Chapter 8 – Roman
I stepped out of the vehicle, adjusted the tie around my neck, and headed toward the giant building looming in front of me. Under the cold, distant stars, my shoes scuffed against the pavement, and the night’s air was cool against my skin.
The door swung open, and I stepped into the foyer, squinting against the bright light.
My footsteps echoed off the high walls as I strolled deeper into the mansion.
I’d had a long day with some of the Bratva elites—discussing territorial disputes and how to punish trespassers.
All I needed was a warm bath and some sleep to calm my head.
I’d almost forgotten about the errand I’d sent my men on until one of them cornered me in the living room.
“Boss,” he greeted me, bowing his head slightly in reverence. “We’ve got her.”
For a moment, I wondered who or what he was talking about. Then the image of the petite blonde flashed through my mind. A crooked grin tugged at the corners of my lips, warming my stony heart. At last, I had her in the palm of my hand.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Locked up in one of the rooms upstairs,” he answered, then described the exact room.
I couldn’t help but notice the fresh claw marks across his face—like he’d been attacked by a tiger. He didn’t have that scar this morning when I left the house, and now I was wondering how he got it.
“Did she do that?” I asked him.
“The bitch put up a fight,” he answered, his scowl deepening.
I raised my eyebrows, a bit shocked that she’d managed to leave a lasting impression on Ilya—one of my most ruthless foot soldiers.
The fact that she hadn’t given in without a fight piqued my interest. It was a testament to the fact that she wasn’t just another weakling.
This one was a fighter. A faint smirk tugged at my lips, and I went upstairs, exuding my usual calm and composure.
I reached the room, grabbed the door handle, and quietly pushed it open.
I stepped inside, my footsteps silent on the polished marble floor. The chandelier cast a warm glow over the plush couches and sofas that adorned the exquisite space. Considering who this petite blonde’s father was and why I had her kidnapped, she should be rotting in my dungeon right now.
But she was too pretty to be down there. Besides, she wasn’t my target—she was just a pawn, a tool to destroy the monster that brought her into this world.
She lay sprawled on the couch, like her body had been dumped there carelessly. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, strands framing her heart-shaped face. Her chest was rising and falling with steady breaths, and she looked so peaceful in that state of unconsciousness.
I unbuttoned my blazer, sank into the sofa across from her, and crossed my legs. My eyes roamed her body, drinking in the curve of her hips—outlined by the black skirt that hugged her like a second skin.
The top three buttons of her white shirt were undone, with the middle one missing. This revealed a teasing glimpse of the skin above her breasts and the curved edges of her red bra. The sight stirred something primal within me—but I was in control of my lust, not the other way around.
I shifted my eyes from her cleavage and set them on her face—innocent and gorgeous. Illicit thoughts began creeping into my mind the longer I watched her. I hated myself for it, especially because I wasn’t some pervert whose only goal was to get between his prey’s legs.
She was an instrument of vengeance—nothing more.
Yet with each passing second, something swelled up inside me: an emotion I couldn’t name.
I managed to take control of my mind and bury those crazy thoughts.
However, my gaze was unwavering, and I couldn’t help basking in the euphoria of just staring at her.
Her beauty and innocence almost melted my stone-cold heart. A part of me was starting to think that perhaps punishing her for her father’s crimes was a bit cruel. But when I recalled the death of my uncle at the hands of her father, I remembered the reason I was doing this.
A slight groan escaped her lips, and she shifted her body, the couch crunching beneath her weight. Her hands rose slowly, her manicured fingers massaging her temples.
It took a moment, but she finally came to, her eyelids fluttering open.
It’s showtime.
I watched her in silence as panic gradually took hold of her, and she sat up immediately, panting.
“Wakey, wakey,” I said, my tone deep and husky.
She yelped at the sudden sound of my voice, her hand flying to her chest in an instant. Her head turned to face me the second I spoke, and in those hazel eyes I saw fear. Raw.
“Who are you?!” She rose to her feet, her eyes roaming the room. “Where am I? What do you want with me?!” The words tumbled out of her in a frantic rush.
Silence.
