Chapter 53 Asha
ASHA
Iwoke slumped forward, chin on my chest, neck aching. My wrists were taped to the arms of a wooden chair. My mouth was dry as ash, and my head pulsed with a dull, nauseating throb.
Moonlight spilled through a grimy window, cutting pale stripes across the room.
Graffiti marked the decaying walls. Rusty pipes hung from the stained ceiling.
The air stank of piss, animal droppings, and mold.
Men’s voices echoed in the building, too far away for me to make out any words. A handheld radio crackled outside.
This must be an abandoned industrial building, unused for decades, if I had to guess.
My foggy mind clawed at fragments of memory.
Drinks with the girls. Rook showing up. Feeling dizzy, then…nothing. Blackout. Which meant I’d been drugged.
I flexed uselessly against the tape. My dress was filthy, my feet bare. Each shallow breath turned to mist in the cold, damp room. Whoever had taken me didn’t care if I froze.
No sign of Daisy or Beth. I prayed they’d gotten away.
Dammit, Rook had been right. Every single warning, every argument about my safety. He’d been trying to protect me, and I’d been too stubborn to take him seriously.
Our last conversation replayed in my head—Rook telling me he loved me.
The raw truth in his voice had been impossible to deny.
And now, all I wanted was to be back in his arms, the only place I’d ever felt completely safe.
He must be going out of his mind with worry.
Was probably tearing the city apart this very minute to find me.
And he would find me. Unless—
No. Rook was alive. He had to be.
I wasn’t willing to picture a world without my gangster in it.
Men’s voices came from outside. Harsh, Slavic. Russian? Or Belarusian? I was no linguist, but I imagined those languages sounded similar. I cursed the ogre gang, because they had to be in on this.
The door opened, and two men ducked inside.
One was mid-twenties, beefy, and blond.
The other was older, taller, with close-cropped steel-gray hair and a thick scar through his eyebrow.
He wore a fur-lined leather coat over black tactical gear.
The red hammer-and-sickle tattoo on his neck had faded with age.
He was the kind of man you didn’t mistake for a soldier. He was the one giving the orders.
Blondie remained at the door while the older man stood before me.
“Hello, Asha O’Connell. I am Viktor Baranov. Some people know me as the Soul Collector. Perhaps your husband has mentioned me.”
Oh God. It was him. The ghost Rook and I had been hunting. Only he’d found us before we could find him.
And the way he’d introduced himself, the fact that he’d even shown me his face, told me one thing: I wasn’t making it out alive.
Don’t show weakness.
Bullies thrived on vulnerability. If ever there was a moment to be a badass Mob wife, it was now.
I pretended to think about Baranov’s question. “Nope. Never heard of you. Oh, wait. Are you the guy who washes our cars?”
His lip curled. “Now is not the time to be cute.”
Baranov lunged for me, snatched me up by the hair, and yanked my head to the side. I cried out as my scalp burned.
Blondie lifted his phone, lens trained on us. “Ready.”
Baranov tightened his grip, making me grunt in pain. My wrists strained against the duct tape, but there was no escape.
“Rook O’Connell. I have your wife. Pretty thing, no?” His meaty hand clamped around my jaw and forced my face toward the camera. “This is what you get for interfering in my business.”
The cool edge of a blade met my cheek. My stomach lurched, and a whimper clawed free before I could choke it down. Baranov pressed harder, and I froze, terrified even the smallest twitch would split me open.
The knife dragged downward, slow and cruel. The carved line seared like fire. A guttural scream tore from my throat.
He slashed the other side with similar merciless precision. Tears spilled hot and fast as blood traced the curves of my jaw.
“Hmm.” Baranov admired his work, tilting my head side to side. “Maybe not so pretty now.”
I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop crying. All I could do was breathe through the pain, knowing I’d unravel piece by piece if Rook couldn’t save me fast.
“What I want is simple,” Baranov said. “I’ll trade her for you. We’re at the old power plant by the river. Come alone. Come unarmed. You have one hour. If you’re late, I’ll start removing fingers, then toes. You get the idea.”
“Don’t, Rook. Bring everyone. Kill these sons of—”
Baranov’s hand cracked across my temple, the impact snapping my head sideways. A blinding burst of pain stole my breath. Stars exploded in my vision.
The room tilted. Voices blurred into muddled noise.
I sagged against the restraints, my head too heavy to lift. The world shrank to a ringing in my ears and the tang of copper on my tongue.
Then nothing at all.