4. Lindsey
4
LINDSEY
I t’s impossible to say how long I’ve been here because my prison has no windows, and despite cocooning myself in the three blankets Maks gave me, I can’t seem to ward off the cold that seeps into my bones. So the shivering makes every hour feel like an eternity. I have no clue where I am—aside from that it’s in the basement of what looked like a single family home. I got a single glimpse of the kitchen and hallway on my way down here.
After being yanked out of that alley and suffocated into unconsciousness, I woke up to the sound of a garage door closing and that behemoth of a man hauling me out of the back seat of a black SUV. Now, as I sit, curled up on the small cot bolted to my prison cell wall, I watch the stairs and replay the giant’s response when I asked him what would happen to me.
“That’s for the boss to decide—he’ll come visit you when it suits him.”
Maks hasn’t returned since that first time, and I wonder just how long he intends to keep me here without food or water. But the paradox is that the longer he’s gone, the longer I get to stay alive. A violent shudder racks my body as I picture what my final minutes might look like, what might happen to me before I die.
Everything Claire told me about the Dungeon was true. Maks doesn’t just own the club—he’s the head of the Bratva that runs it. I’m sure of it. That familiar voice I heard in the meeting, talking about killing a man? It was him. If there was any doubt in my mind before, it’s long gone. I’ve never been more terrified in my life—a life I suspect won’t last much longer.
I can’t stop thinking about Maks’s incredible calm as he threatened to kill me, the feel of his strong fingers wrapped around my throat. He didn’t hurt me. In fact, his touch was gentle, almost erotic—far too reminiscent of the dancers at his club—but the threat was there, and I could feel the strength behind it. I don’t doubt he could choke the life right out of me. I could see it in his eyes—he’s killed people before. Just because he didn’t hurt me then doesn’t mean he’s incapable of it, and I know the truth about his plans. That’s why he can’t find out what I heard. If he intends to kill some man who can present a challenge, what’s to stop him from ending my life just for knowing about it? Nothing.
Goosebumps ripple across my flesh as his rich, thickly accented voice permeates my mind. “I’ll admit, this wasn’t how I pictured meeting again.”
It feels twisted that the memory could give me butterflies, but I can’t help noticing the implication that he has envisioned running into me again. I’m not the only one who hoped we might have another chance encounter. It feels like a sick joke now that we’ve accidentally crossed paths again. The circumstances couldn’t be less romantic. And I thought the fact that he’s older was bad.
A snort rushes from my nose, and I realize I’m acting like a crazy person, laughing at my own dark humor. Tucking my chin to rest my forehead on my knees, I consider what I know about Maks, what might possibly help me get out of the situation I’m in. But aside from our brief encounter at the club—in which he all but came to my rescue—and our second interaction, when he threatened to kill me, we’re virtually strangers. It wouldn’t be a far leap to assume he’s attracted to me, considering our first exchange, but I don’t think that’s going to help me here.
I hear the soft scratch of a key slipping into a lock, and my head snaps up as I train my eyes on the top of the stairs once more. Light filters down around an imposing silhouette, and heavy footfalls make the wooden steps groan. My heart skips a beat as Maks appears a moment later, his dark hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes as he balances a tray full of food and a glass of water.
“I thought you might be hungry,” he says, tilting the tray just enough to reveal a healthy portion of fried eggs, country potatoes, and bacon piled on the plate. The smell of it makes my mouth water, and my stomach growls, giving me away. “I hope you’re not vegetarian.”
The hint of a smile at the corners of his lips tells me he’s joking, though growing up in Californian, it wouldn’t be too unlikely if I were—not that he would know where I’m from.
“I’m not,” I assure him, abandoning the warmth of my cocoon to approach the bars of my cell. I’m suddenly famished and painfully parched.
But rather than open the door to pass me the tray, Maks sets it on a stool just out of reach but within view. It takes every ounce of strength to tear my eyes away from the food and look at him. His sharp blue eyes are cold as he studies me, and my heart sinks as I realize what this is—another interrogation technique.
“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll feed you,” he says, his voice steady, calm even.
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” I insist, my pulse quickening, and I tug my blanket more firmly around my shoulders.
A cold shiver trickles down my spine in the resounding silence. Maks studies me carefully, his expression closed, and that terrifies me more than any outburst might. I need to do something to save myself, but I can’t think of a single thing when I get the feeling that nothing I say will make a difference. He digs into one of his pants pockets, fishing out a key, and my stomach flip-flops anxiously.
“If I go missing, my work will notice,” I blurt, taking several steps back as he opens the door to my cell.
“No. They won’t,” he assures me. “Not until it’s far too late.”
