Chapter 8
LILA
Day three of captivity, and I'm losing my mind.
Ivan left early this morning, muttering in Russian to Pyotr before disappearing into the elevator. That was six hours ago.
I press my forehead against the cool window glass, trying to reset my overheating brain.
Pyotr's by the elevator, as usual. Silent. Large. Definitely not leaving or offering an ounce of wiggle room to plot in.
Screw it. I need information, and he's the only source available.
"Does Ivan do this often?" I ask, not turning from the window. "Kidnap women?"
Silence.
"I'm talking to you," I say a little louder.
More silence.
I turn to face him. "I know you speak English. You ordered Chinese food yesterday."
His jaw tightens in the only acknowledgment that I exist.
"Come on. Just talk to me. I'm going insane in here."
Still nothing.
"Please."
He exhales like I'm a walking headache. "Boss says no talking to you."
Victory! It’s microscopic, but I'll take it.
"Why? What am I going to do, interrogate you about his criminal enterprise? I already know he's Bratva and kills people. What's the harm in a little conversation?"
"No talking."
"That's talking. You're literally talking right now."
His scowl deepens.
I push off the window, walking closer. Not too close—I'm not stupid—but close enough that he can't pretend I'm not here. "I'm going for a walk. Try to stop me."
"You won't."
"Watch me." I take a step toward the elevator.
He moves faster than someone his size should be able to, positioning himself between me and the doors. "You move, I stop. You scream, I stop. You die if you leave—Dmitri men everywhere."
"You don't know what's going on here, do you?" I cross my arms, painting on fake confidence. "The way he touches me? Pins me to walls? Calls me his 'conquest'? He'd have your head if you stopped me the way you're threatening to."
Pyotr's expression shifts. "Bullshit."
"Is it? You think this is normal behavior? Feeding me from his hand? Talking about making me watch him—" I cut myself off, face heating. "Whatever. The point is, you lay a hand on me, his woman, and Ivan will kill you."
Pyotr’s expression shifts—confusion, maybe. "His woman?"
"Yes. His woman.” I nearly cringe saying it. “So, unless you want him to remove important parts of your anatomy, I suggest you move."
"You think I'm stupid?"
"If you're not, you'll let me pass."
We stare at each other. The elevator is right behind him. Freedom, or at least the illusion of it, is mere feet away.
His eyes narrow, studying me with new intensity. "You say this like is true, but this make no sense." The words come out in a rumble, broken English with a heavy Russian accent.
"What doesn't make sense?"
"You." He gestures at me, still blocking the elevator. "You are..." He pauses, like he's trying to work out a puzzle. "You are prostitute?"
My cheeks burn. "What? No!"
"Then what?" His brow furrows deeper. "Boss never bring women here."
"Well, I'm here."
"Yes. This is problem." He studies me with new scrutiny. "If not prostitute, then what?"
"A prisoner!" The word comes out sharp. "A captive. Someone he won't let leave."
"Ah." Something shifts in his expression. Understanding, maybe relief. "Yes. This make sense."
"Does it? You keep prisoners here often?"
"Not here. But Boss has kept prisoners before. For questioning. For leverage." He shrugs. "You would not be first."
"Great. So I'm locked up for information?"
"No." He frowns again. " You know nothing useful. You are just waitress."
"Then why am I here?"
"This is question I ask myself." His scowl returns, but it's thoughtful now. "Boss keep other women captive before?"
"You tell me."
He shakes his head. "No. Only men. Men who owe money or betray Bratva. Never women."
"Oh." I tilt my head, studying him. "I didn't know Ivan swung that way."
Pyotr's face goes blank. "What?"
"You know. If he only keeps men around..." I trail, letting the implication hang.
"Boss does not—" He stops, jaw working. "He is not—"
"How do you know?" I ask, cutting him off.
"I can tell."
"You can tell?" I raise an eyebrow. "That's interesting."
"Boss does not look at men. He look at you very different."
"And you're an expert on how men look at things?"
"I am expert on Boss." The words come out clipped. "He like women. Very much like women. You, specifically."
"I'm a special kind of hostage. Lucky me."
"Strange." Pyotr says, eyeing me. "Why Boss keep you? Why not just—" He makes a gesture I don't want to interpret.
"Because he's protecting me from Dmitri."
"Protecting." He says the word like he's tasting it, finding it bitter. "Boss protect many people. Put in safe house, give them guards and money. He never bring home. He never feed strawberries. He never—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "This is not protection. This something else."
"Oh, really? Who could've guessed?"
