Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Anna
I woke up with a stiff neck.
My head tilted to one side, chin pressed against my collarbone. The muscles along my neck were sore and rigid from holding the same position too long.
I flexed my fingers. First came the numbness—spreading from my fingertips all the way to my wrists, like my blood had been pinched off, flowing slow and sluggish.
Then the pain. A thin line circled my wrists where the zip ties had dug in, carved into the skin like a fresh trench, the surface mottled with broken capillaries.
I didn't open my eyes right away. I listened instead.
Someone was moving around. Light footsteps, deliberately slowed. Voices speaking Russian drifted through the door—couldn't make out the words, but the tone was loose. Relaxed. The kind of ease that came with thinking you'd already won.
I stayed still, held that position, waited for them to finish talking, waited for the footsteps to fade.
Then I opened my eyes.
I was tied to a metal folding chair. The backrest pressed cold against my shoulder blades. One leg was broken, propped up with folded cardboard.
White zip ties bound my wrists to the armrests, my ankles to the chair legs.
I tested them. The edge bit into my skin and I jerked back.
One door. A sliver of dingy yellow light leaked underneath, stretching across the floor in a thin bright line. No windows. The air was stale, thick with the smell of motor oil and rust.
I sat in that chair, stared at that line of light, and evened out my breathing.
A lot came flooding back, but I didn't let it pile up.
I sorted through it piece by piece. One: I wasn't at Ivan's.
Two: the black van. Three: the texture of a gloved hand clamped over my mouth.
Four: a smell I'd had to work to place—the smell Gary always carried.
Laundry detergent mixed with sweat and cheap tobacco.
Gary. My piece-of-shit father.
That smell connected all the fragments in my head.
He was part of this. He was in this building. He was behind one of these doors.
The realization settled in my stomach—not fear, not anger. Just cold.
A hard, heavy lump of cold iron, sitting there. Unmoving. Unmelting.
I didn't pull at the zip ties again. I leaned back, closed my eyes for a moment, smoothed my breathing, pressed all those churning pieces back into place.
The door opened.
Light spilled in, pooled on the floor in front of my feet.
A hunched shadow stretched across it, lengthening slowly until it stopped right in front of me.
Gary crouched down, hands on his knees, head tilted as he looked at me. That smile pulled at his mouth—the one I'd known since I was a kid.
He held a cup of water. The rim was chipped. Thin steam curled off the surface.
"Thirsty? Have some."
I didn't look at the cup.
I looked at his face—the face that had only ever meant disaster and loss.
His hair was thinner than it had been a few years ago. The top of his head was almost completely bald, a few strands combed over from the sides. New wrinkles piled up at the corners of his eyes. But his gaze hadn't changed.
Always calculating. Always evaluating. Always hunting for the next thing he could trade away.
"It was you," I said. My voice was hoarse from not drinking, but every word came out clear. "You brought them here."
He laughed softly. The smile deepened, carving lines around his eyes.
He reached out and patted my knee, like he was soothing a disobedient dog.
"Anna, don't blame your old man. I didn't have a choice. Those guys found me and said if I didn't cooperate, they'd throw me in the Hudson. I'm too old to run. I had to do what they said."
"So you sold me to them."
He stood, paced a few steps across the room. His shoes crunched over broken glass on the floor.
He stopped with his back to me, then turned his head to look at me. "You know who Ivan is? He's the Pakhan of the Bratva. He's got blood on his hands. Hundreds of killers working under him. You think keeping you locked up at home was what—imprisonment?"
He let out a short laugh, bitter and mocking. "He was protecting you. He didn't want anyone to know he had a weak spot. Didn't want you discovered and used against him. That's what you are to him—a weakness. A weakness that needs to be locked away."
He tilted his head, watching me. Waiting for my expression to crack. Waiting for fear, collapse, some defeated moment to prove he'd won.
But I didn't give it to him.
I leaned back against the chair, met his eyes, waited for him to burn through that little spark of satisfaction, waited for his smile to stiffen, waited for the cracks to show.
Then I spoke. "You done?"
His smile faltered.
"If you're done, you can leave."
The expression on his face shifted.
That soft layer peeled away like torn paper, revealing the cold, tight face underneath.
He didn't say another word. He turned and shoved the door open, walked out. The door slammed shut behind him. The lock clicked into place.
I listened to his footsteps fade, then slowly unclenched my fists.
Ivan was the Pakhan of the Bratva.
No wonder he didn't want to tell me. He was probably afraid I'd be scared.
But I wasn't scared.
What came faster than fear was understanding. I understood what he'd been trying to do.
And now, I couldn't be his weakness. I had to get out. I had to leave.
I pressed my wrists together, the protruding bones grinding against the rusted edge of the metal frame, and started sawing back and forth.
The rough rust scraped against the surface of the zip tie, making a faint grinding sound. It cut into the skin of my wrists. Blood seeped out. I didn't stop. Not once.
About ten minutes later, the tie snapped. My hands came free.
I bit down hard and bent forward to work on the ties around my ankles.
This time was faster. I dug my nails under the locking tab and pried it open bit by bit. The edge of the tie sliced into my fingertip. Blood stained the clear plastic strip.
