3. Penthouse Prisoner
Penthouse Prisoner
Vera
Iwake up to silence.
Not the comfortable kind that lives in church pews or early morning clinics.
This silence is engineered.
Conditioned air hums softly from hidden vents. No traffic. No sirens. No voices bleeding through thin apartment walls. The bed beneath me is too soft, sheets cool and impossibly smooth against my skin. My coat and shoes are gone.
I sit up slowly.
Glass.
Floor-to-ceiling walls wrap around the room, revealing the city far below—miniature headlights, distant rooftops, clouds dragging low and gray across the skyline. We’re high. Very high.
A fortress in the sky.
The door is matte black steel.
There’s a camera above it.
I slide out of bed. My bare feet meet warm marble flooring. Even the temperature here is curated.
A gilded cage.
The bathroom door opens automatically when I approach, lights rising gently as if anticipating me. Fresh towels. Designer toiletries. A robe folded with surgical precision.
No windows that open.
No visible weapons.
But the lock on the main door is electronic, panel glowing faintly blue.
I test the handle anyway.
It doesn’t move.
Footsteps approach outside.
Two men stand on either side when the door unlocks with a soft click.
They don’t look at me directly.
Professional.
“You’ll eat,” one says flatly.
Not a request.
They escort me—not touching—to a dining area that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. Glass table. Sculptural chairs. Art that probably costs more than the clinic’s annual budget.
And at the head of the table sits Roman Koval.
Black shirt today. Sleeves rolled once at the forearm. A steel watch gleaming at his wrist.
He looks like he slept.
I don’t think he did.
“Good morning,” he says.
I remain standing.
“You murdered someone last night.”
He studies me as if assessing tone rather than content.
“Yes.”
No apology. No justification.
Just fact.
My fingers curl into the fabric of the robe.
“You dragged me out of my life like luggage.”
“Collateral,” he corrects.
“I’m not property.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“No,” he agrees. “You’re leverage.”
I swallow the flare of anger that tries to climb my throat.
Rage won’t free me.
Control might.
“What do you want?”
He gestures to the chair across from him.
“Sit.”
I don’t.
For a long second, neither of us moves.
The guards behind me shift subtly, waiting for an order.
Roman lifts one finger without looking away from me.
They leave.
The door seals again with a quiet click.
We are alone.
I sit—but only because I choose to.
He notices.
“I’ve requested a meeting with your father,” he says. “Until that happens, you remain here.”
“That’s kidnapping.”
“That’s strategy.”
“Against a clinic volunteer?”
“Against a Don.”
His voice is calm. Measured. No raised tones. That almost makes it worse.
“You think my father betrayed you,” I say.
“I don’t think,” he replies. “I calculate.”
My heart stutters once.
“Then calculate this,” I say quietly. “If I disappear, people panic. The clinic shuts down. Medications stop moving. Families who depend on that building suffer.”
He leans back slightly.
Watching.
Testing.
“You’re negotiating.”
“Yes.”
“You’re in no position to.”
“Wrong.”
His eyebrow lifts a fraction.
“You need this to look contained,” I continue. “Measured. If it looks like you’re attacking civilians, you lose leverage.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
That’s the first sign he’s listening.
“I want supplies delivered to the clinic,” I say. “Antibiotics. Sutures. Insulin. And safe passage for volunteers after dark.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“You’re asking for concessions.”
“I’m asking you to prove this isn’t about punishing the neighborhood.”
Silence.
The city stretches endlessly behind him through glass.
“You assume I care how it looks.”
“You do,” I say softly. “Or you would have made a spectacle of me already.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Annoyance? Respect?
Recognition.
He reaches for his phone without breaking eye contact.
Types.
Sends.
“Done,” he says.
Too fast.
Suspicion prickles along my spine.
“You agreed very quickly.”
“I don’t haggle over medicine.”
That answer unsettles me more than refusal would have.
“You’re buying silence,” I say.
His mouth curves slightly.
“I’m buying efficiency.”
The door unlocks again. A woman enters—sharp eyes, dark hair pulled back severely, medical case in hand.
“Dr. Petrova,” Roman says. “Routine check.”
The doctor looks me over briskly.
“No bruising?” she asks him flatly.
“Unmarked,” he replies.
Her gaze lands on me. Assessing. Not unkind.
“You’re not injured,” she concludes.
“No.”
She nods once and leaves without bowing to him.
Interesting.
When the door seals again, Roman stands.
The room feels smaller immediately.
“Your father is being careful,” he says. “Too careful.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the leak that killed my brother traces back to Bellini channels.”
My stomach drops.
“That’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
He steps closer.
Close enough that I can see faint shadows beneath his eyes.
“You think you know your father,” he says quietly. “You don’t.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“The city is already whispering,” he cuts in. “Bellini betrayal.”
The words hit like ice water.
“No,” I breathe.
“If he’s innocent,” Roman continues, “this will flush out who isn’t.”
“And if he’s guilty?”
His expression doesn’t change.
“Then you’ll understand why you’re here.”
Anger rises sharp and hot.
“You’re using me as bait.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I don’t lie about war.”
My pulse pounds in my ears.
“You think you’re righteous,” I say. “But this—this is fear dressed up as strategy.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I don’t fear.”
“You do,” I whisper. “You fear trusting the wrong person again.”
That lands.
I see it.
A flicker. A shadow. Luka.
He steps closer until there’s barely space between us.
Close enough that his presence feels like pressure against my skin.
“Be careful,” he murmurs.
“Of what?”
“Of assuming you understand my motives.”
“I understand cages,” I say.
His gaze drops briefly—to my hands, to the way I hold myself upright despite the cameras, the guards, the locked doors.
Then back to my eyes.
He leans in, voice low enough that it feels like a secret instead of a threat.
“You bargain like you were raised in cages.”