“You can’t possibly know that?—”
“I’ve done a bit of digging since we last spoke, Lindsey Payne,” he says, stepping into my cage with me.
This time he doesn’t even bother closing the door, and for some reason, that makes me start to shake. I can’t seem to tear my eyes from the open invitation to run, but as adrenaline floods my veins, it feels like a trap. Then his words burrow through the dense fog of my fear, and my eyes snap back to his. He knows my name— my full name.
“That’s right. I broke into your computer and emailed your company informing them of your illness. They know it’s bad enough that you’ll need some time off, and of course, your friends will corroborate the story since you left the club early because you were feeling sick last night.”
The roar of my pulse fills my ears, and the blanket slides from my shoulders as my fingers go numb. This can’t be happening. I must be trapped in some kind of nightmare—a romcom turned horror story.
“My family?—”
“Your father still lives in California, and you haven’t spoken to him in nearly five years,” Maks counters, cutting me off before I can feed him another lie. “There’s no end to how long I can keep you here, Lindsey, and if you don’t want to starve, you should cooperate. Your best chance of survival right now is to tell me the truth. So, what did you hear at the club?”
My back hits the cold cement of my prison cell, and I tense as I realize I’ve been backing away from him—right into a corner. “Please, I-I don’t know anything. I didn’t hear anything!” I insist, hot tears pooling in my eyes.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Lindsey, but I will punish you if you lie to me again,” he warns.
A dizzying combination of heat and icy fear floods my body. There isn’t a single doubt in my mind that his version of punishment would make me feel very real pain. But something in the way he says it sounds so sensual . My core tightens, my mind flashing back to the dancers in the cages at his club. What is wrong with me? That is the last thing I should be thinking about right now. But as Maks slowly stalks toward me, closing the distance between us, the air electrifies with silent tension.
“The next words that come out of your mouth had better be the truth,” he murmurs, his palms pressing against the wall on either side of my head.
The masculine scent of tobacco and vanilla tease my nose— his scent. Goosebumps erupt across my skin, and they have nothing to do with the cold this time. I can’t seem to find my breath as I stare up into his sky-blue eyes, mesmerized by the way he seems to read my mind. He hasn’t even touched me, and it feels like torture. He’s going to drive me mad with the anticipation of what comes next—what he’s going to do to me.
“And if I don’t?” I whisper, riveted by his face.
He must be nearly a foot taller than me—even though I’m in heels—and his presence feels so overpowering, it might just crush me. The cold steel of his gaze, the hard planes of his face and rigid set of his jaw, the jagged tips of his tattoos creeping up his strong neck—everything about this man screams danger. Fire ignites behind his eyes, and his nostrils flare with impatience. He looks over his shoulder, toward the chains dangling from the ceiling beyond my cell, and my stomach knots painfully.
“I know how to make people talk, Lindsey,” he warns. Then his eyes shift back to mine, his expression calm and full of deadly conviction. “You don’t want to know what comes next.”
I never knew how much I didn’t want to be tortured until this moment, but right now, I would much rather die than know just how much pain this man can create, and the words are flooding from my mouth before I even consciously decide to tell him. “I heard that you and some Italian guy want to kill the man he works for. He can’t get to him at home, so he wants to find a more public event where he’ll be able to escape.”
Maks’s face looks stricken before a deep scowl darkens his expression.
I gasp, my blood turning to ice as I realize I told him everything I know—and it’s clearly enough to be a problem. “Are you going to kill me now?” I whisper, hating how small and helpless I sound.
Sighing, Maks pushes off from the wall, letting his hands drop and his back straighten as he puts space between us. “No, though I should—I’ve tortured and killed people for less.”
“But not me?” I don’t know what came over me to ask that. I shouldn’t be calling attention to the fact that he’s treating me differently, and I bite my lip as I cringe back against the wall. Still, I catch his hesitation in the glance he casts me before turning toward my cell door.
“But not you,” he confirms.
I’m still reeling, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened as Maks retraces his steps, breakfast tray in one hand, the metal stool it was sitting on in the other.
He jerks his chin toward the cot where I sat shivering all night. “Sit,” he commands.
I obey instinctively, dropping onto the flimsy mattress so quickly it makes him smirk. It sparks the observation that Maks seems more inclined to let down his guard when I stop fighting him, and a dim flicker of hope ignites in my chest. If I can earn his trust, show him I’m not a threat, maybe I could convince him to let me go.
