Chapter Six
In which you never want an apartment wired like this one.
Dmitri…
“What the hell is going on? I mean what-"
I turn, the girl still in my arms and my phone wedged under my chin. Demid and Kir surge from the open elevator.
"Roman messaged me," Kir says quietly. "He's on his way with a clean-up team, in case they're needed."
"Dude! What the hell is going on?"
It's Ilya, Adam's (relatively) useless brother standing in the hallway, stupefied, a bottle of beer still dangling from his hand.
“Do you know who lives in this apartment?” I cut him off.
"No.” He shrugs. “They're new, I think they just moved in."
“Do you know their names? Is it a couple?" The elevator chimes softly and Roman steps out with four of his men. "1014," I tell him. "The door's open."
Ilya stares at my team heading into the apartment until I step in front of the bloody door, blocking his view. “So, you don't recognize this girl?" I ask impatiently.
“Dude, I don't know her!” Ilya says. “Why is she covered in blood?"
"That's what I'd like to know," I murmur. Ilya’s gaze is still fixed on the unconscious girl and I nudge him sharply with one elbow. “You need to get your ass to Adam’s bachelor party. I'm going to be running late. You need to be there."
“But…” His brow furrows. “Shouldn’t I call building management?” he asks. “Shouldn't they be handling something like uh, whatever this is?"
Logically, I can see why he's asking. However, he’s been adjacent to the Bratva world long enough that it surprises me he’s still bleating, “Shouldn’t we call the authorities?”
Roman is raising his eyebrows meaningfully from just inside the door and I look at Ilya again. “Get your ass to the bachelor party. I promised your brother I'd make sure you are there and you do not want to disappoint him. And what is much worse, not getting there on time makes me look bad, right?”
“Well, yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “Sure, I get that. I'll just…” he gestures with his beer bottle back at his door. “I'll just, you know. Get ready.”
“Ilya.” He looks back. “Don't call anyone. I'm going to handle this.”
He shrugs uncomfortably. “If you say so.”
Kir is speaking quietly, urgently into his headset, patrolling the long hallway. Someone further down opens their door and instantly shuts it again after seeing his forbidding expression. The rest of the floor is silent as a tomb.
Demid passes him with a nod, meaning the other direction is clear before heading to me.
“There are no other signs of struggle outside of the apartment. I already messaged our tech team to pull the security footage for the last week. It looks like there’s cameras in the unit, they’re hard-wired differently, so we can’t tell if they’re operational yet.
” He looks at the girl I’m still holding.
“Would you like me to take her while you speak to Roman?”
My arms tighten around her and she makes a small sound of protest. Even with the blood streaking her pale skin, she’s beautiful, the silver-blonde hair, like the sun and moon mixed.
Her eyes are midnight blue, I saw her color before she passed out.
I’ve been holding her for a few minutes with no strain, she’s light as a feather, a tiny thing.
“I’ve got her. Put in a call to our friends at the NYPD. Let Detective Marshall or O'Halloran know that there’s no need to send out a unit. I don’t want anyone else trampling through the evidence.”
He nods, his phone already to his ear as I head back to Roman, who’s still standing next to the bloody door. “What have you found?"
His mouth is tight, an angry slash. “We're running another quick check to make sure we caught everything, but this place is wired.”
“Wired how?”
“It's like a fucking cattle fence, except for human prisoners,” he says. “Given how this is put together, if she was wearing that collar, I can't believe that she got through the door without getting shocked to death.”
“She nearly was,” I say grimly. “I've got to get her medical attention right now, I'm taking her to the clinic.”
“Good idea,” Roman says. “I have guys downstairs to discourage security from coming up here. They’ll keep them away from you.”
Kir and Demid step in next to me and hustle us over to the service elevator that they've kept clear. Looking down at her pale face as the door closes, I shake my head.
I’m not surprised that she was trafficked. It's not even that she was imprisoned in a luxury building. There's plenty of sick fucks in New York City with too much money and absolutely zero moral code.
It’s that she ran to me.
People run from me, not to me.
There are always women, drawn by my money, or power. But no one has ever sought protection from me. She flew like a bird straight into my arms, believing that I would save her.
My Aston Martin SUV is waiting at the back entrance of the building, the motor already running and a security guard is quietly cornered by one of our men to keep him from coming over. He watches, oddly indifferent, as I slide into the car, still holding her in my arms.
“The apartment was wired to electrocute her if she tried to escape?” Kir says quietly. “Iisus Khristos, what the fuck.”
“We’ve seen a lot of sick shit,” Demid says, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “A cattle fence for humans.”
“Agreed,” I say. “See how many traffic laws you can violate getting us to the Morozov clinic within the next fifteen minutes.”
Demid grins. “Always happy to try, sir.”
Roman must have called ahead, because my mother is already waiting for us at the clinic when we arrive. “What happened?” she asks, hurrying over, her stethoscope wrapped around her neck. “Roman would only tell me you were bringing in a badly injured girl with… electric shocks?”
She’s frowning, looking the girl over as she helps settle her onto a stretcher with practiced, smooth motions. “Do you have a name?” she questions.
“No. What I do know is that she managed to get out of the apartment and she was enduring repeated electrical shocks as she raced down the hallway.”
“Fortunately, I don't think most of the blood is hers,” Mother says, running her hands over the girl’s arms and legs. She leans back just in time to avoid getting her nose broken as the girl regains consciousness, shooting upright, struggling against our hands with a scream.
“You're safe,” Mother says in a low tone, close to her ear. “I'm Dr. Ella Morozova. You are safe. You are at our medical clinic. No one will harm you here.”
The girl’s frantic gaze darts between us. “You called the police?” she grits out, her voice raw-sounding, like she’s been screaming for a long time.
“There's an investigation on site,” I say, avoiding her question. “Whoever is involved will not get away with this.”
“What's your name?” Mother uses the same gentle tone she did when we were hurt or scared as children.
“A- Ava,” the girl manages. “Ava Blue.” Her hands are starting to shake again, and my mom nods to a nurse.
“You’re going into shock, Ava. I’m going to give you a sedative. Your heart’s beating too fast.”
Ava lets out an anguished sob, her body arching off the stretcher. “No, I don’t- I need to stay awake, you can’t-”
Mother’s hand rests gently on Ava’s forehead. “I swear on my son’s life that we will keep you safe here.”
There’s a silver flash of a needle in Ava’s arm, and she struggles against us for a moment longer before the sedation does its work and her eyes droop closed again, her little body going limp.
Looking down at her, I feel a strange twist in my gut.
She's so small, so fragile, still covered in blood and with those burns seared around her neck.
Revenge is traditionally Roman's job as Vor and enforcer. But I intend to take a personal interest in fucking up whoever is involved in this.
***
Iisus Khristos - Jesus Christ in Russian