Chapter 8 - Bianca
I sigh for what seems like the thousandth time. It is always the sighs that I tend to measure my days by. Today, it started with the adrenaline crash sighs post-operation. My first operation as a head surgeon. That was today—well, yesterday—but it seemed like years ago after today’s eventful night. The sigh after I received Giorgia’s message and realized I wouldn’t have a restful night at home. Then the sighs while I danced with that man. God, how could I have been so stupid? I know it’s my inexperience and naivete, but I never knew it would one day get me into a literal life or death situation. And then the sighs now. The overstimulated, brain-needs-to-regulate-itself sighs. I still don’t feel like I fully grasped the gravity of my current situation.
I sit on the couch, scooting up until my legs—shoes and all—are on the bed, back hitting the cold brick wall. My head slumps against it, and I feel the salty warmth of tears on my lips. Once I realize they’re there, they seem unstoppable, completely distorting my field of vision. I’m not a crier, not by nature. Though an emotional person, I learned to school my tears as a child, back when I didn’t want to give Sasha the satisfaction of seeing them. So finding them flowing freely now feels almost disturbingly cathartic.
The sole lightbulb flickers, bringing me back to myself. To the room I’m now confined in. Thanks to the constant rollercoaster of adrenaline and crashing, I find myself utterly exhausted. It’s a feeling I know well, being an insomniac ever since I entered college. Experiencing soul crushing fatigue but not being able to fall asleep is a nightmare, one I wished I could escape. Maybe if I fall asleep, by the time I wake up everything could be solved. Maybe I’d wake up in my apartment in Queens and act like this never happened. I wouldn’t explain anything to these men—they could simply let me go—knowing my silence would warrant my safety. Though that all seems like wishful thinking. They’re dangerous , and precisely the type of people I wanted to distance myself from when I left home and limited my contact with father and Sasha.
But maybe, despite the fucked up nature of this whole situation, I can find some positives. I saved two lives, one on the table and the other on a couch. That had to count for something. If I was a better person, I’d be happier for having saved the second man’s life. Akim , I think they called him. Seeing as I was locked in a room —in a stranger’s house —I’m not. I’m still glad to have stood by my Hippocratic oath, even if it means I’m imprisoned now. Even if for my own selfish reasons. At least someone stands by their word.
My mind circles back to the club again, that damn club . Or rather, the damn man I met in the club. Despite the tears, I laugh to myself, or maybe at myself. The one night I wanted to let go. He felt so right in the moment, like someone I could lose myself in for the night and not regret later. Then the rage, again. How could he? How could any decent human do any of this? Such a blatant disrespect of my trust, stomping on it with no regard for anything at all, the sweet nothings he whispered to me in the club proven to be all but lies.
When the sting of tears subsides, I lie down fully, the mattress hard and unforgiving. I close my eyes, praying for an escape that I know won’t come for some time. Then I hear it. The echoing of footsteps. It sounds like someone descending the steps. And then the soft murmurs. It’s quiet but I’m able to discern more and more of the words as the figures come closer.
“We got a new one in, I heard she’s feisty.” Then, a snicker.
“They’ve been looking to get back at them.” An imperceptible mutter. “They got the ace now.” The ace? What do they mean? They got the wrong person, why the hell would I be considered a win in this situation?
I begin to wonder exactly who these people are. They seem like they’re involved in the same realm that my father is—that much is for sure—though despite my limited contact with that side of the family business, I’m sure I would’ve recognized at least one of the men’s faces. None of their features trigger recognition, meaning they must be a smaller subset of the mafia. But that doesn’t make sense either , I think, running back through tonight’s events. If they were a smaller clan, they wouldn’t own a mansion. They wouldn’t have all this money.
The voices I’ve come to identify as male have ceased their chatter, growing quiet yet again. A sense of ominous foreboding fills me, and I focus on my breathing once again. Another set of footsteps, these ones heavier than the previous ones.
Then the door bursts open. I jolt up, focusing my eyes on the figure. It was the man who handed me the tools while I stitched their friend up. Dmitri, I think? He looks deep in thought, face scrunched up into a scowl as he carries a plate full of food.
He comes closer, stopping at the foot of the bed and placing the plastic plate—at which I laugh—down on the mattress. Do they really think I’d be happy to eat after being kidnapped? The idea was so ludicrous it literally makes me double over with laughter.
