Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elena
After Igor left with Artyom, I sat in the living room with Stella, drawing. Igor's men had cleaned everything up—the floor showed no speck of blood, the smashed doorframe had been briefly mended. Only a faint smell of disinfectant lingered, a bitter reminder that the nightmare had really happened.
"Mom, look!" Stella held up her finished picture, paint smudging her small face. "I drew Daddy, Mommy, and me."
I took the paper. Three stick figures holding hands; the smallest in the middle had blonde hair. She'd colored Daddy brown, Mommy yellow, and dotted red hearts all around.
"Good job, baby." I kissed her forehead and felt something twist inside me. After everything that had happened, she'd already slipped back into the innocent little girl she'd always been.
"Mommy, draw too?" She handed me a blue pencil, eyes bright.
"Okay." I sat down beside her and let the lines come. For a few minutes, I relaxed.
About ten minutes later, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I came back, Stella was still on the couch, that little golden head bent over her drawing. A nameless dread rose in my gut, a queasy, rolling sensation.
I moved to the door and listened. There were supposed to be guards in the hallway—Igor had reinforced security before he left and told them to hold every exit. But outside, it was eerily quiet. No conversation, no heels on marble. Just my breath, tightening.
My heart started to pound.
"Is someone out there?" I called, my hand on the doorknob.
No answer.
"Hey! Anyone?" I called louder.
Silence. Bloody hell. I drew the curtain and looked down. A few black sedans had parked at the building's entrance—dark-tinted windows, engines off. Not Igor's cars. Not his men's.
My pulse spiked. Then a dull thud came from the corridor, like something heavy hitting the floor.
Then—
Bang!
A gunshot ripped the air, and my blood went cold.
"Mom?" Stella looked up, bewildered. "What's that outside?"
"It's okay, baby." My voice shook, but I forced calm. "Come here, quickly."
She dropped the pencil and ran to me. I scooped her up.
More shots cracked outside—rapid, chaotic.
"I'm scared." Stella buried her face in my neck and clutched my shirt.
"It's okay, honey." I kissed her forehead, but my eyes never left the door. I needed a weapon. Anything.
I ran to the kitchen and pulled the biggest chef's knife from the block. The blade flashed under the light. The shooting drew closer. I heard voices in Italian, then screams. Heavy footsteps thudded down the hall.
The open-plan kitchen gave me a sliver of cover—there was a pantry in the corner with boxes piled beside it.
I crouched and shoved us into the tight space between the boxes and the cabinet.
From that angle, I could peer through the breakfast bar into the living room; it was a hiding spot no one would expect.
"Shh," I whispered into Stella's ear. "Don't make a sound, okay?"
She nodded hard and clamped her hands over her mouth.
Footsteps stopped outside. One second, two, three. Time stretched. My heart hammered like a war drum. My palms slickened on the knife handle.
Then came a crash—someone barreled through the door, the frame splintering.
Men flooded in. Black suits, guns raised. The leader was at least six feet three, with shoulders like a wall. Their shoes left dark red marks on the floor—blood. My stomach dropped.
Igor's guards were dead.
Through the slit, I watched the leader scan the room.
"Find them," he barked in Italian.
They fanned out. I held my breath, Stella pressed to my side. Footsteps angled toward the bedrooms. Doors were kicked open, closets rifled.
"Bedroom clear!" a young voice shouted.
"Bathroom clear!" another called.
They returned to the living room. The leader checked the window, then looked toward the kitchen. My throat closed. He started toward us. Closer. Closer. I squeezed the knife until my knuckles ached.
He opened the cabinet under the sink, then stopped in front of the pantry. His polished shoe was less than a meter away. I dared not breathe. I could feel Stella trembling and covered her small hand with my free one so she wouldn't make a sound.
He began moving boxes. The first slid aside, then the second.
We were found. I swung the knife at him. He dodged. His eyes were ice.
"Put down the knife, ma'am. Or I can't guarantee the kid stays safe."
I didn't believe him. I pulled Stella behind me and pointed the blade with shaking hands. "Get away! Don't come near us!"
"Put the knife down," he repeated, leveling a gun at us. "Last warning."
I looked at the gun, then at Stella. If he fired from that close—there was no hiding.
"Please," my voice cracked. "Please don't hurt her. She's just a child."
"Put it down." His voice was flat.
I tightened my grip. I couldn't let go. That knife was my only chance.
He lost patience. He lunged, grabbing my arm. I swung at his hand, but he was faster. He clamped his other hand on my wrist and twisted. Pain lanced through me, and the knife clattered to the floor.
"Mom!" Stella screamed. She broke free and charged, tiny fists hammering the man's thigh. "Let go of my mom! Bad man!"
The thug glanced at her, yanked her up by the arm like she weighed nothing, and threw her aside. She tumbled and hit the floor hard.
"Stella!" My heart split.
She pushed herself up—blood on her knee—but she didn't cry. She bit her lip, eyes full of stubborn fear.
The leader signaled a younger man to hold Stella.
"Don't touch her!" I thrashed, trying to get free, but the clamp on my wrist was an iron vise. Pain seared my arm.
Stella's face went red; tears finally fell. She tried to reach me, but the young thug held her tight. She kicked and screamed, but his grip was iron.
