Chapter Forty
Mirabel
I’m outside my father’s house, glancing at my phone while waiting on the front steps.
The late afternoon sun warms my skin despite the knot of tension between my shoulders.
Dad’s health has been declining much faster than expected—his eyes didn’t even track my movement when I kissed his forehead goodbye this afternoon.
Each visit leaves me more hollow than the last, the father I knew slipping away so quickly.
I swipe through to the Uber app. Ten minutes until my ride arrives to take me into town for supplies before heading back to Ashwater Heights. My phone vibrates in my palm.
Arkady.
Dammit.
I scroll through his messages, each one growing more commanding than the last.
“Your visit seems to be taking longer than expected.”
“When will you be returning?”
“Answer me, Mirabel.”
“Where are you?”
“This isn’t amusing anymore.”
“Control freak,” I mutter, shoving the phone into my jacket pocket.
I’m not in the mood for his shit right now.
I have bigger problems to deal with. I’ll reply to Arkady from the Uber when I’m safely away from my father’s neighborhood and can compose a message that won’t reveal how much his demands irritate me.
The street is quiet—unnervingly so for New York. I check the app again. Six minutes. I tap my foot against the concrete step, impatient to be moving.
“Come on, come on!” I glance at my watch again. A dog barks in the distance. Someone honks a horn.
A black van crawls past, engine purring softly, then stops at the corner. Something about it makes my skin tighten. I squint in its direction, trying to make out the occupants inside. The tinted windows reveal nothing, but instinct screams danger.
I straighten, taking a few steps away, but a second vehicle glides into place behind me, blocking my path.
What the hell?
A sinking sense of dread starts to form in the pit of my belly as I backtrack towards my father’s front door.
Three men emerge from the van. They don’t run or shout or draw attention. They move in synch, like a choreographed dance they’ve performed countless times, fanning around me as they move in my direction.
The one in front is built like a concrete block—wide shoulders straining against a black jacket, shaved head gleaming in the afternoon light.
A scar runs from his left eyebrow into his hairline.
Old injury. His companion to the right is leaner, younger, with stubble shadowing an angular jaw and restless eyes that dart between me and the street.
The third hangs back slightly, older than the others, grey threading through dark hair slicked back from a lined face.
He’s the one in charge. I can tell by the way the others glance at him, waiting.
Their faces reveal nothing—no anger, no urgency, just the mechanical focus of men completing a task.
“Can I help you?” I ask, knowing it’s a ridiculous question, but I’m fighting to cling to the possibility that this isn’t what I think it is.
They keep advancing.
It’s definitely what I think it is.
I’m about to be mugged. Or worse, snatched off the street.
Oh my God!
My pulse hammers as I back up against the door, fumbling for the handle. Locked. I’d closed it behind me, locked it as I left to get my ride.
Stupid!
“What do you want? What are you doing?” I blurt. I’m trying to buy time, even though I know it’s futile. My fingers inch towards my jacket pocket.
My phone.
I need to call—
“Don’t fight,” the older man commands in accented English. Russian, definitely Russian. “It will only make things worse.”
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’ve got the wrong person.” I try to sound firm, authoritative. My voice comes out tight and high.
“Oh, you’re the right person,” he chuckles.
I look from one to the other, my mind scrambling for a solution. “I don’t have any cash on me,” I say quickly. “Just my watch and my phone. Here. You can have it.” I strip off my watch, palm my phone, and stoop, putting them on the floor in front of me, then kicking them toward the guy in front.
“Good,” he says, leaning down to retrieve them. “I’ll take that.” But they keep coming.
Not a mugging.
Shit!
What do they want from me? I have a sinking feeling that I’m about to find out.
“Get away from me! The neighbors are home. They’ll call the police!” I try for defiance.
The bald one grins and says something to the others in rapid Russian. They smirk. He lunges.
I try to scream, pulling air deep into my lungs, but he reaches me before sound escapes.