“Eat.” Is all he says, accompanied by a confused stare shot in my direction. I am still wiping at my tears of laughter when I notice he already turned to leave. I need to use this— him —to my advantage. I don’t like where my train of thought is leading, but I also know I am most likely in enemy territory as soon as they discover my identity, so I need to do something, fast . I scramble after him just before he reaches the door, grasping his shirt with my right hand.
“Hey,” I start, already cringing at what I am about to attempt. “I, um, I’m allergic to these,” I say, pointing back to the food on the plate. He retreats into the room to look, a confused expression on his face.
“What exactly? You pointed to everything. Give me a list and I can have something prepared for you.” He mumbles, stare morphing from confusion to suspicion. He’s next to the bed where the plate is placed before turning to look back at me again, seeing as I’m standing closer to the door. I can’t run. I have no idea what this house—or rather, mansion —looks like, so running would mean inevitably running into someone and just getting into even more danger. Instead, I close the door, locking us both inside.
There were two things I can do, and one of them is looking much more likely than the other. I could either appeal to his sympathy, which is unlikely seeing as this was apparently a completely normal situation to him, or I could attempt something more risqué.
I advance towards him, slowly. I feel like a mouse inching closer to a cat that is about to pounce. Pushing back against my survival instinct in this situation feels like breathing with a plastic bag over my head.
“What the hell did you just do?” He asks, anger ringing in his voice. He starts inching closer, body shaking with anger. Push through , I try to reassure myself, it’s the only choice you’ve got. I scoot towards his now standing form and try to give him the sultriest look I could muster, tucking my hair back behind my ear. Oh God , I cringed, not wanting to see what my attempt looked like from his perspective. Med school doesn’t prepare you for flirting because it doesn’t give you enough time to cultivate any meaningful relationships, and while I had my fair share of hookups, none of them were done when stone cold sober and fighting for my life.
“It’s the bread, I can’t have wheat.” He nods curtly, turning around to collect the plate and pounding on the door before I have the time to halt him. Feeling my chance at whatever little hope of escaping grow smaller, I advance closer yet again, mind still undecided on what to do.
“I, um, really appreciate what you did for me up there—helping with the stitching and all. Would you stay with me a while longer?” The last question descends in volume when I realize I have no plan on what to do if he does decide to stay longer. The longer I try to play this game, the more it dawns on me just how ridiculous this all is.
He doesn’t make an effort to turn and face me fully this time—still just keeping his head in my direction. The awkwardly tense moment ends as the door opens with a beep from the other side.
“Eat.” A command is all he leaves me with before shutting the door. The thud is particularly loud and angry this time.
The voices outside resume their chatter once the footsteps ascend, signaling the man’s departure from the basement.
“Dmitri brought food himself, she must be a pretty big deal.” One states, now closer, and clearer.
“No way, he’s just Aleksei’s lapdog. We do the hard work while he does the menial tasks, it seems like.” The other complains.
Aleksei. Aleks. The dots in my head begin connecting, and the realization hits me like a truck when I fully comprehend just who I’m dealing with. It’s not just bad, this is inescapably terrible. The man whose name I heard growing up is synonymous with fucked up, sadistic, and bloodthirsty. Of course I’ve heard of him, mostly all against my will. He is the head of the New York Bratva, the man who took down all the rival offshoots of the Russian mafia three years into his debut as the head of their clan. That was years ago. The man is so irredeemably deplorable anyone who knows even the slightest bit of the underworld dealings in New York has heard of him.
I look around the room, once again, observing all the little details and imperfections of the brick walls. The flickering lights, the cold seeping into the room from all its surfaces, the hard mattress. Okay, well, there really is no hope now. Maybe I can just savor whatever menial little moment I have before I’d be killed, or worse—tortured. I’ve heard he likes that a lot. When I used to live with my father the said man was a great source of his grievances, which made me privy to a lot of information. Father’s study was not soundproof, so any explosions of anger caused by Aleksei's provocations could be heard freely.
The air seems to get even colder, just at the cusp of being clearly uncomfortably chill. Then, I notice the complete absence of chatter outside the cell’s door. The men have gone entirely quiet yet again, and this time, another set of footsteps echoes, audibly different to Dmitri’s rhythm. These ones are slower but more resonant. It’s someone else.
