, not half-assed riddles.

"You know how this works, Leigh," Timir says. "I can’t tell you about your past. You have to remember it on your own. If I tell you, it could alter the way the memories surface. The mind is a tricky thing."

I roll my eyes. "Blah, blah, blah. You don’t think I’ve heard that a million times?"

I close my eyes briefly, willing myself to calm down. When I open them again, I say, "Do you know how it feels when I get these memories? Deep down, I can feel they’re real. I know they happened. But they don’t make any fucking sense."

I glance at the cold, bare floor. Blank. Empty. Just like my mind.

"It’s like starting a mystery movie in the middle and trying to piece everything together. When I ask people, did this happen? No one will give me a straight answer. I just get the same damn speech over and over."

Timir studies me for a long moment. "I can only imagine how that must feel."

His gaze flicks to his watch. "It’s almost lunchtime."

He stands, grabbing a stack of journals and pushing them toward me. "Read these. I know they won’t paint your mother—"

"Vivienne," I cut in sharply. "She was just Vivienne to me."

His lips twitch. "Noted."

Then, suddenly, he coughs again. Violently. This time, when he wipes his mouth, I see the dark smear of blood on his handkerchief.

A chill rushes down my spine. What the hell?

"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice wary.

He nods, tucking the handkerchief away. "Allergies. The dust down here sets them off."

Bullshit.

Something Vivienne once told me tickles at the edges of my mind, just out of reach. Then, like a switch flipping, I hear myself say:

"I shot you."

Timir arches an eyebrow. "Did you?" His tone is mild. "Tell me, Leigh, why would you do that?"

The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Because Vivienne drummed it into my head to shoot you with the golden arrow. The silver one was for the man with my father’s face. Both were laced with poison."

Timir exhales, shaking his head. "She didn’t just turn you against me, Leigh. She turned you into a weapon."

Then, like a slap to the face, another memory slams into me.

My eyes drop to the scar on my arm. My stomach twists violently.

"It was Vivienne," I whisper. My throat tightens. "She really did shoot me."

Timir coughs again, steadying himself against the table. "Do you remember that day?"

I shake my head, frustration bubbling. "No. I just remember the pain. It felt like a fire raging through my bloodstream.

“I know that feeling.” Timir’s words are so faint I nearly don’t hear them. Timir’s gaze lingers on me for a moment, unreadable. Then, as if deciding something, he steps toward the door. "Lunch will be here soon."

He hesitates, glancing around my cell. "I’ll get you a clock. And a better bed."

I blink, startled by the unexpected gesture. "Wait!" I call after him. "What about the open toilet and shower? I can’t exactly pee or shower when I’m completely exposed." I gesture toward the pathetic excuse for facilities at the far end of the room.

Timir pauses, nodding slowly. "I’ll see what I can do."

He leaves without another word. A few minutes later, the masked man returns, this time with several others.

They move efficiently, installing a metal rail along one corner of the room and hooking a curtain onto it. Privacy. It’s not much, but it’s something.

Another man hauls in a mattress—an actual mattress—and places it on the cot frame. Fresh linens follow, along with a thicker blanket, pillows, and sheets.

I stare at it all, momentarily thrown off. Why? Why the sudden upgrades?

A small woman, avoiding my gaze, sets down a stack of folded towels, soap, and a few other toiletries. I study her closely, but she keeps her eyes down.

Then, another woman enters, pushing a trolley. The scent of freshly cooked food fills the room, and my stomach growls in response.

Before I can say anything, the masked man sneers. "Don’t get too comfortable, princess." His tone is ice. "Timir might be going soft, but I sure as fuck won’t."

I ignore him, turning to the woman with the food. "Where are we?" I ask bluntly, pushing down the rising unease. "Are we still in America?"

Her gaze flicks to mine—just for a second—before she quickly looks away and hurries out.

I exhale sharply. Well, that was useless.

The masked man snorts. "You know what to do with the trolley." His gaze rakes over me in a way that makes my skin crawl before he turns and slams the door shut behind him.

Good fucking riddance.

Now alone, I take a deep breath, forcing my frayed nerves to settle. Panicking won’t get me anywhere.

My stomach growls again, and I move toward the trolley, lifting the cover off the dishes.

Jesus.

The food is not what I expected. It’s well-prepared, rich in aroma—like something out of a high-end restaurant. If not for the accommodations, it could almost feel like room service at an upscale hotel.

Almost.

I eat slowly, taking in my surroundings. They’re keeping me well-fed. Why?

Shouldn’t they be starving me, using hunger as leverage to break me down? Unless…

A sharp spike of paranoia jolts through me. Do they know?

Radomir’s voice echoes in my head. You and the baby will become a target.

The thought makes my blood run cold. Is that what this is really about? Not me—but a potential baby?

My breathing turns shallow. Not a fucking chance.

I glance at my stomach, forcing my thoughts to slow. You don’t even know if you’re pregnant yet. There are still twelve days before I can be sure.

There’s no way they could possibly know.

But Timir’s voice whispers in my mind: We’ve been watching you for a long time, Leigh.

I set my fork down, my pulse thundering. No. This is insane. Too far-fetched.

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. What, do they have spies in every pharmacy? Tracking my period like some fucking ovulation cult?

But then, an unsettling memory surfaces.

Two years ago.

The drugstore Sabrina and I had gone to since we were teenagers suddenly had new owners.

New owners who always had our monthly order ready before we even asked for it.

No. No way.

I shake my head. I’m being ridiculous. Everything would have had to align perfectly for them to use me as some kind of breeder.

Still…

I stare at my empty plate, my stomach twisting.

I need to take my mind off this. My eyes land on the stack of journals, but a deep nausea churns inside me at the thought of reading anything Vivienne wrote.

Not yet.

Instead, I raise my voice, knowing they’re listening. "I need a notepad and something to write with."

Maybe if I start jotting things down, I can track my memories.

Or keep a countdown to the day I’m supposed to get my period.

A few minutes later, the door slides open again. The same small woman from before shuffles inside, carrying a pile of clothes—orange, pink, and blue scrubs.

Great. My new prison wardrobe.

She places them on the table, then reaches into her apron pocket. Slowly, she pulls out a notepad and a pencil.

She shows them to me. "You ask," she says in a thick Russian accent.

Her voice is carefully neutral. But there’s something in her eyes. Something hesitant.

I frown.

She hesitates for only a second before setting the notepad on the table. "Tea will come soon," she adds quickly. Then, before I can respond, she turns and wheels the trolley away.

Intrigued, I walk to the table and pick up the notepad.

The first page is already flipped open.

My breath catches.

There’s a message.

Neatly written, in careful handwriting: You are in Russia.

A cold shiver rushes down my spine.

Russia.

I grip the edge of the table as the reality crashes into me.

Not in the U.S. Not even close.

How the hell is Radomir supposed to find me now?