Chapter 6
Zoya
Iwalk toward the Romanov building in downtown Moscow and realize that it looks like any other standard skyscraper of glass and steel that functions as a legitimate corporate headquarters.
It’s a twenty-story building that houses law firms and investment banks on the lower floors, making it difficult to believe that this is actually the base of operations for a man like Alexei Romanov.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I push through the revolving doors and walk across the marble lobby toward a security desk manned by two guards who look like they spend all their free time in a gym.
“I need to see Alexei Romanov,” I say, leaning against the desk to hide the fact that my knees are shaking.
The guard on the left has a neck thicker than my thigh and doesn’t even bother looking at his computer screen. “Do you have an appointment, lady?”
“No, I don’t have an appointment, but I have a little piece of plastic that’s going to make his entire week miserable if I give it to the wrong person,” I reply, trying to sound a lot more confident than I feel.
“Name?” Thick Neck asks, picking up a desk phone.
“Zoya Petrov.”
He murmurs my name into the receiver, waits ten seconds, and then hangs up with a grunt. “Mr. Romanov isn’t available for you today. Or ever. Turn around and walk back out.”
“Look, I’m trying to be a good citizen here,” I argue, gripping the edge of the desk. “Just tell him I have the drive from the hotel. If this ends up on the internet, he’s going to have a very bad day.”
“We heard you the first time, now move along before we have to move you,” the second guard growls, but I don’t budge.
I open my mouth to protest again, but he steps around the desk and grabs the scruff of my jacket like I’m a stray puppy.
He literally lifts me off my feet, my heels dangling inches from the marble floor, and marches me straight to the revolving doors.
He deposits me on the sidewalk with so much force I nearly do a face-plant into a planter.
“Stay out, Petrov,” he snaps before the glass doors hiss shut.
I stand there for a full minute, fuming. Then, because I’ve never been good at taking a hint, I march right back inside. I don’t even get five feet before the same guard grabs me again, hauls me back out, and shoves me so hard I stumble into a passerby.
“Fine! If he doesn’t want his precious little secrets, then he can find them in the garbage!” I scream at the glass.
I march two blocks away until I find a public trash can that’s overflowing with coffee cups and half-eaten shawarma.
I pull the flash drive out of my pocket, look at the plastic casing that contains enough evidence to start a war, and slam it into the bin.
I follow it up with a violent, frustrated kick to the metal base that sends a dull thud echoing down the street.
“You’re all a bunch of psychopathic idiots!” I yell at the top of my lungs.
A woman walking toward me with two toddlers immediately gasps, pulling her children behind her back and hurrying to the other side of the road as if I’m armed and dangerous.
A businessman about ten feet away makes eye contact with me, goes pale, and performs a perfect U-turn to avoid crossing my path.
I let out one last primal scream for good measure and start walking, feeling significantly lighter but also incredibly annoyed that I’ve wasted my Saturday.
The relief lasts exactly three blocks before a black sedan with ink-dark windows starts rolling along the curb at my exact walking pace.
I turn down a side street and break into a half-jog, but two men in dark suits appear out of the shadows and spin me around.
One of them presses a cold, hard piece of metal against my lower back.
“If you move, I shoot,” he whispers, his thick accent making it clear these aren’t Alexei’s men. “The boss just wants a word with you.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say, holding my hands up. “Is this a Saturday thing now? Because my schedule specifically states that I am only kidnappable on Tuesdays. Does your boss not know the routine? I have things to do on the weekend!”
“Shut up and get in the car, lady,” the second one grunts, reaching for a burlap bag.
“Oh, seriously? Don’t bag me. I know the drill. I go willingly in these cases,” I snap, trying to push the bag away. “I’m very cooperative. Ask any of the three gangs that snatched me this month. I’m basically a professional at this point.”
“Get in the damn car before I knock you out,” the first one growls. They shove me into the back seat and throw a burlap bag over my head. It’s itchy and smells like stale tobacco.
“This is really unnecessary for fuck’s sake!”
“Shut up and sit still,” one of the men yells.
“Don’t tell me to shut up. I’ll go willingly just to save my hair from smelling like a basement, but at least turn the AC on. It’s humid in here.”
“One more word and I’ll knock you out.”
I don’t doubt him. I sit in silence for the twenty-minute drive.
When they finally yank the bag off, I’m inside a mansion that looks like a museum.
They march me into a study where a man who looks to be in his mid-twenties with dark hair and a face that belongs on a billboard sits behind a mahogany desk.
“Zoya Petrov. Welcome, welcome, please sit down,” he beams, setting his glass on the desk with a sharp thud.
“I’m not really in a sitting mood, considering I was just snatched on my day off by people who clearly didn’t check the group chat,” I snap, looking at him. “Who are you anyway?”
“I’m Dato Janelidze,” he says, giving me a flat look.
“My associates saw you at the Romanov building today. You looked frantic, and then you had a very public meltdown at a trash can. I’m a curious man, Zoya.
What kind of sensitive information is a little journalist like you carrying that makes her risk her life to enter Alexei’s den? ”
“I was just trying to leave a one-star review on their terrible service,” I lie, crossing my arms.
