Chapter 44 Keira
KEIRA
Consciousness comes in fragments. First, the throbbing in my head, then the burn in my shoulders. I try to move my hands, but they’re secured behind my back, plastic cutting into my wrists. My ankles are bound to the chair legs.
I force my eyes open. The room swims into focus—gray concrete walls, exposed pipes along the ceiling, a single metal door. A bare bulb hangs overhead, casting harsh shadows. The air smells of rust and chemicals.
Footsteps circle behind me—deliberate, unhurried.
“Finally awake, Miss Valentino.” The voice is heavily accented with a musical quality. “I was beginning to worry my men used too much sedative.”
A tall, broad-shouldered man with silver-streaked black hair cut military short steps into view. A scar splits his left eyebrow. His eyes are the pale blue of winter ice.
“Water?” He offers a bottle, holding it to my lips. I turn away.
“It’s not drugged,” he says, taking a sip to demonstrate. “I need you coherent. You’re no good to me if you’re delirious from dehydration.”
My throat burns with thirst, but pride keeps me locked in refusal.
Volkov shrugs. “Your choice.” He resumes circling, his footfalls measured. “Your men killed Vincent Marconi. This disrupted an arrangement worth eight million dollars.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I rasp, my voice sandpaper-rough.
His laugh is like breaking glass. “Please. We’ve been watching you. The Dexter twins are quite... devoted to you.”
He stops in front of me, maintaining a careful distance. His eyes sweep over me clinically—assessing value, not desire.
“You’re leverage, Miss Valentino. Nothing more.”
The threat hangs unspoken between us. I’m merchandise in a transaction—useful intact, but damaged goods still serve a purpose.
“They’ll come for me,” I say.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m counting on it.”
He moves to a metal table I hadn’t noticed before. The surface gleams under the harsh light, displaying an organized row of tools. My stomach lurches. I recognize the systematic arrangement from Ace and Cyrus’s armory, the calculated placement of instruments designed for maximum pain.
“They need to understand consequences.” His voice remains conversational as he selects something from the table.
When he turns back, a knife catches the light in his hand—the blade long and slender with a wicked curve.
“In forty hours, if they don’t surrender, I start removing fingers. Toes. Nothing immediately fatal.”
He approaches, twirling the knife. The metal reflects pinpricks of light across my face as it rotates.
“Your men are efficient killers, Miss Valentino. The best I’ve encountered.” He crouches before me, studying my face. “But they’re ruled by emotion when it comes to you. A dangerous weakness.”
The knife hovers near my cheek, close enough that I feel its presence like a phantom touch. I force myself to stay still, refusing to flinch.
“How many pieces do you think I’ll need to remove before they break?” He traces the knife’s flat side down my jaw, cool metal against my skin. “One finger sent to their doorstep? Two? Your lovely ears, perhaps?”
My mind flashes to Henderson’s basement—to blood and screams and power reclaimed. I know intimately what this man intends. But unlike Henderson, I’m not the one wielding the blade.
“They won’t surrender,” I say, the words steady despite the knife now resting against my throat.
The man’s eyes narrow, assessing me with renewed interest. “So certain. Most hostages beg for rescue.”
“I’m not most hostages.” I hold his gaze. “And they’re not most men.”
He increases the pressure of the knife, not enough to break skin, just enough to remind me of my vulnerability.
I gather what little moisture remains in my mouth and spit directly into my captor’s face. The glob lands on his cheek.
He doesn’t react immediately. Just stays perfectly still, knife still pressed against my throat. Then his shoulders shake, and a low chuckle emerges.
“Such fire. I see why they keep you.” He withdraws the knife only to wipe my spit from his face with his sleeve.
They’re coming. I just have to survive until they do.
The certainty of it centers me. Ace and Cyrus will tear this building apart to find me. I’ve seen what they’re capable of. These men have no idea the storm they’ve summoned.
“You think you know what pain is.” Volkov runs the knife along my collarbone, not cutting, just tracing the path Cyrus’s blade took weeks ago. “Your men taught you little games, perhaps? Amateur artistry.”
I say nothing, keeping my breathing steady.
“Professional work requires patience.” He steps back, appraising me. “I believe I’ll start with your left pinky. Small enough to package easily. Significant enough to send a message.”
I force a smile. “You should be more worried about what message they’ll carve into you.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I detect the first flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Tell me,” I continue, leaning forward despite my restraints, “Do you know what Ace and Cyrus are capable of?”
The knife twitches in his hand.
“You’re not their first obsession,” he says, voice hardening. “Men like them—”
“You have no idea what men like them are capable of,” I interrupt. “Especially for someone they love.”
His expression hardens at my words, stepping back and reassessing me like I’m a different creature than the one he thought he’d captured.
“Love?” He almost spits the word. “Men like them don’t love. They possess. They obsess. They’ll move on to their next hunt when you’re gone.”
I laugh, the sound startling to my own ears. “That’s why you’ll lose. You think you understand them, but you don’t.”
The truth of my certainty settles in my chest like a burning coal. I know who Ace and Cyrus are—what they’re capable of. I know, with bone-deep conviction, that they’re coming for me with deadly focus.
“They’ll find me,” I say, a simple statement of fact. “And when they do, there won’t be enough left of you to identify.”
The man circles behind me again. I hear him set the knife down on the metal table, the clatter of steel against steel.
“Eight million dollars,” he says, voice tighter now. “That’s what your men cost Viktor Kozlov. A price that must be paid—in cash or blood.”
“Then you should have asked for money,” I reply, “because taking me ensures you’ll only get blood. Yours.”
His hand grips my hair, yanking my head back. “Such confidence for someone tied to a chair with no power.”
I don’t flinch despite the pain radiating across my scalp. “I’ve survived worse than you.”
And I have. Richard Henderson’s basement taught me what true monsters look like. This man, with his knife and his threats, is playing at terror. He has no idea what waits for him when my twins arrive.
He releases my hair and walks back into my field of vision. His face has lost some of its composure.
“Forty hours,” he says. “Then we’ll see how much faith you have in your killers.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I won’t need that long.”