23. Sofia
SOFIA
For one wonderful, stupid second, I think I’ve escaped.
Then the hand over my mouth tightens, another arm locks around my waist, and I’m dragged backward so fast my boots slide on the polished floor.
I try to scream, but the sound dies against leather. I bite down hard on the hand covering my mouth, and the man behind me curses viciously against my ear. Good. I hope he loses the finger. I hope it falls off and ruins his evening.
“Hold her,” he snaps.
A second man grabs my legs. I kick him in the stomach.
He grunts, and for half a second his grip loosens enough that I almost twist free.
Almost. Then the first man hauls me harder against him, crushing my back to his chest, and drags me through a side door into a narrow service passage that smells like dust, cardboard, and cleaning chemicals.
This is not Anya’s cousin. This is not part of the plan.
This is not Dmitri either.
Panic hits so hard I can barely breathe.
I thrash harder, throwing my head back, elbowing anything I can reach, digging my nails into the hand clamped around my face.
The man makes another furious sound when I tear skin.
He deserves it. He deserves worse. I try to hook my foot around a metal shelf as they pull me past it, but the second man kicks my ankle free.
“Stop fighting,” the first man hisses.
I try to bite him again. He jerks my head back, and pain flashes down my neck, but that only makes me angrier. If I’m going to be kidnapped because of my own terrible plan, I’m not going politely.
I am going to make them regret every career choice that brought them into this corridor.
The passage tilts when they drag me into a small storage room. A rack of garment bags swings wildly as my shoulder crashes into it. I grab one, but the plastic tears in my hand. The second man swears when I kick him again, this time catching his thigh.
“She’s insane,” he snaps.
My mouth is still covered, so I can’t tell him I’ve been saying that for days.
The man holding my legs dodges. “She’s worse than Rafi said.”
Who the hell is Rafi?
I try to scream again. The arm around my waist tightens, but not enough to hurt my ribs. Just enough to stop me from throwing myself sideways into a metal shelf, which is exactly what I was about to do.
“Madam,” the man near my ear says, sounding almost pained now. “Please stop trying to injure us.”
I freeze for half a second. My brain scrambles to put that in the right place, but before it can, they haul me through another door into a basement loading area where a gray car is waiting with its engine running.
The back door opens from inside, and a man leans out.
Damir’s men look like expensive violence: dark suits, straight backs, cold eyes, everything neat enough to suggest they can murder you without wrinkling a cuff.
This man looks different. Early thirties, maybe, with dark hair, sharp features, and a relaxed posture that feels almost insulting under the circumstances.
His black shirt is open at the throat, his coat is too stylish to be purely practical, and his eyes are bright with a kind of amused intelligence I don’t trust at all.
“Put her in,” he says.
I immediately start fighting again.
“No,” I snap, finally managing to wrench my mouth free. “Absolutely not. I’m not getting in a random car with random men because apparently everyone in this city thinks carrying me around is a reasonable hobby.”
The man in the car blinks. Then he laughs. “You must be Sofia.”
“I must be leaving.”
The man behind me releases my waist but stays close enough to catch me if I bolt. The second man lets go of my legs and steps back, rubbing his thigh even though I’m fairly sure I only kicked him once.
“I am Arman,” the man in the car says.
“You’re Anya’s cousin?”
“Yes.”
“Why did your men grab me like I was being smuggled across a border?”
Arman glances at the two men beside me. “Because you were standing in a service corridor during an armed fight, and if they had politely introduced themselves, you would have screamed, run, or stabbed them with a hanger.”
“I still might.”
One of his men mutters, “She already bit me.”
I turn on him. “You covered my mouth.”
“You were going to scream.”
“I was being abducted.”
“Rescued.”
“Your technique needs work.”
Arman chuckles and gets out of the car fully. “She’s right.”
His man looks offended. “Boss.”
“You did put a hand over her mouth.”
“She was about to alert half the gallery.”
“She’s also Damir Volodin’s wife, so perhaps try not to make the experience feel like a kidnapping unless you want to explain bite marks to him personally.”
That shuts him up.
I look at Arman more carefully. “Anya sent you?”
“She said you needed help getting out.” His gaze moves briefly toward the building. “She didn’t mention there would be a public fight with Dmitri Sokolov and half the Volodin security team inside.”
“I improvised.”
“I can tell.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“I am trying very hard to sound respectful.”
“You’re failing.”
His mouth curves. “Please get in the car, Sofia. We need to leave before Damir’s men realize this service route was not covered as well as they thought.”
I hesitate. That name does what it always does now.
Damir.
The gallery is behind me. He is somewhere inside, probably still dealing with Dmitri, probably furious, probably seconds away from noticing I’m gone.
This is what I wanted. This is the exit.
Still, my feet don’t move.
Arman’s expression becomes less amused. “My cousin said you needed my help,” he says, quieter now. “I am taking a very large risk by giving it. If you want to go back inside, say so, and I will leave you here. If you want out, this is the moment.”
I look at the car. I hate that my hands are shaking.
“I want out,” I say.
“Then get in.”
I get in.
Arman slides in beside me, and the door closes. The car starts moving before I have my seat belt on. I twist to look through the back window as the loading bay drops behind us, but all I see is concrete, a flash of the building, and then the turn of the street cutting the gallery from view.