His hand clamps over my mouth, fingers digging into my cheeks.
The pressure is precise—not enough to bruise visibly, but enough to control.
Another grabs my arms, twisting them behind my back with brutal force.
The lean one. His grip is iron, professional.
I struggle anyway, survival instinct overriding rational thought. I kick backward, connecting with someone’s shin. A grunt of pain rewards my effort. I thrash harder, twisting my body, trying to wrench free. My nails claw at whatever I can reach—fabric, skin, anything.
“Fucking bitch,” someone mutters.
“Hold her still,” the older man hisses.
They drag me toward the van. My feet scrape against the pavement as I try to plant myself, try to resist. It’s useless. They’re too strong, too coordinated.
“Wait! Wait!” The words come muffled against the palm over my mouth. I manage to wrench my head to the side for a second. “You don’t understand— I’m… I’m pregnant. Please!”
The bald one hesitates. Glances at the older man.
“Davai,” the older one snaps. “Keep going.”
Fresh terror floods through me. They don’t care. They know I’m pregnant and they don’t care.
“Please,” I try again, the word breaking. “Please, whatever this is about, we can—”
A sweet-smelling cloth replaces the hand over my mouth.
Chloroform. The chemical recognition flashes through my mind.
I try to hold my breath, pressing my lips together, but my lungs are already burning from exertion.
I make the mistake of gasping when one of them twists my arm sharply, sending white-hot pain shooting through my shoulder.
The drug floods my system immediately, dulling everything around me.
No.
No, no, no!
My legs buckle. The bald one catches me, hauling me up effortlessly. I try to fight, but my limbs won’t cooperate. They feel distant, like they belong to someone else.
“That’s it,” the lean one says in English, almost conversational. “Just relax.”
“Fuck you,” I slur. Or try to. Not sure if the words come out right.
They carry me to the van. The back doors yawn open—dark interior, no windows. I see metal rings bolted to the floor. Restraints. The realization cuts through the fog of chloroform for a moment.
They’ve done this before.
This van is designed for this.
“My father,” I manage, tongue thick. “He’s sick. He needs me. Please—”
“Your father is not our concern,” the older man says flatly.
They lift me inside. The van floor is cold metal beneath me, ridged and industrial. It smells like diesel fuel and something chemical—cleaning solution maybe, or something to mask other smells. I don’t want to think about what those other smells might be.
My thoughts scatter. Arkady will be furious. The baby. My father. No one will know where I’ve gone. Dad will think I abandoned him. Arkady will think—
What will Arkady think?
The lean one climbs in beside me, efficient movements as he secures my wrists with zip ties. I try to pull away, but my body won’t respond. My fingers are numb.
“Comfortable?” he asks, mockery in his tone.
I want to spit at him. Want to scream. But the chloroform is winning, pulling me down into thick, syrupy darkness.
Through my fading vision, I hear them speaking in Russian. The language flows around me, meaningless except for two things that penetrate the growing fog: “Gavriil Laurov” and “Dubai.”
Gavriil?
Arkady’s father.
These are his men.
Why would his men take me?
The question burns dimly as consciousness slips away. I try to hold onto it, try to piece together what this means, but my mind is shutting down, section by section.
The older man’s face appears above me, expression unchanged. He might be looking at a package, a piece of cargo. Nothing human in his eyes.
“Sleep now, kukulka,” he says. “Long journey ahead.”
“Arkady…” I whisper. His name feels important. Like if I can just say it, he’ll know. He’ll come.
“Quiet,” the man says. “No one is coming for you.”
The van doors slam shut. The sound echoes, final and absolute.
Darkness crowds the edges of my vision. I fight it, but it’s a losing battle. My last coherent thought is of Arkady—will he realize this isn’t me running away? That I’ve been taken? Will he know the difference? Will he come for me?
The engine starts. Vibration through the floor. Movement.
Then nothing.
Just darkness.
Thick and complete and swallowing everything whole.