The door bursts open, much more violently than when Dmitri shut it closed. I jolt up, standing in one fluid, instinctual motion, probably a remnant of my fight or flight instinct. Aleks— Aleksei , I correct myself—bursts forth, an aggravated expression on his face. I feel my own sense of betrayal and anger burst out in an all-consuming flame.
“Lies. All you did was lie. Every. Single. Time. ” I enunciate every word, trying to keep my volume low enough so that I’m not shouting. It is still laced with venom nonetheless; I want him to know I am aware of his identity and that he can’t fool me anymore. Yet again, the dark recess of my mind reminds me that if these were to be my last moments, I want— need to—make them sting.
“Aleksei Barkov. It clicked at some point. Why didn’t you tell me your real name?” I spit out, feeling another wave of fresh tears fight to break free. I try to fight them, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing how frantically I am trying to reassemble my emotions.
“Aleks is my name, sweetheart—it’s a nickname. I didn’t lie to you about that. In fact, you know me better than most by now. Others didn’t have this much time with me before—” I stop him midsentence.
“Before you murdered them. You’re a murderer . You lied—you said you weren’t a monster, but you are. You’re just like—“ It is his voice that stopped mine now, rising to a low, threatening tone. It reminds me of a warning growl.
“There we go. Spit it out. Just like who? Just like your damn father, right? You do realize calling me a monster, but having one for a father is hypocritical. Right, darling ?” The last word drips with venom, sickly sweet. “Turns out you’re not below using underhanded methods to get what you want. What was that little stunt you pulled with Dmitri?” His voice is calmer now, throwing me into what feels like the eye of the storm. He advances towards me, eyeing me like his prey. Again.
I feel sick to my stomach, noticing now that what I interpreted as a gaze of lust and want back at the club was him probably realizing that I was a dispensable pawn in his power play with my father. His ace to get Lorenzo to bend to his wants. Little does he know my father sees me as little more than his biological offspring. We are cordial towards each other at the best of times, but never show anything beyond basic familial duty. It is only recently, I suspect due to his ailing health, that he began contacting me more frequently through texts. If someone murdered me to get at him, he’d be mad—sure—but he wouldn’t be devastated. It’d be another loss of a prized possession. I almost laugh to myself at the realization that these two men have more in common than either of them believes.
“So, we’re both even, having both played dirty tonight,” is all I say, feeling utterly enraged but also defeated. The irony of my words isn’t lost on me.
“ Bianca Rossi , pretty name.” I suspected he was aware of my identity by now, though hearing my name fall from his lips like a dirty secret causes an uncomfortable sensation to rise up. Like bile, it reaches my throat, causing it to constrict.
“I don’t want to kill you. That wasn’t my intent. I’m letting you know this because I can see the fear in your eyes. And I get it—I truly do—we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances.” He says it like he’s trying to placate a wounded animal, which irritates me beyond the point of any rational point of considering the consequences of my actions.
“ Dear Aleksei, ” I throw his use of faux sweetness back at him. “You fucking kidnapped me. Don’t try to act as if you’re doing me a favor with whatever—“ I motion, arms flailing in the air in his direction, “it is you’re doing now.”
He laughs. The bastard laughs .
“Alright, I’ll get straight to the point.” His brown eyes dig into me, face dropping any previous hint of emotion or feigned empathy he pretended to have for me. “I’ve concluded that we can reach an amicable agreement. You’re useful to me—you’re the bastard daughter of someone I’ve been trying to wipe off the map for years.” Ouch. “But now that I have you, bastard or not, I can use you to my advantage. The benefit there for you is that you’ll stay safe, and alive, under my protection. I want to show your father that I’ll take everything from him. You’re a symbol of that. He’ll never steer free of me for as long as he lives, which won’t be long.”
Idiot , I laugh. The man who stands before me is perfect. Handsome beyond belief, highly intelligent and seemingly lacking empathy, making him perfect for this line of work. What makes him an idiot is not comprehending that it is my father’s lack of empathy that makes him entirely incapable of caring for me. But perhaps he’s right, maybe the fact that Lorenzo lost his prized possession will drive him mad. It’s confusing then, realizing that I wish to play both sides—to see both my father and the man standing before me suffer. To see that goal to its end, I’d agree to anything. I’d survive. The flicker of hope reignites.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, a voice above a mere whisper.
“The catch, darling, is that you’ll have to marry me.”