Pyotr looks at me for a long moment. "You fuck him yet?"
My face burns. "That's none of your business."
"Ah, that is answer." He crosses his massive arms. "So not prostitute, not prisoner. Maybe you are... girlfriend?"
The word sounds foreign in his mouth. Wrong.
"I'm not his girlfriend."
"No? Then what you call this?" He gestures at the penthouse, at me in Ivan's shirt. "He keep you in his home. He touch you. He feed you." His eyes drop to the sketchbook I left on the couch. "He keep your drawings in his office."
I go still. "He what?"
"Misha tell me. Boss has drawings in office. Your drawings of him." Pyotr's expression is unreadable. "This is not how Boss treat prisoner. This is not how Boss treat anyone."
"Maybe he likes art."
"This is not about art."
"Why?"
"Because six families have daughters waiting. Good Russian girls from Bratva bloodlines. Girls who understand life, who understand loyalty, who won't run screaming when Boss come home with blood on hands."
"He's supposed to marry one of them."
"Is expected. Is tradition. Pakhan marry for alliance, for territory, for power." He looks at me as if I'm a problem he can't solve. "Not a girl who serve coffee."
"So me being here is—"
"Insult. Plain and simple." He shrugs. "Boss might as well spit in their faces."
"Good to know I'm causing international incidents."
"You joke, but yes, you cause problems. Big problems." His scowl deepens. "What happen when Dmitri Volkov catch you?"
The change of subject gives me whiplash. "You said he'd kill me."
"No. I say he wants you dead. Different thing."
"I don't understand the difference."
"Volkov rarely kill women. Is waste." Pyotr watches me steadily. "He catch many women over years. Most still alive."
"Then what does he do with them?"
"What you think he do?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
"Misha was right. You are stupid." Pyotr says, shaking his head in disgust. "Volkov run girls. Lots of girls. You understand?"
The meaning sinks in slowly, then all at once. "He traffics women."
"See? Not that stupid after all."
"That's what would happen to me."
"If you lucky, he keep you for himself. You are pretty enough. Blonde. Young. Maybe he like stupid American girl." Pyotr's voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "If not lucky, he sell you. Or put you in club where men pay."
"So, that's why I can't leave?"
"That is why you stay in penthouse, eat good food, wear Boss's shirt, and complain." He settles back against the wall. "You have one choice: Cage with Petrov, or cage with Volkov."
We stand in heavy silence. He's right, and we both know it. My options aren't freedom or captivity. They're different versions of captivity, and at least this one doesn't end with me in a brothel.
"I still don't understand," Pyotr says finally. "Why you? Why American who know nothing? Boss could have any woman. Makes no sense."
"I don't know."
"This is what worry me." His eyes are hard. "Boss never act like this before. Never keep woman in home. Never look at woman the way he look at you."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Stay alive. Don't be stupid. Let Boss do what he do best." Pyotr's expression hardens again. "And if I tell you to run, you run. You understand?"
"Why would you tell me to run?"
"Because if I tell you run, it mean Boss can't protect you anymore and you die if you stay." His voice drops lower. "I don't want to see pretty American girl end up in Volkov's hands."
"That's almost sweet."
"Is not sweet. Is practical. Boss care about you. If you die, he do something stupid and get him killed. You alive? He alive. Simple."
"Everything comes back to loyalty with you guys, doesn't it?"
"Loyalty is everything." He says it with absolute certainty. "Boss save my life in Chechnya. I owe him everything. Even if that mean protecting American girlfriend."
"Again, I'm not his girlfriend."
"Sure." But he doesn't sound convinced. "Whatever you say, Boss's woman." He pauses, then his eyes widen slightly. "Fuck. I talk too much."
"You just told me your life story. Pretty sure silence isn't your best line of work."
His scowl returns, deeper than before. "Boss can't know I talk to you."
"Relax. I won't tell him you watch for the signs."
"I don't—" He cuts himself off, jaw tight. "No more talking."
"Back to the silent treatment?"
He doesn't answer. Just positions himself by the elevator, arms crossed, wall firmly back in place.
The conversation is over.
I head back to the guest room and grab my sketchbook and the expensive pencils Ivan bought me. Mind racing, I settle by the window where the light's good.
At least I got Pyotr talking. It’s the most progress I've made in three days.
And now I know that Ivan's never kept a woman here before. Never looked at anyone the way he looks at me. And he’s expected to choose a Bratva woman, not me.
I'm not sure if that makes me special or exceptionally screwed.
Probably both.