He doesn’t say anything as he sets the tray beside me and sinks onto the simple metal barstool between me and the door. As I think of the best way to appeal to his compassionate side, I pick up the fork on the tray and down my first bite of fried eggs. They’re cold from the time they sat during my interrogation, but they might just be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten—perfectly seasoned and cooked. I moan, the raw feeling in my stomach easing before the food’s even had a chance to make it that far. Maybe I burned through some extra calories while I was shivering all night. I haven’t been this ravenous in a long time. Scooping a combination of crispy hash browns and egg onto the fork, I follow it with a bite of bacon, filling my mouth.
A low chuckle distracts me from my single-minded effort to inhale my breakfast, and I pause, cheeks full, to look at Maks. His eyes dance with amusement, that subtle smirk gracing his lips as he rests his elbows on his knees to watch me eat.
I should try to compose myself if I want to convince him I’m harmless. I heard once that a good defense against captors in a hostage or kidnapping situation is to make yourself relatable. The random fact pops into my head now as I force myself to chew more slowly and swallow.
“This is delicious,” I say, picking up the glass of water to wash down the massive bite.
“I’m glad you like it.” His voice is low and rich with humor, the sound of its warmth unexpectedly unleashing butterflies inside my stomach.
I like this side of him a lot better. “Did you cook it?” I cut myself a more moderate bite with the side of my fork and slide it off the tines with my lips.
His eyes follow the motion before flicking back up to meet my gaze, and warmth creeps into my face.
“Yes.”
“Well, thank you. You’re a good cook.”
One of Maks’s eyebrows quirk, as if he’s skeptical about the sincerity of my compliment. Relatable, I need to be relatable. Flattery isn’t going to get me anywhere.
“It’s been a long time since anyone’s cooked me breakfast. Maybe since my mom passed.” It still makes my heart twinge to talk about it, the memories of those final days in the hospital, when the cancer was ravaging her from the inside and everything hurt. Generally, I try to remember who she was in her healthy years, the smiles and laughter. But anytime I mention her passing, I get that same sad image of her sunken eyes, the way her skin sagged off her bones like a wool sweater that got too wet and lost its shape.
“You were close,” Maks observes, his tone shockingly gentle, and when I meet his eyes, I’m struck by the depth of understanding in them.
I nod, swallowing hard before taking another bite.
“How old were you when she died?”
“Fourteen.” I shake my head. “She was already at stage four by the time they caught her cancer.”
“That must have been hard.”
Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and that same familiar consuming sense of loss rises in my chest as I realize I’m opening up to Maks in a way I haven’t opened up to anyone since moving to Chicago. None of my work friends even know my mother’s gone. It’s been a conscious choice on my part, to keep people at more of a distance—then losing them won’t be as hard. It feels strange to talk about something so meaningful with the man holding me captive, but I didn’t expect to feel so emotional about it.
Clearing my throat, I brush a tear from my bottom lashes and keep my eyes fixed on my plate. “It was.”
“Your father never cooked breakfast for you?” he asks, seamlessly redirecting the conversation, and I’m relieved. This whole ‘make yourself relatable’ plan makes me feel too vulnerable.
I snort, thinking about my father. “No, he never cooked breakfast. Maybe he would have if he were ever around, but he only stopped by the house long enough to sleep.”
“Not much of a family man then?” Maks asks.
I laugh. “Oh no, he was a big family man, actually. In fact, I think he might have had two or three of them besides me and Mom.”
Maks’s eyebrows rise in surprise, his back straightening, and I wonder just how poorly I’m doing at coming across as relatable. Mostly, I just sound bitter. I need to refocus before I lose my opportunity.
“So, what about you? Are you a family man?”
The shift in his expression is instantaneous, and it makes my blood run cold. The soft understanding in his eyes shutters, his face stiffening as his lips press into a tight line. Suddenly, that harsh edge is back, and it calls attention to the hint of gray at his temples, the difference in our ages that I’d stopped thinking about for a moment. Maks is old enough, he easily could have a family—or even had one and lost them. Judging by the shift in his demeanor, I must have touched on a sensitive subject.
“No,” he says flatly, rising from his stool. “I’m not a family man.”
My pulse flutters, my stomach knotting as I see my opportunity slipping through my fingers. “Are you leaving?” I jump up too as I follow him toward the door of my cell, anxious about being left here alone again.
“I have responsibilities to attend to,” he states, his voice cool and devoid of emotion.
“But—will you be back?” I hate how desperate I sound, how scared, but not knowing is killing me.
Maks stops, turning abruptly to face me, and I nearly slam into him as he fills the enclosure’s doorway. My heart skips a beat as I trip, and before I have a chance to fall, his hands grasp my forearms, stabilizing me. The oxygen vanishes from my lungs as I look up at his stern, handsome face, electricity racing across my skin where it touches his.
“I’ll be back with dinner,” he says, his voice gruff. Then he releases me, stepping back to lock the cell door behind him, and he leaves without a backward glance.