19. Zoya
ZOYA
T he pharmacy door chimes as I step onto the sidewalk. The afternoon air carries the scent of exhaust, and rain clouds are gathering overhead. I pull my coat tighter and head toward the main street, where the bus stop sits under a flickering streetlight.
Maksim will be back from his meeting soon, and after three weeks of being married, I know I should go straight home, but his apartment feels too small today, too full of questions I can't ask and answers I'm not sure I want to hear.
The city moves around me in its usual chaos—pedestrians hurrying past, cars honking at the intersection, the distant sound of construction work echoing off the buildings.
I check my watch—four thirty. Enough time to walk the long way home, maybe stop at the bookstore on Tverskaya Street. Maksim doesn't approve of my wandering the city alone, but he's not here to stop me.
The van appears at the curb as I turn the corner onto Sokolnicheskaya. Two men step out—one tall with a scar cutting across his jaw, the other built broad with hands that have seen violence. They move toward me with purpose, and I know instantly that this isn't random.
"Zoya Mirova." The scarred man says my name with disgust in his tone. They're not calling me Vetrova, so I know this is about Damir.
I step back, but the broad one is already behind me. His hand closes around my arm, and when I try to pull away, his grip becomes iron. The few pedestrians on the street keep walking, eyes averted. In this city, no one wants to see trouble.
"Don't scream," he murmurs against my ear. "This doesn't have to hurt."
The van door slides open. The interior is dark, empty except for a bench seat bolted to the floor. I twist against the man's hold, but he lifts me off the ground and pushes me inside. My knees hit the metal floor, and the door slams shut before I can scramble back toward it.
The engine starts immediately. The scarred man sits across from me, his eyes never leaving my face. The van moves through the city, turning left and right until I lose track of direction entirely. Through the tinted windows, I catch glimpses of familiar buildings fading into unfamiliar ones.
"Who are you?" I ask.
He doesn't answer. He pulls out his phone and types a message, his thumbs moving quickly across the screen. When he's finished, he puts it away and leans back against the van wall. The broad one drives in silence, occasionally glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
I try to memorize the route, counting turns and estimating time, but after twenty minutes, everything becomes a blur of concrete and traffic. The van reeks of cigarettes, and the bench seat is bolted too firmly to the floor to use as a weapon.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask.
Neither man responds. The scarred one checks his phone again, then puts it away. His jacket hangs open enough for me to see the gun holstered at his side. The broad one drums his fingers on the steering wheel, following a route he clearly knows by heart.
The ride takes forty minutes. When we finally stop, I hear the sound of metal doors opening—a loading dock, from the echo. They lead me through a maze of concrete corridors into an old warehouse. The building is sorely neglected, and broken windows let in slanted rays of late afternoon sun.
Industrial equipment sits covered in dust and cobwebs. Pallets are stacked against the walls, and the floor is stained with oil and other substances I don't want to identify. Our footsteps echo in the cavernous space as they guide me toward the back corner.
The room they lock me in is small and windowless. Concrete walls, concrete floor, a single metal chair. A camera sits in the upper corner, its red light blinking steadily. The door is heavy steel with no handle on the inside.
"Strip," the scarred man says.
I stare at him. "No."
"We're not asking." The broad one steps forward.
My hands shake as I remove my clothes. They take everything—my phone, my keys, the small knife I keep in my purse, even my earrings.
They give me a thin gray dress to wear, something that feels like hospital scrubs but cheaper.
The fabric is rough against my skin, and it leaves nothing to the imagination as I hug my arms over my belly, whimpering.
Hours pass with no food or water. The camera watches me pace the room, test the locked door, run my hands along the walls looking for any weakness, but there is none.
The concrete is solid, unmarked except for old water stains near the floor.
The ceiling is too high to reach, and the single light bulb is protected by a metal cage.
I sit in the chair and think about Maksim. He should have noticed I'm missing by now. His meetings end at six, and the light through the crack under the door has long since faded to black. But will he come for me?
The question sits on my chest, attempting to suffocate me.
I've been married to him for three weeks, and I still don't understand what he wants from me.
The marriage was supposed to draw Damir out—that much I know—but until now I believe my brother is still safe.
Though I've asked Maksim to spare Damir, he hasn't answered me.
I think about the conversations I've overheard, the names mentioned in hushed tones. The name Karpin comes up often in Maksim's phone calls, always followed by anger in his voice, a coldness that makes me want to stay out of his way.
The Karpin faction are Maksim's enemies, and now I'm their prisoner.
They're using me as bait. The realization comes slowly, building from suspicion into certainty. They want to draw Maksim out, force him to come for me. But why would he risk himself for a woman he married as part of a strategy?
Because that's what this is, isn't it? A strategy to get close to Damir through me. To use me as a weapon against my own brother.
I think about Alexei Petrov, the name I heard in a conversation I wasn't supposed to witness.
Maksim's cousin by marriage, dead from a bad batch of drugs that came through Damir's supply line.
If that's true, then Damir killed someone in Maksim's family.
And if that's true, then my entire marriage is a lie.
The door opens. The scarred man enters with a bottle of water and a piece of bread. He sets them on the floor near my feet and leaves without speaking. The door locks again with a heavy click.
I drink the water slowly, trying to make it last. The bread is stale. It looks like it's ready to mold, but I eat it anyway. My stomach cramps from hunger, and I realize I haven't eaten since breakfast. The dress provides little warmth, and the concrete floor draws heat from my bare feet.
The camera blinks, and I wonder if anyone is watching the feed, if they can see me sitting here, trying to decide whether my husband cares if I live or die.
I stand and walk to the far corner of the room, as far from the camera as I can get. The concrete wall is cold against my back as I slide down to sit on the floor. From here, I can see the camera's angle, the way it tracks my movement.
They're watching me break down. Or waiting for me to break down.
Hours pass, and the light under the door disappears completely, leaving only the harsh overhead bulb and the blinking camera. I try to sleep, but the chair is uncomfortable and the concrete floor is too cold. Every time I close my eyes, I think about what they might do to me if Maksim doesn't come.
Or what they might do to me if he does.
I walk back to the chair and sit down. My legs are stiff from the cold, and my throat feels dry despite the water. The warehouse is quiet except for the occasional sound of footsteps in the distance.
The camera continues to blink, and I stare back at it. Somewhere out there, Maksim is making a choice. Come for me and walk into a trap, or let me die and find another way to get to Damir.
If he comes, it could be because he needs me alive to get to my brother. If he doesn't come, it could be because I'm no longer useful to him. Either way, I'm not sure what it means for me as a person rather than a tool.
The things I've learned about my brother over the past few months shock me. The drugs, the overdose, the death of someone important to Maksim's family. If Damir really did cause Alexei's death, then maybe he deserves the retribution that's coming.
But how can I stand by and let them destroy him? He's my brother, the only family I have left.
And what does it mean for me if Maksim doesn't come? Am I destined to die in this room, another casualty in a war I never understood?
The camera blinks, and I turn away from it.
I walk to the wall and press my palms against the cold concrete.
Whatever happens next, I won't give these men the satisfaction of seeing me break.
I turn around and stare directly into the camera lens.
If they want to watch me, they'll see someone who refuses to be broken.