I stared at her with a blank expression.
Her eyes squinted after taking a good look at me, and I could tell she recognized me. The confusion in her gaze was priceless, blending seamlessly with the fear that overwhelmed her.
“You…” she began, stuttering. “You’re the man from the—”
“I am,” came my response, swift and stern.
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. She struggled to steady her breathing, trying to get a grip on herself. But I could see right through her.
“Have I been kidnapped?” she asked, her voice breaking under the weight of her fear.
I rose to my feet, tucked a hand in my pocket, and approached her with slow, measured steps. She withdrew from me, her jaw clenched as she managed to hold my gaze.
“You were bundled into a van. What do you think?” I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
Her back hit the wall, her chest heaving with quiet, ragged breaths. “What do you want with me?”
I halted in front of her, my gaze unwavering. “You? Nothing,” I answered. “It’s your father I’m after.”
Her brows arched. “Then go after him. I have nothing to do with whatever you have against him.”
“Oh, but you do,” I said. “You’re the center of his world, meaning the best way to hurt him is by hurting you.”
She shook her head, her eyes becoming glassier by the second. “No, you’re gravely mistaken.” Her voice cracked.
“Am I?”
“Yes!” she blurted out, almost as if to vindicate herself. “I’m not the center of his world. You’ve got the wrong girl.”
I hesitated for a moment, amused by how quickly she tried to detach herself from this man. “You have his eyes,” I said, staring into their depths. “Are you not Mercer’s daughter?”
Again, she swallowed hard, biting down on the inside of her mouth. She didn’t have to answer; her eyes gave her away.
My lips curled into a mischievous grin. “You will pay for his sins.”
“I don’t know what messed-up shit he’s got himself into, but I want no part of it,” she insisted, trying to mask her fear with anger.
The defiance in her hazel eyes sparkled like a thousand sapphires. Intriguing. She stood her ground in front of me as if her heart weren’t pounding in her chest.
“If you have a bone to pick with Mercer, I can show you where he lives,” she said, looking right into my eyes. “You don’t have to involve me in whatever you two have going on.”
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, my gaze pinned on her face. The gentle rise and fall of her chest was a clear indication of her attempt to mask her fear. The air was thick with tension as she wondered what I was up to.
I unsheathed a knife from my lower back, the blade glinting in the soft light as I flashed it in her face. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her eyes widened in horror. I reached out, fingers brushing the stray strands of hair that framed her face as I reveled in the scent of her terror.
Her jaw tightened, and her head pulled back from the knife in her face. She didn’t say a word, but the look in her eyes showed how petrified she was.
“Whether you like it or not, blondie,” I whispered in her face, “you already are involved.”
She didn’t beg, didn’t flinch—not even after I sliced the blade clean through a lock of her hair. She just stood there, glaring at me. If she were the one with the knife, she’d have already stabbed me in the fuckin’ neck.
Her refusal to show any sign of weakness was as amusing as it was annoying.
I held up the lock in my hand for her to see, and still, she refused to react. Quietly, I leaned in enough for her to feel my breath against her skin when I muttered, “This will be my first gift to him.”
Her hand flew to the uneven strands at her neck, but this petite blonde didn’t break. The violation left her shaken and pissed—it was clear in her blazing eyes.
A smirk played at the corners of my mouth as I stepped away from her, my gaze unwavering. I studied her with cold precision, thinking she might be a tough nut to crack.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I said, gesturing at the cozy interior. “And consider yourself lucky that I decided to keep you in here, rather than lock you up in my basement.”
Still no response. Just that icy stare of a dangerous fighter—one I shouldn’t underestimate at all.
Something unexpected coiled through me as I watched her endure. Her stubbornness was steel wrapped in softness, a fire I hadn’t seen in girls her age in a really long while.
For the first time in ages, I felt something twist beneath my discipline. I wasn’t sure what it was, but somehow, I knew it wasn’t good for me. Her defiance was welcome in my house because it meant this was just another challenge, another conquest.
I didn’t care how stubborn and unyielding she was; I wasn’t going to stop until she broke. And she would break. It was only a matter of time.