Chapter 40
GABBY
My cheek is stuck to vinyl.
It’s the first thing I register as I come to: awful, cold, cracked vinyl that smells like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. Then I notice the horrible throbbing in my head, followed by the ache of my wrists, and finally the growl of the engine beneath me.
I groan, pain coursing through me. I try to remember what happened, but everything is so fuzzy.
I blink a few times. That brings the world swirling into focus. I’m in a car. The back seat of a van, to be precise. And I’m not alone. Two men are back here with me.
One’s seated just behind the driver. He’s stocky, with a shaved head and an ugly scar twisting across his jaw. He keeps glancing over at me with an expression of total disdain, as if my mere existence is enough to annoy him.
The other one is seated across from me. He’s tall, lean, pale. He regards me with worried eyes, like he actually gives a damn about what’s happening to me.
Panic jolts me as I begin to understand my situation. Then I remember… “Bogdan.” The name comes out in a pathetic croak, grief cracking wide open. My throat burns and tears begin to pour.
Memories flash back, the sight of him slumped over in the parking garage, reaching out to me. Is he dead? I have no idea.
“Listen to her back here,” Scar-Jaw says, shaking his head in disgust. “Just got up and she’s already whining.”
“Man, shut up,” Pale Guy says. “She’s scared. And I don’t want to hear you complaining every two seconds.”
“Should’ve tranquilized her.”
“Boss said no drugs.”
Boss?
“Please,” I moan. “Please just let me go. I won’t… I can’t…”
“Listen,” Pale Guy says, “just chill. Our job is to transport you, not hurt you.”
Scar Jaw flicks his eyes over to me again. “Right. Not our job. They’re not paying us enough for that.”
“But you knocked me out.”
“You bit me,” the man with the scar replies. “Should’ve just come quietly.”
My stomach twists. I curl forward, trying to see if there’s some angle I can hit to loosen the restraints. Nope. Every movement makes them dig deeper into my skin.
“You’re not getting out of that,” the man says.
“I’m pregnant,” I snap. “Do you want to be responsible for hurting a pregnant woman and her two unborn children?”
Pale Guy leans forward. “We know you’re pregnant. That’s why we were told not to hurt you.”
Now I’m confused. I’ve spent the last few weeks avoiding death, and now that I’ve finally been caught, they want to go easy on me? It doesn’t make any sense.
I crane my neck to look out the window across from me.
I spot the steam whooshing up from a manhole as we turn into a warehouse district—one of those parts of Chicago you don’t even know exist unless you’re in the right business.
I think about Sasha’s Bratva HQ that he took me to, wondering if it’s somewhere around here.
Doubtful. That would make things too easy.
The car slows. My pulse hammers so hard, I worry I might pass out. I feel dizzy and scared and nauseous.
“Let me out,” I beg. “Please. You can just set me free and open the door and let me out. I won’t tell Sasha.”
“Come on,” Scar-Jaw says. “Let’s get her in there. She’s waiting for us.”
She? I gasp. There’s no other she. I shiver but not from the cold. Pale Guy slips a little knife out of his pocket and walks over to me. I tense at the sight of the blade.
“Easy,” he says. “Just cutting these ties.”
He reaches around me, and with a flick of his wrist, he frees me. For a brief moment, I debate running the hell out of there. But fat chance I’d even get out of the van, let alone run faster than these guys.
The driver gets out, and I hear his heavy footfalls on gravel circling the van.
He opens the door, cold air rushing in. My eyes adjust to the light, but I can barely make out the man.
He’s wearing a puffy parka, a military-green beanie on the top of his head, with a bushy red beard covering his chin and cheeks.
He’s middle-aged, grizzled, and terrifying.
“Let’s get her in there and get paid,” he says.
“We just drop her off and that’s it, right?” Pale Guy asks with a tinge of worry to his voice, as if he’s afraid he’ll have to do something worse.
Scar-Jaw nods.
Pale Guy looks me up and down. “See, hurting you is not in the mission. Just stay quiet, and you’ll be fine.”
He’s trying to reassure me, but I’m practically frozen in fear. The two men hurry me out of the van, their hands clamped around my wrists.
They lead me toward a dingy warehouse that looks like something out of a bad crime drama.
Concrete walls, corrugated roof, a single rusted door leading into the side.