For a moment, none of us speaks. My hair is a mess. My wrist aches where someone grabbed me. My mouth tastes like leather from the glove, which is disgusting, and I can still hear the fight in my head.
Then Arman says, “I apologize for the dramatics.”
I slowly turn to him. “Thanks,” I say drily.
Arman’s mouth twitches again. “For what it’s worth, Rafi has been kicked by worse people.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Somewhere private.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I’m giving while we are in a moving car.”
“I don’t know you.”
“No.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
That makes me pause.
Arman leans back, watching me with that amused but careful expression. “Trust is expensive, Sofia. Right now, you have Anya’s word and my car. That is all I can offer before we speak properly.”
I look out the window. The city moves past in flashes: glass buildings, dark cars, winter trees, people walking with shopping bags as if the world has not just tilted sideways around me.
My phone buzzes. I flinch, then dig it out of my coat pocket.
No. Not my coat.
Damir’s jacket. I’m still wearing his jacket.
The thought hits so hard that I look down at myself as if seeing the black wool for the first time. His scent is still trapped in it, leather and smoke and cold air, and suddenly the car feels smaller.
The phone buzzes again. Anya.
I answer immediately.
“Are you with him?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
Arman leans slightly toward the phone. “She is safe.”
“Arman?” Anya says.
“Yes.”
“Did your men scare her?”
“Yes.”
I glare at him. He looks completely unbothered.
Anya exhales. “Sorry. I told him to get you out fast.”
“Thanks.”
“Good. Go with him. Talk somewhere private. He owns a club. It’s safe.”
“A club?”
“It’s closed right now.”
“Why does your cousin own a club?”
“Because my family tree has range. Sofia, listen to me. Damir will find out you’re gone very soon, and when he does, he will lose his mind so decide what you want before he reaches you.”
My throat tightens. I hate that she knows exactly what he will be like.
I hate that I do too.
“Okay,” I say.
The car turns into a side street and stops outside a black building with no obvious sign, only a small gold emblem above the door. It doesn’t look like a nightclub from outside. It looks like a place people enter when they have either too much money or too many secrets.
Possibly both.
Two men at the door straighten when Arman steps out.
Inside, the club is empty and beautiful.
Dark wood floors, red leather booths, low amber lights, a long bar with mirrored shelves, a small stage at the far end, and private rooms tucked along the side like the building was designed for conversations people don’t want remembered.
It smells faintly of smoke, citrus, polished wood, and alcohol.
Arman leads me upstairs to an office overlooking the main floor. I keep my distance from him. He notices but doesn’t comment.
The office is neat, with a large desk, a wall of camera feeds, a sofa, two chairs, and a cabinet that probably doesn’t contain paperwork unless paperwork now comes in bottles.
“Sit if you want,” he says.
I remain standing.
He nods once, accepting that. Then he pours water into a glass and sets it on the low table instead of handing it to me directly.
Smart.
“You said Anya told you I needed help,” I say.
“She did.”
“And you came yourself?”
“I sent men first. Then I realized Anya would never forgive me if I let them handle you alone.”
“Because I’m delicate?”
“I took a big risk today, Sofia. Taking Damir Volodin’s wife out of a building under his security is not a small favor.”
I cross my arms, mostly so he can’t see my hands shake. “You make it sound like I am property.”
“No. I make it sound like you are important to a dangerous man, which is true. For better or for worse, you’re struck with him. Moving you out of the city would be dangerous too.”
I swallow. I hadn’t thought so far ahead. But that’s the reason I’m here.
The club is quiet beneath us. Too quiet. After the gallery, the silence feels unreal.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
Arman studies me for a moment. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
I look back at him. He sits in one of the chairs but leaves the sofa for me, a clear little gesture meant to make the room feel less like an interrogation. I appreciate it and resent needing to appreciate it.
“My cousin said you needed help,” he says. “So tell me what kind of help. Are you trying to disappear? Are you trying to get to your uncle? Because every one of those answers creates a different problem, and some of them are much worse than others.”
“Not my uncle,” I say immediately.
He rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t know what I want,” I admit.
“That is honest, but not useful.”
“I know.”
“You asked Anya for help leaving Damir’s house.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because I don’t know whether I’m his wife, his prisoner, his mistake, or his new obsession. Because I want him so much that it scares me.
I say none of that.
Instead, I say, “I needed to breathe.”
Arman doesn’t mock me. That helps.
“I can give you a few hours,” he says. “Maybe the night if we move carefully. I can put you in a private room, and give you the safety you need.”
“And if Damir comes?”
“He will.”
The certainty makes my stomach drop.
Arman continues, “The question is when, and how much damage he causes before he gets here.”
I look down at Damir’s jacket wrapped around me. My fingers curl into the sleeve. “What if I don’t want to see him?”
“Then I will try to delay him.”
“Can you?”
“For a while.”
“How long?”
Arman smiles without humor. “Long enough for you to decide whether you are running from him or just making him chase you.”
The words hit too close.
“I’m not playing games,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You are scared. That is different.”
I swallow. The truth of that sits between us, heavy and unpleasant.
Downstairs, someone opens a door and low voices drift up, then disappear again.
I take one sip of water. My hand is steadier now.
“Sleep tonight, we’ll talk tomorrow. You can stay here as long as you need, but remember, you husband owns the city. Sooner or later, he’ll be here.”