Chapter 21 - Bianca #2
I twist in my captors' grip, manage to sink my teeth into the arm of the man on my left. He swears and loosens his hold just enough for me to tear free.
I don't run. There's nowhere to run. Instead, I grab the nearest object—a piece of debris from the ruined door, sharp-edged and heavy—and swing it at the tall man's head.
He catches my wrist before the blow lands. His grip is crushing, grinding the bones together until I cry out and drop my makeshift weapon.
"Enough," he says. His voice is calm, almost bored. "You can come quietly, or you can come drugged. Either way, you're coming."
I glare at him, panting, my wrist throbbing. "When Misha finds you—"
"When Misha finds us, we'll be long gone. And so will you." He produces a syringe from somewhere. "Last chance. Quiet, or drugged?"
I spit at him again.
He sighs, almost regretfully, and before I can react, I feel the needle pierce my neck.
The world goes soft at the edges. Warm. Heavy.
The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is the ruined safe room behind us, dust still settling, Anna's body crumpled in the corner.
The last thing I think is: The baby. Please let the baby be okay.
Then there's nothing at all.
***
I wake in fragments.
Cold air on my face. The rumble of an engine beneath me. Hands—rough, impersonal—adjusting my position.
I try to open my eyes, but my lids are too heavy. Try to move, but my limbs won't respond. The drug is still in my system, weighing me down, turning my body into a prison.
Voices filter through the haze.
"—said to keep her sedated until we're clear."
"How much longer?"
"Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty."
"And the Kashkin response?"
"Still dealing with the aftermath. By the time they realize she's gone, we'll be in the wind."
Laughter. Low, masculine, confident.
I want to scream. Want to fight. Want to do something, anything, other than lie here helpless while they carry me away from everything I know.
But the drug won't let me. The darkness is pulling me back under, heavy and inexorable.
My hand twitches against my stomach. Instinct, maybe. Or desperation.
The baby, I think. Whatever they gave me—please don't let it hurt the baby.
I don't even know if it's possible to protect a pregnancy this early. Don't know what the sedative might do to the cluster of cells dividing inside me. Medical school feels like a lifetime ago, and anyway, we never covered "what to do when you're kidnapped while pregnant by a crime lord's enemies."
Misha will come. He'll find me.
And then, softer, more desperate:
Please. Please find me.
The darkness swallows me whole.
***
When I surface again, the world has changed.
No more engine rumble. No more movement. Just stillness, and cold, and the distant drip of water somewhere in the darkness.
I open my eyes.
The room is small, concrete, windowless. A single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows on the gray walls. There's a door—heavy steel, no handle on this side—and nothing else. No furniture. No toilet. No indication of where I am or how long I've been here.
I try to sit up and discover that my hands are zip-tied behind my back.
Panic surges through me, sharp and electric. I yank at the restraints, twist my wrists, accomplish nothing but raw skin and the harsh clatter of plastic against concrete.
Stop. Think. Assess.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way I learned in my first anatomy lab, standing over a cadaver, fighting the urge to faint. Clinical detachment. It's a survival skill.
The baby. I need to check on the baby.
I can't touch my stomach with my hands bound, but I can feel my body. I focus inward, searching for the telltale signs of disaster. Cramping. Bleeding. Pain in my lower abdomen.
Nothing. Just the lingering grogginess of the sedation and the ache of muscles held too long in an awkward position.
I allow myself one moment of relief—just one—before the weight of my situation crashes back down.
I'm in a cell. Tied up. In a location I don't know, surrounded by enemies I can't fight. Sergei has me, and no one knows where I am.
No. That's not quite true. Misha will be looking for me by now. He'll have found the ruined safe room, the bodies, Anna unconscious in the corner. He'll know what happened. He'll be coming.
The question is whether he'll get here in time.
I think about Anna. Is she okay? Did she wake up? Is she telling Misha everything that happened, describing the men who took me, giving him something to work with?
I think about the baby. This tiny life that didn't ask to be conceived in chaos, that might never see the world outside this cell.
I think about my mother, who died bringing me into the world. Maybe that's my legacy. Maybe the Benedetti women are cursed to create life at the cost of their own.
No. I reject the thought before it can take root. I'm not going to die here. I'm not going to let Sergei win.
I struggle to sit up, managing after several attempts to prop myself against the cold concrete wall. The position is uncomfortable, my arms twisted behind me at an awkward angle, but at least I can see the door. At least I can see them coming.
I test my bonds again, more carefully this time. The zip ties are tight—professional grade, the kind that won't give no matter how much you struggle. But they're not perfect. Nothing is perfect.
I start working at them anyway. Twisting my wrists, testing for any give, any weakness. It's something to do. Something besides lying here waiting to be rescued or destroyed.
I don't know if Misha is coming. I don't know if he's even alive.
But I know this: I'm not going to die in this place. Neither is my child.
Whatever it takes. Whoever I have to become.
We're getting out of here.