The driver opens the door, and together we head in.
The warehouse is just as cold inside as outside, my breath puffing the air in front of me.
We move deeper into the warehouse until we’re on the main floor.
Just as I’d feared, standing under the central overhead light is Ruth.
Her silhouette is unmistakable—tall, elegant as ever, her trench coat cinched at the waist, like she’s the most expensively dressed private eye you’ve ever seen. Four men flank her.
“Just stay calm.” Pale Guy leans close and whispers the words into my ear.
Sure, he’s one of the assholes who kidnapped me, maybe even the guy who shot Bogdan. But in that moment, his reassurances make me feel just a tiny bit better.
Scar Jaw shoves me forward. That prick, on the other hand, can go eat a dick.
“Delivery for you, ma’am,” he says with a smirk.
Ruth offers a soft, lovely smile in response, like she’s out at brunch and her meal looks even better than she’d hoped.
“Thank you, boys,” she says.
The guys still hold my arms, waiting for instructions. The goons next to her stand silently. Waiting. Something’s wrong.
“So,” Scar-Jaw says, “you good here with her? We’ll be waiting outside.”
“Then we take her back,” Pale Guy clarifies. “Unharmed.”
Ruth says nothing, instead looking us all over carefully. Not just me. All of us. She turns her attention to the driver.
“Did he try to call it off?”
“Sure did,” the driver says. “Texted and called.”
“Wait, what?” Pale Guy asks. “Morozov called it off?”
Something’s very wrong.
“And you didn’t answer or respond, I assume?” Ruth inquires.
“Nope,” the driver says.
Pale Guy steps forward. “What the fuck is going on?”
“You’re paying me extra for this, right?” the driver asks.
“Something like that,” Ruth answers. Then she turns to her men. “Do it.”
Everything happens so quickly. The Irish men take out their pistols, raise them.
“No, wait!” the driver shouts, lifting his hands.
The gunshots echo through the expanse of the warehouse, the sound deafening. I cover my ears, scream, and drop low.
When the gunfire ends, I realize I’m still screaming, crouched over, my head between my arms. I stop. There’s silence—silence and that horrible acrid smell of gunpowder in the air. I hate that I know what it smells like.
My heart’s racing, but I manage to force my eyes open to look around.
The men who brought me here are stone-still on the ground, dark pools of fresh blood blooming under them.
I flick my eyes to Ruth. The men are still holding their guns.
I wonder if they’re waiting for the final command to finish me off.
“Listen, Gabriella,” she says, stepping delicately between the bodies and blood, as if avoiding rain puddles. “No theatrics, please. I need you to listen.”
One of the Irish men moves forward with speed I wouldn’t expect from a man his size. He clamps a hand around my bicep.
“Why?” I gasp. “Why would you—”
Ruth tilts her head in curiosity, just as confused as to why I don’t immediately understand. “Those men were Peter’s men,” she says. “And Peter’s men have outlived their usefulness.”
My body goes numb. Peter took me but wanted me safe, unharmed. But now Ruth is in control.
“What do you want?”
“You, obviously.”
“But why?”
“You really don’t know? Why, you’re the perfect weapon.”
Weapon. I squirm instinctively. The guy behind me tightens his grip. Ruth steps closer until she’s near enough for her perfume to wrap around me as tightly as the Irish man’s grip.
“Sasha loves you,” she says. “But Peter doesn’t know who you are exactly. When you die, and Peter learns the truth, and learns that Sasha knew and didn’t tell him… Well, you can imagine what’s going to happen next.”
My blood goes cold. She’s going to kill me.
“Now take her to the office. I’m going to squeeze a little more worry out of Sasha.” She flicks her eyes to the bodies. “And dispose of them somewhere out back. Use cement.”
A sound echoes through the space. The sound is coming from the driver’s body. I think back to what he’d said, that he’d been ignoring Peter’s calls. Ruth convinced the poor SOB to go rogue, then killed him anyway.
Ruth steps over to the driver and plucks his phone out of his pocket. “Peter,” she says, amusement in her tone. “Probably wants to know that the package has been delivered.” She silences the phone, tosses it aside. The phone skitters across the floor with a clatter.
“Take her,” she says, a wry smirk on her face. “Because, my dear, our fun is only just beginning.”