I stood. My legs were weak from being tied so long. I leaned against the wall for a few seconds, waited for the blood to circulate again, then started moving.
I rifled through the pile of junk in the corner—old wooden crates, a coil of rusted wire, a few discarded metal parts. Finally, behind one of the crates, I found a length of iron pipe about half an arm long. One end was flattened, the edge jagged, like it had been torn off some piece of machinery.
I tested the weight. It would do.
I tucked it into the back of my waistband, pulled my shirt over it, and walked to the door. I pressed down on the handle.
It wasn't locked.
I pushed the door open, slipped out sideways, and eased it back to its original angle.
The hallway was long. A few overhead lights flickered on and off, casting uneven patches of light and shadow across the floor.
I stayed close to the wall, every step landing in the dark.
Voices drifted up from the far end of the hall—someone talking downstairs in Russian, casual, like they were shooting the breeze.
Then I heard something closer. A voice coming from one of the rooms down the corridor.
Gary, on the phone. He was keeping his voice low, but the hallway was too quiet. The words still reached me.
"She won't cooperate. Yeah, she knows. When are you guys wrapping this up? I don't want to stay here anymore."
I pressed my back against the wall. Didn't move.
Then the whole building shook. A dull thud came from outside, transmitted through the walls and floor, like something heavy had slammed into a door.
Gary's voice cut off. Then more sounds erupted—gunshots. Short. Rapid. Like a string of firecrackers thrown into an empty warehouse.
Shouts surged up from below, Russian and English tangled together, frantic and broken.
Then came the sound of footsteps—coordinated, heavy, like a lot of people moving at once. The gunfire didn't stop, but it wasn't as dense as before.
When Gary saw me, he froze.
Then his expression changed—he yanked a short blade from his pocket. Black handle. The edge flashed in the dim hallway light.
He charged at me, trying to grab my wrist, drag me in front of him.
I took a step back. My spine hit the wall. Nowhere left to go.
I watched him come at me. His eyes were wide, full of panic and desperation.
He pointed the blade at me. I gripped the pipe behind my back and swung it out when he was half an arm's length away. The flattened end struck his hand. The knife clattered to the floor.
He flinched; his footing faltered. I swung again, hitting his shoulder. He staggered sideways.
His lips trembled. He wanted to say something, but the words piled up in his throat. Nothing came out.
I raised the pipe and brought it down on his forehead.
It wasn't a hard blow. But he crumpled like someone had pulled his bones out. He slid down the wall, the back of his head scraping against the concrete. Dust smeared into his graying hair.
He looked up at me. The light in his eyes was fading, bit by bit.
His hand still rested on the floor. His last words came out in a low murmur. "I'm your father..."
I stood over him, unmoved.
"No. You were never a father."
His gaze slid away from my face, drifted up to some point on the ceiling he'd never reach again. Then he stopped moving.
The hallway lights kept flickering. The noise downstairs had died down.
The gunfire had stopped. In its place came footsteps and clipped commands.
I straightened, set the pipe down against the wall, and turned toward the open door at the end of the hall.
The first floor was being cleared—men in dark clothing were hauling bodies up off the floor, dragging them toward the exit.
They saw me coming and stepped aside. No one stopped me.
I walked out through the steel door. It was already light outside. The clouds after the rain were slowly breaking apart, revealing a clean, washed-out strip of blue underneath.
The wind blew in from somewhere far away, cool, carrying the smell of dirt and grass.
I stood in the doorway, looking out at the open lot in front of me. Light filtered through the clouds, spreading inch by inch across the steps.
But the light was too bright. I couldn't keep my eyes open.
My knees buckled. My whole body started to slide down.
The edges of my vision were narrowing, like someone was slowly closing a window.
Someone caught me. A pair of hands locked firmly around my back.
I leaned into him. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath the fabric—steady, strong.
He turned me around and lifted me into his arms. A coat settled over me.
Dark gray fabric covered my bare shoulders and arms. The hem draped down, hiding the raw marks the zip ties had left on my wrists.
His stride was long, each step firm and deliberate. The wind was blocked by his shoulder. He didn't speak. He just kept walking, toward the black car parked at the far edge of the lot.
I was gently placed in the back seat. His palm cradled the back of my head as he laid it down on the cushion.
The coat was tucked in again, folded along the curve of my shoulder.
The sound of the car door closing was muffled, like it came from somewhere far away. The engine rumbled low. The car pulled forward smoothly.
Sunlight filtered through the window and fell across my eyelids, warm, pale gold, shifting slightly as the car turned.
A hand covered mine where it lay along the edge of the seat. He didn't squeeze. Just rested it there.
I felt my breathing deepen, slow, like my body had finally accepted some signal of safety.
My fingers turned over, slipped into his palm. He curled his fingers around mine, gentle, like he was holding something fragile.
I kept my eyes closed. I didn't wake. But my hand stayed there, in his palm, like a bird that had finally come home, wings folded, resting in the safest place.
The sunlight kept moving. The car kept going.
From that day forward, from the moment he came for me, he would never let go.