Chapter 7
SERA
The Russian drops to my feet with a thud that shakes the floor. The metal umbrella stand falls from my grip, my body sagging as my adrenaline levels free fall. Merda. I can’t escape if I’m too weak to walk the few feet to the front door.
The plan seemed simple enough when I came up with it. Get out of bed. Knock the Russian out. Run away.
It took me ages to handle step one, half my body non-functional from lack of use, the other half still battered and bruised and painful to move.
By the time I removed the IV, went through the shock of realizing I also had to remove a catheter, and put on the clothes my captor so helpfully left by the bed, I was out of breath.
Walking to the bedroom door had me seeing stars.
I had to lean on the door frame for several minutes before I could gather the strength to move into the main part of the apartment.
It didn’t help that the whole place was dark.
My eyesight has improved since that first day, but darkness is still a real problem, shadows blurring into one giant mass, crowding out any wisps of ambient light.
I was stuck against the wall, trying to figure out how to get my bearings, when I realized the apartment was silent.
By some amazing stroke of luck, the Russian wasn’t home.
That gave me the spike of energy I needed to navigate through the unfamiliar space.
To force my brain to figure out how to pull off step two of my impromptu plan.
The fact that he wasn’t home felt like a sign. As did the fact that I’m more lucid than I’ve felt in ages. I don’t even know why I woke up. Or what day it is. Or how long I’ve been here. All I know is I opened my eyes, stuck in that bed, and knew I had to get out.
Which brings me to the final step in my plan: run away.
Turns out I’ve left the hardest part for last, especially since whatever magical combo of adrenaline, willpower, and emergency energy I’ve been running on dried up right after the door opened unexpectedly, I grabbed the first thing I could reach, and I knocked the Russian out.
I become aware of just how exhausted I am when my knees give out, dropping me on my ass next to the unconscious man on the floor. “Fuck.”
“My thoughts exactly,” grumbles the lump.
I scramble back—a useless two inches—as the Russian starts to unfold.
The bigger he gets, the smaller I make myself.
Knees curled up under my chin, arms protecting my legs, head tucked down.
By the time he’s sitting upright, I’m shaking so hard my teeth are clattering.
There’s no way he’s not going to punish me for trying to escape.
So much for all my bravado. I sense him reaching for me and all I can do is wrap my arms over my head and brace for impact.
You’ve survived so much, Sera. Whatever he’s going to do to you, you can survive it too.
Except the hit doesn’t come. “Marya?”
Confused, I lift my head a fraction, wondering who the hell he’s talking to. There’s no one else here. Even with my shit eyesight I can see that. “Who is Marya?”
Those cold blue eyes find mine, lock and hold. My skin prickles with awareness. Of his size, his proximity, his strength concealed so lazily behind his casual position on the floor. “Are you hurt?”
I’m so taken aback I almost laugh. “Are you kidding?”
“Why would I kid? You’re supposed to be in bed, healing. Instead, you are on your ass in the hallway. It’s a serious question. Are you hurt?”
Dazed, I shake my head. “Are you?”
The Russian touches the back of his head, right where I hit him. When he takes his hand away it’s clean. “I’m fine. Disappointed?”
“Yes,” I lie. Because I’m not disappointed. I’m relieved he’s okay and I don’t know how to reconcile it with the fact that I’ve failed to get the fuck out of here.
Oblivious to my internal struggle, the Russian stands and offers me a hand, his outstretched palm so close I can’t mistake it for anything but an offer of help. “Don’t worry, Marya. You can try killing me again when you’re feeling better.”
Ignoring him, I push myself off the ground, leaning against the wall to stay steady. “Why do you keep calling me Marya?”
“Do I?”
“You know you do.”
“Hmm,” is his infuriating answer. “Can you walk or should I offer to help so you can brush me off again?”
Asshole. “It depends on where we’re going.”
The Russian’s casual expression goes clinical as he drags his eyes up and down my body.
My senses are still in hyperdrive. I’m oversensitive to everything.
That must be why his gaze feels like a physical touch, heat washing across body parts concealed beneath clothes that could’ve only come from him.
That’s why a blush crawls across my cheeks when his attention snags on my hips and breasts.
“You’re well enough to get out of bed, you’re well enough to eat solid food. Come.”
Whatever hesitation I have, my stomach disagrees. At the mention of food, it growls so loud I jump. The Russian is already making his way to what must be the kitchen, flipping on lights as he goes.
Leaving me alone in the hall. Steps from the door.
I can leave. Walk out right now. I doubt I’d get far. Probably wouldn’t even make it to the elevator before he realizes I’m gone and comes running after me. But let’s say he didn’t—what then?
I don’t have money. Or a phone.
I don’t have a coat or shoes.
Or anywhere safe to go, or a clear understanding of how extensive my injuries are.
Or if Rocco is alive and looking for me.
Or any idea where I’ll get my next meal.
Or any clue where in the world I actually am. I might not be in Chicago anymore. Shit, I might not even be in the US.
Vaffanculo. So much for my three-step plan.
