Chapter 13 Ransome
RANSOME
I’ve cornered Amara against the locked door, my body caging her in, close enough that I can smell that fucking perfume—jasmine, rose, patchouli—mixing with the scent of her fear.
She looks scared.
She should be.
“I was w-worried about you,” she stutters out. Her attempt at bravery is almost cute. Emphasis on almost.
“Wrong answer.”
I need to get us inside, away from prying eyes. The room behind her is Rozanov territory—a private basement where no sound will reach unwanted ears. Perfect for the conversation she and I are about to have.
I reach past her for the door handle—
—and she flinches.
Hard. Like I’m about to strike her.
The reaction stops me cold. My hand freezes in mid-air. I feel a strange surge racing over the surface of my skin. A bit of thrill, a bit of disgust. An odd reaction, to say the fucking least.
The thrill part is easy to unpack. Because there’s a part of me—always has been, always will be—that gets a sick kick out of watching the hitch in Amara’s throat or how her fingers scrabble at the insides of her elbows like she’s trying to disappear into herself.
She’s looking at me like I’m a loaded fucking gun with a hair trigger.
And that’s exactly what I am.
But there’s another part—a part I don’t want to examine too closely—that hates the way she recoils from me. Fear makes my business easier. Always has, always will.
So why don’t I quite like that Amara is afraid of me?
Grimacing, I turn the handle and push the door open behind her. She stumbles backward into the dimly lit space, and I follow. The door clangs shut behind us with an iron cough.
“It is not your job to worry about me,” I snarl. I point at a chair in the center of the room, situated beneath a bare light bulb overhead. “Sit.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I said sit.”
She drops into it, still trembling.
I lean in, my face right in front of hers. “It would be wise not to lie to me right now,” I warn. When she doesn’t say anything, I bite my lips and nod once, then stand up straight again. “You’ve been following me. True or false?”
“I’m your assistant!”
I sigh inwardly. She’s actually going to make this hard. Alright. “Let me rephrase. You’ve been stalking me.”
My eyes slice back over to her. Even in the shadowy light, I can see her throat tensing. But her stare is rock hard.
Stubborn little kitten.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
Oh, Amara. If only she knew who she’s actually dealing with.
Unless, of course… she does.
“It wasn’t a question. I know you’ve been stalking me. I’ve set up traps. The phone, the one you linked the location to. That goes both ways, you know.”
She swallows. The sound of her terror sends that prickly surge over my skin again.
I go on. “You’ve been digging into my personal life on your laptop. I know this because it’s an Apex laptop and I can see anything and everything everyone does at the click of a mouse. You’ve been lingering in my penthouse longer than permitted, using my glassware, leaving doors open…”
I pull the hair clip from my pocket and hold it out to her.
“ … leaving personal items behind…” I bend down again, my face close enough to hers that she physically can’t look away.
“First rule of thumb when you’re stalking a very dangerous man, Amara?
Don’t. And the second rule is, if you are stupid enough to break rule number one, don’t be sloppy about it. ”
“It was just a g-glass of water.” Her voice comes out all breath. A Hail Mary, a desperate prayer for mercy.
But I think it goes without saying that I’m not a religious man. I’ve seen too much of the devil to believe in God.
“No, Amara, it wasn’t. It was a glass of water…
a phone that shouldn’t have been touched…
a white button-down shirt that you swap out every so often so I won’t notice it’s missing.
Another thing about dangerous men, Amara?
We notice everything. I know your address; I know your family’s address; I know your Social Security Number; I know you wear Gucci perfume just to fuck with me.
I know who you keep company with, your favorite wine, your skincare routine.
So I think it would be wise if you start talking.
And only tell me the truth from now on.”
Amara is quiet for a moment, but I don’t mind. I have time. She’ll break sooner rather than later.
Eventually, she tips her chin up. “What if I don’t?”
My eyebrow almost arches at that. I’m not used to people being this defiant. I have an entire surgical kit in my trunk built for breaking defiance, so people usually just answer the questions.
But this way is more fun.
I keep my eyes on her for a long time, saying nothing, before I start to undo my tie. I can see her pupils dilate as she questions what is coming. I know she is expecting a consequence. I don’t know if she expects me to use the tie to bind her hands.
But that’s what I do. I bend forward and loop the fabric around both of her wrists. After pulling the knot tight enough to make her gasp, I hold her hands over her head, my face close enough to hers that I could kiss her.
Kiss her. Wouldn’t that be some sweet fucking torture?
For her, though? asks a voice in my head. Or for you?
“What are you going to do to me, Mr. Rozanov?” she asks. “Are you going to punish me?”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? If I strung you up and tortured you with my mouth? If I kissed you, teased you, drove you wild over and over again without ever actually satisfying you?”
Amara’s lips pop open and she emits a hot, sweet, trembling breath.
But then I pull back, yanking her hands down and fastening the loose ends of the tie to the chair so she can’t move.
“I’m not going to do that, dorogaya,” I say. “I’ve got too many questions. Why are you following me and what do you know?”
To my surprise, she scoffs in my face. “You have my computer tapped and most likely my phone. You should know I don’t know anything. Other than that you are more dangerous than I thought.”
I let out a gritty laugh. “That’s true. But why?”
“Why… why what?” she asks.
“Why am I dangerous?”
“You’re the CEO of Apex Oil and Gas. You’re a multi-billionaire. Rich men have a lot of power.”
“And?”
“And… that’s all I know.”
I study her. I’m used to being lied to. And considering she has a record of it now, I’m not convinced.
Walk away, I tell myself. If this is a real problem, if she is a threat, I need to treat her like anyone else that goes sniffing around the Bratva.
Which means I need to make use of that surgical kit (which is not going to happen) or I need to leave her here.
Shut the lights off for the night and come back in the morning when she’s feeling a little more desperate.
But as I stare down at her, I’m having a hard time doing what needs to be done. I’ve never interrogated a woman before. Never had to. And Amara is… different.
The basement suddenly feels wrong for this.
Too much like the other interrogations and we all know how those end: with blood and broken bones and black flowers sent anonymously to families who will never see their loved one again.
This isn’t some rival family’s spy or a disloyal soldier or a supplier who thought they could fuck me on a deal and get away with it.
This is my assistant.
Maybe I was wrong to bring her here. More than that—and I hate admitting this even to myself—maybe I don't want to break her. Not like this.
If I’m going to get the truth out of her, it needs to be somewhere else. Somewhere I have more control, more options. Somewhere I can take my time.
Without giving her the satisfaction of saying anything, I untie her from the chair.
Then, with her hands still bound, I take her out to my car.
I can’t take the irresponsible chance of just letting her go and hoping she changes her mind about telling me the truth.
But this scenario obviously has to be handled with care.
I don’t want to rip out the information I need… I want her to give it to me.
So we’re going to make a little venue change.
Wordlessly, we drive through the night. I park on the top floor of my parking garage and lead her inside to the penthouse. As I untie her hands, she asks, “What are we doing here? What are you going to do to me?”
I hold up her wallet and her phone that she dropped while we were in the warehouse. “I’m going to hold onto this.”
“Are you going to hurt me?” she asks.
“Only if you keep lying to me. For now, you’re going to stay here.”
I turn to leave, resetting the security to another code. A code that, once locked, can only be unlocked with my phone.
“Wait,” she calls out. “Like… a prisoner?”
“Something like that,” I answer with the smallest of smirks. “I’ll be back soon. Be ready to talk.”