Two more men hauled me out from the corner, one on each side. I stomped and lunged for my daughter, useless.
"No! Let go!" My voice was raw.
Then the sound of high heels clicked in the hallway—crisp, composed. Every thug parted as if saluting.
Natasha entered.
She wore a black gown that hugged every dangerous curve. Her makeup was flawless; red lips curled into a smug smile. Her brown eyes were cold knives when they pinned me. I saw nothing but hatred there.
"Finally, we meet." She stopped three meters away. "The thief who stole my fiancé."
"What do you want?" I kept my voice steady despite the burning need to know.
Natasha stepped forward, heels tapping. She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face—an almost tender gesture that made my skin crawl.
"Because of you, my family lost everything." Her voice went cold. Her finger dragged down my cheek like a blade.
I clenched my teeth to keep quiet.
"When Igor broke the engagement, the FBI tore down our business," she said, tears flickering at the edges of her eyes. "Without Vorontsov's support, we fell from heaven to hell overnight. Creditors swarmed like sharks."
Her voice trembled. "My father was backed into a corner—he put a bullet in his head. My mother watched and went mad."
My stomach pitched.
"She's still in an asylum, screaming every day." Natasha grabbed my chin and dug her nails into my skin. Pain flared. "And you're here, living happily with a beautiful daughter."
I looked at Stella—still held against the young thug's chest, eyes wet. She saw me and reached a tiny hand toward me. "Mom! I want Mommy!"
"Baby, don't be scared." I forced myself to calm from the splinters of me. "Mommy's here."
Natasha followed my gaze to Stella, and a merciless look crossed her face.
"This isn't about her," I shouted. "If you want revenge, take it on me!"
She released my chin and stepped toward the man holding Stella.
"Let me see the child," she said.
"No!" I lunged, but my captors twisted my arms harder and held me down.
Natasha crouched in front of Stella and studied her. The little girl's chin was set; blue eyes swollen and wary.
"She doesn't look anything like Igor," Natasha murmured, reaching to touch her face.
Stella snapped—she bit Natasha's finger.
"Ah!" Natasha yelped and jerked her hand back.
"You little—" Natasha raised her hand to slap her.
"No!" I screamed, my voice gone. "Natasha! She's five! Please!"
"Boss said not to hurt them. We're still negotiating with Vorontsov." The leader intervened, stopping Natasha.
Her hand froze. She inhaled and let anger roll hotter. Then she straightened and looked at me. "Don't worry, Elena."
She gestured to the thugs. "Take them."
They hauled us out. Stella was carried, sobbing, down a hallway strewn with bodies—our guards lay where they'd fallen, blood seeping across the floor. I nearly vomited.
"You killed them." My voice shook. "You killed Igor's men."
"They didn't make the right choice. Not worth mourning." Natasha walked away without looking back. "Some people follow whoever pays more."
There was a rat in our midst. My stomach dropped.
A cold wind hit us as they dragged us outside. Night had fallen hard. Streetlights spat pale pools of light. The black sedans waited. Men opened doors and shoved us into the back seats.
"Get in." The man who'd held my arm barked.
They slammed me into the back of one car. Stella went into another. She pressed her small hands to the window and pounded at the glass, mouthing "Mom" over and over.
"Stella!" I lunged, but the door slammed.
"Quiet." The man beside me growled. "Or I'll stuff cloth in your mouth."
I bit my lip and forced myself to be silent.
The cars tore through the city. I tried to map the route, but we soon left populated streets and plunged into an industrial stretch.
After about twenty minutes, we stopped at an abandoned pier. No lights. A few dim lamps flickered on distant ships. They dragged me out onto cold concrete. Wind stung my face. A huge cargo ship loomed at the dock—dozens of armed men on deck.
A man stood at the gangway in a sharp custom suit, hair slicked back. A hooked nose, scars across his face. When he saw me, a satisfied smile spread across his mouth.
Even without ever meeting him, I knew Salvatore.
"Welcome, Miss Elena," he said, smug.
They shoved me up the gangway. The boards creaked underfoot. Stella's cries followed, but I couldn't turn.
On deck, there was a heavy mast. Two men hauled me forward and lashed my wrists to it with rough rope. I fought, but the fibers bit into my skin, each twist tightening like a burning cuff.
"Mommy!"
I looked up and watched as they wheeled an iron cage onto the deck. It was small—about three cubic meters. They shoved Stella inside. She grabbed the bars and pressed her forehead to the wire, crying, "Mommy! Mommy!"
They set the cage roughly five meters from where I was bound—close enough to see every tear, far enough that I couldn't touch her.
"Baby, listen to Mommy." I forced my voice steady though tears blurred my sight. "Don't be afraid, okay? Like when we play hide-and-seek. Daddy will come for us soon."
"Really?" Her voice was a thin whisper.
"Really." I forced a smile through the pieces of me. "Daddy's the strongest, right? He'll save us. Be brave, like a little princess."
She nodded hard and clung to the bars. My heart felt like a knife, but I had to hold it together. I couldn't let her see me fall apart.
Natasha watched from the side as if enjoying the show. Salvatore strolled to the rail, lit a cigar, smoke curling into the night.
"Tell Vorontsov," he said. "Tell him his woman and his daughter are in our hands."