The Russian is making noise somewhere behind me. The hypnotic scent of garlic crawls down the hall. My mouth waters. I haven’t eaten food—proper food—since the day my uncle took me kicking and screaming from our family gathering.
The need to eat hits me so hard I sway on my feet. I had no idea culinary captivity could be a thing, but here it is—my jailor conspiring with my insane hunger levels to keep me in prison.
He’s right. I’ll try knocking him out again once I’ve gotten my strength back. The best way to do that is to eat some freaking food.
The kitchen is easy to find. It’s part of an open concept floorplan and while the room isn’t massive, it’s elegantly decorated.
Impersonal, just like the bedroom, but expensive.
Sleek cabinets, cleverly concealed appliances, and dark granite make up the kitchen.
Beyond the breakfast bar there’s a dining room table for eight and a living room with sofas so plush they could double as beds.
The bedroom I’ve been staying to is on my right, on the same side of the apartment as the living room.
To the left, past the dining area, is an unlit hallway that leads off into darkness.
Directly in front of me, the rear wall of the apartment is comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows, like those in the bedroom but without curtains concealing the view.
And what a view.
Aware that the Russian is still moving around the kitchen, I make my way across the main space and press my hands to the glass doors that lead to the balcony.
The surface is cold. The sky outside dark.
Buildings climb up and down the skyline, urban ambient light outshining any stars that might be above.
My throat tightens when I recognize the cityscape. “We’re still in Chicago.”
The soft clattering in the kitchen stops. “Where else would we be?”
“Um, I—” I turn to find the Russian studying me from across the room, the scar across his eye more pronounced with his brows drawn down like they are now.
He’s paused in the middle of chopping something, a chef’s knife glinting beneath the kitchen lights.
“Honestly, I don’t know. Beyond the fact that I’m not in my uncle’s basement and you don’t want me leaving this apartment, I don’t know a thing. Not even your name.”
“It’s Alik.” He’s resumes chopping, his eyes never leaving my face. “And one of the reasons you can’t leave the apartment is because we’re still in Chicago. We removed the tracking device, but—”
“Wait, what tracking device? And who is ‘we’?”
“The one your family embedded in your arm. Anti-theft measures, like you’re a fucking car. Or a dog. Dr. Ruiz did the actual removal, with me playing nurse.”
I yank up both sleeves of my sweatshirt and spot the bandage on the inside of my left arm. Feel a wave of nausea hit. “I don’t remember them putting it there.”
“Given what they did to you, I imagine there’s a lot you don’t remember.” Alik drops his attention back to his task. “Probably best you don’t try right now.”
“The doctor—” I wrap my arms around my waist like I can protect myself from what’s already happened. “Did he do everything else? The bandages and the IV and the…you know.” I’m not going to say catheter out loud. That’s just one indignity too far.
“She did, yes. Gloria’s been checking on you twice a day as well, monitoring your progress. She’ll be thrilled to hear you’re out of bed. Though she may have something to say about you”—he pauses, thinking of the right way to phrase it—“disconnecting yourself unsupervised.”
I dismiss the concern with a shrug. I have far bigger problems than pissing off Dr. Ruiz. Like: “How long have I been here?”
“Seven days. No, wait.” He looks at his watch. “Make that eight.”
I dread the answer before I ask the next question. “And what’s today’s date?”
“The second of February.”
I hear my gasp like its miles away. “Rocco kept me down there for—”
Alik looks up, his face expressionless as he confirms, “A little more than two months.”
Oh God. I choke back a cry as I sink to the ground, the cold glass against my back the only thing keeping me from collapsing entirely.
The world shrinks to a pinpoint and I’m only able to take a full breath when something warm and soft surrounds me.
Alik slowly comes into focus. He’s crouched in front of me, one fist holding the corners of the blanket he’s cocooned around me. “Breathe, Marya. Take a deep breath.”
He fills his chest with air, holding it until I do the same. We exhale together. Repeat the process until I’m able to kick my brain back on. “Two months. That’s…longer than I thought.” Another breath. “My mother let him keep me down there for two months.”
Another breath, this time deeper. I fill my lungs and Alik’s scent comes along for the ride.
Pine and cedar with that hint of lilac trailing behind.
It stirs a memory from captivity, a few moments of peace in a dark stretch of hell.
Chasing close behind that peace is anger, so deep and boundless I can’t stop from lashing out.
“You let him keep me down there for two months. Let him torment me for two fucking months.”
Alik releases his grip on the blanket, stands up. “Like I said, moya voitelnitsa, I was never there to rescue you.”
“But you could have.” I stagger to my feet, the injustice of it all giving me false strength. “You knew I was there, knew what he was doing to me. You could’ve said fuck it to your own reasons and gotten me out. You should’ve gotten me out.” My voice breaks. We both ignore it.
“Don’t.” Alik turns his back on me, retreating to the kitchen and whatever shit he’s cooking.
“I told you—I’m not the good guy. Not some savior or knight in shining armor or whatever you’re envisioning.
I had my own reasons for infiltrating your family’s organization and saving you was never part of it. ”