Chapter Three
Lauren
The grandfather clock moves, marking my second hour in Nikolai Rogov’s sex dungeon.
His staff are used to hearing people scream? What the fuck does that even mean? How many women has he handcuffed to this bed? And what did he do with them?
I don’t know the guy, but I do know that crime lords like him involve themselves in all sorts of shady activities. To own a forty-acre estate with quartz furnishing, you need to be stinking rich, and to be that, you have to be smart and play your cards well.
I’m not talking about academia, though.
I’m talking about the type of smart that has you getting away with murder and successfully dodging the law every day.
Sometimes I overhear my father discussing Nikolai Rogov at the office with his employees. It’s always bad stuff. But then again, my father isn’t exactly a saint either. And there’s a thin line between hatred and jealousy.
I continue searching with my free hand for a spare key. The mattress is big and I can only reach a portion of it handcuffed to the headboard. I pat the sections I am able to reach and… nothing.
Frustration rushes through me.
I throw myself forward but the chain recoils me straight back to the headboard. Kneeling, I search behind it, my eyes scanning for something between the thin gap.
Still nothing.
Shit!
I can’t let Sophia marry into the Bratva. I just can’t.
I was barely twenty-three when Mom died, returning home from a run.
I was dehydrated, desperate to get my hands on an ice-cold glass of water, but father was standing out on the porch with red eyes.
He was crying, which he never does. He told me that there was tension between some of his competitors at work, and that one of them hired the Bratva, taking Mom as a result.
“The guys name is Timur,” he said.
“And where is Mom now?” I asked. “Let’s go and get her.”
“No, Lauren. They took her life.”
He couldn’t even say the word die.
A big piece of me also died that evening.
It was summer and a beautiful sunset was arriving in the sky, but after hearing the news, everything turned grey.
My thirst disappeared. I no longer wanted water and food—not just after the run; for the two months that followed.
All I wanted was a miracle. For my mother to somehow resurrect and surprise me with her presence.
I slept at every opportunity because in my dreams, Mom had come back and we were family again.
Every time I heard a knock at the door, I thought it was her coming home.
One time, I was catching the MARTA into the city, and I swear I saw her get on too.
Brown, shoulder-length hair, just like mine.
I thought I caught a glimpse of her favorite dress, the one hand-stitched by an Aboriginal Australian when she went traveling there before I was born.
It turned out to be just my imagination.
Father said time is the biggest healer. It isn’t. My body still remembers how it felt that evening. And I haven’t gone on a run since. It’s all too painful.
I always told myself that nothing could beat the pain of losing Mom. I was wrong. The death of two loved ones would sting twice as much, and I think I’d end up dying of heartbreak if that ever happened.
And with Sophia marrying Timur Gusev, things are heading in that direction…
I desperately yank the handcuffs again, teeth gritted. A tear slips from my eye, and I wipe it away.
Dammit!
But then, I hear footsteps. Long strides, echoing down the hallway, heavy and purposeful. Someone’s coming.
The door opens, revealing Nikolai Rogov’s looming figure.
It’s like the temperature drops a few degrees.
A shiver runs down my spine and goosebumps prickle across my skin.
Even my nipples react to the shift in the atmosphere, puckering against the thin fabric I’m wearing.
Too bad I’m not in a position to cross my arms. Besides, when did my body start reacting to Nikolai Rogov of all people?
The whole thing is ridiculous. It’s starting to feel like the beginning of a BDSM porno with the dark lighting, the mahogany wardrobe and dresser, and the four-post bed that has the same, velvet curtains as the other room.
All that’s left to do is to light the pillar candles sitting on the dresser, and for Nikolai to rip off his clothes.
I can’t help but wonder what he looks like naked. If his cock is as hench as the rest of him.
Dammit, Lauren!
What the hell is wrong with you?
I should be focusing on surviving this shit, not thinking about a naked crime lord. God knows what the man came here to do.
He moves closer, his steps slow, predatory. He slips a hand into his navy blazer and presents a key.
“Sophia is married.” He skirts around the bed and unlocks the chains.
Married already?
No!
I wince as I claim back my hand. It’s unnatural to keep it in such an upright position for over two hours.
“So… that’s it? I’m free to go?”
“You may attend the wedding reception and see your friend. That’s what you wanted, right?”
Not entirely, but what else am I supposed to do? Fight? I guess it’s never too late to do that.
My eyes find his. They glow a supernatural blue in this half-light.
“Not worried I won’t still kick up a fuss?”
“I don’t think you’re dumb enough to try. Almost all of the people here today have connections to the Bratva. Nobody will stick up for you if you accuse Timur of murder. Not even Sophia.”
I narrow my eyes to prolong the eye contact—he needs to know I don’t take these things lightly.
Then, I get off the bed.
“Good girl. Go and see your friend. Maybe she’ll explain why she married that monster.” He puts emphasis on the last word.
Smooth.
The fucker has a sense of humor.
I huff out a breath. Iron out my dress and get the hell away from Nikolai Rogov before I end up staring into his navy-blue eyes for too long.
Security still loiters around in the lobby when I make it back, and they eye me as I cross the room to head to the reception.
“The reception is out in the court,” says one of them. He points in the opposite direction. “This way.”
I shield myself from the blinding lights that filter into my eyes, and try to locate my bestie.
Guests are everywhere, and they speak to one another in Russian.
Most wear dark colors, probably to represent the morally questionable activities they involve themselves in.
It’s a stark contrast against the soft theme they’ve got going on.
Peonies line the aisle, ribbons in a similar blushed shade rippling in the breeze.
The place smells of flowers and champagne.
It’s a big court and the grass has been freshly cut.
Everything smells so fragrant and I hate them even more because of it.
They dress everything up. Hide the torture and the murders behind flower arches, pretty gardens, and soft, viola melodies.
Does the woman under the peony arch know these guests’ true colors, or is she involved in the syndicate herself?
Something dazzles me brighter than the sun. I turn my head, and that’s when I see her.
Sophia.
They’ve dressed her up in diamonds. She wears a shining bracelet around her wrist, and matching dangling earrings that wiggle every time she moves her head.
I can appreciate a nice dress, and the one she’s wearing is phenomenal.
It’s crisp white with a bandeau neckline, and the skirt shapes into an elegant mermaid tail.
She smiles a white smile even brighter than the gown, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
I weave between the crowds, inches away from reaching her, but my legs suddenly stop working. Something else catches my attention.
Between the moving bodies, I catch two hands shaking, like a business deal has just been sealed. And I immediately recognize one of them.
It can’t be.
I squint, and return my own hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the lights.
What the hell is he doing here?
I wish it wasn’t him, but it is. My dear old father. The burgundy suit is nothing new—he only owns tailored clothes, but his hair has been styled back, and he only bothers with his hair if it’s a special occasion.
“It’s good to see you again, Timur. Congratulations.” I hear him say to the man.
Timur?
Like… Timur Gusev?
There’s always been something shady about my father that I’ve never been able to put my finger on. He likes to make deals. Not strictly legal ones. But he’s always been careful to hide the details of his operations from me.
I just never thought he’d be shaking hands with the enemy responsible for Mom’s death.