Dato doesn’t laugh. He leans over the desk, his eyes cold. “Don’t lie to me. I hate being lied to. It makes me very unpleasant. My guys saw you clutching something to your chest outside his establishment before you threw it away. What was it? A file? A photo?”
“It was a receipt for coffee. Alexei asked me to give it to him when I go out,” I say, my heart drumming against my ribs.
Dato stands up and walks around the desk, stopping right in front of my chair.
“I’m going to make this very simple. You’re going to stay here until I figure out exactly what you know.
If you talk, you get a room. If you don’t, I’ll let my guys find out how many of your fingers it takes to make you honest.”
“So I’m a hostage now? Great. I hope the room service is better than the transportation.”
“You’re a guest until you become a liability,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my jaw with a grip that makes my teeth ache. “I have a very low tolerance for liabilities. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“You’re already proving you’re a psycho, so the point is taken,” I snap, jerking my face away.
“Take her to her room,” Dato tells the guards, not looking at me anymore. “If she tries to leave, break her legs. I don’t need her to walk to give me information.”
By the second night, Dato summons me for dinner. He sits me right next to him while he eats a delicious-smelling lamb dish. I look to the side and notice the maids staring stiffly at us. I smile at them, then give a small thank you to ease their nerves.
“So tell me, Miss Zoya, why is the great Alexei Romanov obsessed with you?” Dato muses, swirling his wine and watching me over the rim of the glass.
“He’s let you go twice now. In this business, that doesn’t happen very often.
Although I’ve heard the rumors about what he’s like behind closed doors.
They say he’s a total animal. People say he goes through three women in a night and still isn’t satisfied. ”
He leans in closer, his voice dropping. “So, satisfy my curiosity about the great Pakhan. Is he really that much of an animal in bed, or are you just a convenient place for him to blow off some steam?”
I set my fork down slowly, meeting his gaze dead-on.
“Alexei and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now.
” I lean in, mirroring him. “But let’s be real, Dato.
You are asking an awful lot of very specific questions about another man’s dick.
Like… is that what this is? Do you like him?
If you’re this obsessed with how the Pakhan fucks, you could just slide into his DMs. Send him a tasteful dick pic.
Ask him out. It would definitely save us all this kidnapping drama. ”
Dato’s smile twitches. It’s just a split-second freeze, but I catch it. “Careful with that mouth, Zoya. I’m just making conversation.”
“Conversation?” I let out a short, sharp laugh.
“You threw a bag over my head, locked me up, and now you’re grilling me about another man’s stamina like a jealous ex-girlfriend.
If you’re in the closet, just own it. Come out swinging.
Alexei might actually respect the balls it takes.
Send him a fruit basket. A nice bottle of wine.
Whatever. Just stop projecting your weird crush onto me and let me go home. ”
His jaw locks. His knuckles go white around the stem of his wine glass. “You think you’re funny. That mouth is going to get you hurt.”
“Oh, I’m hilarious,” I shoot back, refusing to blink.
“But seriously…if fantasizing about Alexei is your weekend hobby, be honest about it. Kidnapping journalists to fish for bedroom details is just pathetic. You want the scoop? Ask him. He might say yes. He might break your jaw. Either way, it’s a step up from this creepy interrogation. ”
He leans back, forcing a dry chuckle. “You really enjoy testing men who could snap your neck without a second thought.”
“And you really enjoy obsessing over other men’s sex lives,” I counter sweetly. “So maybe work through that before you threaten me again. Just text him. Hey bro, heard you’re an animal, wanna compare notes? The worst he can say is no.”
Dato stares at me for a long, heavy beat. His expression turning ugly. He doesn’t look away from me as he waves a dismissive hand at the guards.
“Take her back to her room,” he orders coldly. “And take some wet rice to her. She will eat in silence.”
Heavy hands clamp onto my arms, hauling me roughly out of the chair.
“Hey, wait, I didn’t even get to eat the lamb!” I protest, struggling as they drag me backward away from the table. “Offer still stands, Dato! Fruit basket! It works wonders!”
He doesn’t reply. But as the heavy doors shut between us, the silence he leaves behind feels heavier than any threat.
By the third day, he finds me in the garden and starts mocking my OnlyFans account, asking if Alexei even knows I’m here since there has been no rescue.
By the fourth day, I’m exploring the library when I hear voices in the sitting room. I peer around the corner and see Dato lounging on a sofa, aiming a gun at an apple balanced on a servant’s head. A younger man on the skinnier side is standing nearby, looking exhausted.
“Dato, this is ridiculous. You’re going to kill the man over a piece of fruit,” the younger man argues.
“This is practice, little brother. Steady hands are the only things that win wars,” Dato replies, his finger tightening on the trigger.
I let out a small, sharp gasp of horror, and Dato’s head snaps toward me instantly. His gun was still raised high, and a predatory grin spread across his face.
“Zoya, love. Come in and join us,” Dato says, gesturing with his free hand. “We were just having a little bit of fun.”