7. Octavia #2
The ceiling isn’t high, but it’s not low either.
I stand comfortably and scour the space.
The only thing on the other side of the bars is a black void that doesn’t change shape no matter how hard I squint.
My legs start to shake at the realization, breaths coming faster. No. Stay calm. Find a way out…
“What are you doing?” I hear behind me, but I don’t bother turning.
“Looking.”
“Looking for what?” he asks again, causing my teeth to bare in a snarl.
“I don’t know! How about a fucking key?” My hands pat the wall, mapping out the area in my mind.
I ignore the amused snort that cuts through the air. “You won’t find one.”
“How would you know? You an expert at being kidnapped?”
“Kinda,” the low voice mumbles behind me.
The word trickles down my back. I turn, quick as a whip.
A strange wave of emotion passes over his features, there and gone before I can name it.
What is he hiding? I know I’m missing some part of this puzzle.
I’m a nobody. I don’t date. I don’t go out.
I don’t even have a single person who would fit under the title of friend.
I’m the absolute worst person to kidnap.
I tuck my arms against my torso. “Vasiliy,” I probe when he doesn’t elaborate any further.
He doesn’t respond.
“Vasiliy!”
“Do you have any connections to the Bratva?” The lingering amusement in his tone dims.
I wrinkle my nose in confusion. Bratva? “No?”
When I look back, his intense gaze is already pinned to me, almost as if he’s trying to decide if I’m telling the truth.
“We’re literally sitting in a cage waiting to die, and I’m pretty sure it’s not my fault,” I snap, gripping the wall behind for support. “If you have a reason to be kidnapped, I think now’s the time to fess up. Out with it.”
He sighs, shifting slightly against the ground. It’s so damn quiet in here, the low rustle of his shirt echoes through the air. “I work with some bad people.”
My eyes double in size as I stare back at his shadowed face. “What’s that supposed to mean? Did you piss someone off?”
He chuckles softly. “Who haven’t I pissed off?”
“At least we can agree on that,” I mutter, turning around.
A door. Now that I can see the cage walls, I need to find the door.
I can still feel the weight of his attention settling on my neck, but I’ve had a lot of practice ignoring irritants in my life.
“So,” I growl between clenched teeth. “What exactly did you screw up so badly that it warranted kidnapping us off the street?”
“I’m not sure,” he answers easily. “I don’t think you’ll appreciate this, but the whole kidnapping routine is kind of an industry standard in syndicates.”
I spin around so fast, cold gushes over my skin like a phantom wind. A syndicate? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
He crosses one leg over the other, stretching out against the wall with a casualness that makes me want to grab that belt and finish what I started. “They probably assumed you were with me when they grabbed us. Sorry about that.”
Sorry about that?
“What the hell are you talking about? Who are you mixed up with?”
His lips fold in concentration, like he’s really thinking about the answer to my question. “The mob? Is that what you call it over here?”
He has got to be fucking with me.
“Like The Godfather?”
He frowns. “I don’t know what that is.”
I roll my eyes. “The Mafia, then.”
“Well, yeah. Sort of. We don’t really do business with the Mafia these days, though. They’re assholes.”
What. The. Fuck.
“The Mafia kidnapped you?” I ask in pure disbelief.
“Us. The Mafia kidnapped us,” he corrects. “And I just told you, we don’t really work with the Mafia—in fact, I’d be shocked if they bothered to keep their hostages alive for more than a few hours. Like I said. Assholes.”
Hostages.
The word slams through my mind over and over, ringing in the realization. An organized crime syndicate. Bratva. Hostages.
I walk to the opposite end of the enclosed space and drop to my knees, hands roving over the nasty floor. His words refuse to process properly in my mind.
“What are you doing?”
God, I’m really getting tired of him asking that.
I reach forward, brushing the corner of the wall. All I feel is slick mildew.
“Haven’t you ever seen Saw? I’m trying to find the missing weapon they’re gonna make me kill you with.”
The fucker laughs, the sound bursting into my ear like microphone feedback. “You Americans and your movies. Can’t live in reality for more than five minutes at a time.”
I turn, glaring. “You’re telling me the fucking Mafia is real, but there’s no chance Saw is?”
He shrugs. “I started it on the plane. Never finished. Too much talking, not enough bleeding.”
I stare back at the stranger slung across the floor. My weight sinks back onto my heels.
I’m trapped in a cage with a psycho.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who tried to kill me while I was unconscious. With my own belt, might I add. Not quite high-ground material, if you ask me.”
“You’re the one who got me kidnapped! You just couldn’t take no for an answer—”
“Excuse me?” he interrupts, raising his brows.
My eyes have adjusted enough now to take in more details of my surroundings. Unfortunately, that means I’m also now aware of the dark stains splattered against the walls and ground. I try not to think about what substance made those marks.
“You stalked me out of the theater,” I snap, turning back to the man lounging against the far wall of the enclosure. Anger feels good. Much stronger than fear. “I told you to leave me alone, but you just couldn’t stand the sight of a woman walking away from you, could you?”
His hand rises between us. “Whoa. First of all, I was trying to apologize for the comment you overheard at the party. Second, I tried to protect you. I could’ve gotten out of there easy if it weren’t for your ungrateful ass.”
I glare his way. Other than a few bloodstains on his white dress shirt and a little swelling around his nose and jaw, he looks…fine. Better than fine. He still looks like his handsome, pompous self, even in this stuffy cage. That pisses me off all the more.
“You know what? Maybe we don’t need to talk.” I turn, stomping over to the other side of the space and slide down the wall until my butt hits the floor.
A flash of his bright eyes momentarily breaks up the darkness. “Didn’t think you had that ability.”
My eyebrows fold down in irritation, but I refuse to look at his stupid face again.
Maybe I can reason with our captors. Convince them I have nothing to do with these Bratva things.
Maybe they’ll let me leave once they realize all I have to my name is the stale packet of crackers stashed in my purse and a sparse apartment with a notice to vacate stamped on the door.
A foolish fantasy, the voice in my head whispers. You know firsthand what opportunistic men do with a helpless woman behind closed doors.
“I am sorry, for what it’s worth,” a low voice murmurs, thick with accent and honesty. I glance up, only to find those bright blue eyes already flickering my direction through the darkness. “For getting you involved.”