Chapter 28 Mara #2
Svetlana and I both freeze, our eyes meeting in the darkness. Her fear is palpable, and I'm sure mine is too.
The footsteps get closer, and then lights flicker on—harsh fluorescent lights that make me squint, hurting my eyes after so long in the dark.
I can see now that we're in a warehouse, just as I thought.
The room is empty, except for a few scattered crates and the support beams we're tied to—and the men walking toward us.
There are five of them, all armed, all wearing tactical gear.
But it's the man in the center who draws my attention.
He's older than the others, late thirties or early forties, with sharp features and cold eyes.
He's wearing an expensive suit, and he moves with the confidence of someone who's used to being in control.
"Ladies," he says, his accent thick but his English clear. "I hope you're comfortable."
Svetlana spits at him. "Fuck you."
My eyes widen, and I adjust my initial impression of her.
But the man in the expensive suit just laughs.
“I suppose you don’t know better, devochka.
Ilya must not have cared enough to teach you manners.
” He looks at me. “And I already know what kind of manners you have, suka. You killed one of my men.”
So this is Sergei. The man who orchestrated all of this, who killed Ilya's men and took us. I study him, trying to see what makes him dangerous, what makes him think he can go up against someone like Ilya.
He grinds the toe of his shoe into the stain of spittle. “Ilya would be disappointed that his fiancee has such poor manners.”
So he doesn’t know. Interesting.
“He’d spit on you too if she knew what you were doing,” she hisses.
“He’ll do worse. If not for me, then for her.
” She glances at me, and I feel my chest tighten, suddenly feeling a kinship with this woman.
She’s fierce, that’s for sure, not the shallow bitch I thought she was at first. I suppose I can’t blame her initial reaction to me, given what she walked in on.
And it seems like there’s more to the story of her engagement to Ilya than I know—or, possibly, than he knows, too.
Sergei turns to me, his cold eyes assessing.
"And you must be Mara Winslow. The woman he’s so obsessed with that he came into my territory without so much as a by-your-leave.
" He walks closer, and I force myself not to shrink back.
"I have to admit, I don't see it. You're pretty enough, but what is it about you that made Ilya Sorokov lose his mind? "
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" He tilts his head. "Then why did he trespass on my territory? Why did he pull resources to watch you? Why did he become so distracted that he left himself vulnerable?"
I shrug, refusing to be cowed. "You'd have to ask him."
"Oh, I will. Soon." Sergei smiles, the expression terrifying in its coldness. "That's the beauty of this plan, you see. I’m going to break him before I finish him off, and then I’ll take what’s his. I’ve been wanting to expand into Boston, anyway.”
"He won't negotiate with you," I hiss. "He’ll just kill you outright. If you’re lucky, it’ll be quick.”
"Everyone negotiates when the stakes are high enough." Sergei's smile widens. "And I'm going to give him a choice that will destroy him no matter what he picks."
He gestures to his men, and they move to stand behind us. I feel hands on my shoulders, rough and impersonal, and I have to fight the urge to struggle.
"Here's what's going to happen," Sergei says, his voice conversational, like he's discussing the weather. "I'm going to contact Ilya. I'm going to tell him I have both of you—both his fiancée and his current obsession. And I'm going to make him choose."
"Choose what?" Svetlana asks, her voice shaking. I can see how pale her face is, as if all the blood has drained out of it.
"Which one of you lives." Sergei lets that sink in, watching our faces.
"He can save one of you. Just one. The other dies, publicly and painfully, recorded to be sent to every member of every Bratva on the Eastern border who needs to be reminded that no one is invincible. Even Ilya Sorokov can be broken. A lesson, to remind them that I am not forgiving when it comes to an insult that suggests I would allow another pakhan into my territory without permission. He should have come to me petitioning to be allowed here. Instead he strolled in without even the bother of a message.”
My stomach drops. This isn't just about territory or power. This is about humiliation, about destroying Ilya in the most personal way possible.
“And if he refuses to choose?” I ask, somehow forcing my voice steady.
Sergei’s smile is vicious. “Then I’ll torture you both until I figure out which one he cares about more, and continue to torture that one until he breaks.
” Sergei crouches in front of me now, his face inches from mine.
"Everyone has a weakness, Miss Winslow. Everyone has something they can't bear to lose. I’m going to find out which one of you Ilya cares for more. "
"You're wrong,” I bluff. “He doesn’t care that much about anyone.” I don’t tell him that Svetlana’s engagement was broken. For all I know, he’ll think she’s worthless then, kill her, and go all in on me.
I have to figure out a way to get us out of this.
"Am I? Then why did he keep you locked in his penthouse like a treasure? Why did he assign six men to guard you? Why did he become so obsessed with your safety that he walked into an obvious trap?" Sergei stands, brushing off his pants. "No, Miss Winslow. I'm not wrong. He’ll choose one of you.”
He turns to leave, his men following. At the door, he pauses and looks back.
“For what it’s worth, I think it’s going to be you.” He smiles again, as if that should be reassurance. “But it won’t matter. Once he's broken, when everyone sees that the great Ilya Sorokov couldn't protect the women in his life, I'll take everything he has."
Then they're gone, the door slamming shut but the lights staying on this time. Probably so we can see each other and think about what's coming.
For a long moment, neither Svetlana nor I speak. The weight of Sergei's words hangs between us, heavy and suffocating.
"He's going to choose you," Svetlana says finally, her voice flat.
I chew on my lower lip, feeling anger coil in my gut—not toward her, but the situation.
No matter what happens, unless Ilya can kill his way out of this, the ending is unthinkable.
Either this woman dies so I can live, or I end up brutally murdered.
There’s probably going to be some torture mixed in there regardless, and I can’t let myself think about that for too long, or my mind is going to snap.
"You don't know that." I think she does, actually, but I don’t want to say that. It seems far too cruel.
"Yes, I do. I saw the way he looked when he broke our engagement. You're the one he actually wants."
"That doesn't mean—"
She turns to look at me, and there are tears on her cheeks.
The sight makes my stomach twist. "I'm going to die here, Mara.
And the worst part is, I can't even be angry about it. Because at least it will be over. At least I won't have to go back to my father and face whatever punishment he’ll have for me for failing.”
"Don't say that." I pull harder at my restraints, feeling the plastic cut deeper. "We're not going to die here. Neither of us."
"How? How are we going to get out of this?" She shakes her head. “I’m no quitter, Mara, but you must see that the odds are against us.”
"I don't know yet. But I'm not giving up, and neither are you." I twist my wrists, searching for any weakness in the zip ties. There has to be something.
It can’t end like this.
Svetlana looks away. “My father is no better than Sergei. No matter what happens, my life is basically over.”
“Because Ilya didn’t marry you?”
She nods, and I feel that guilt twist my stomach again.
“So leave. We’ll get out of here and you can… run away. Go somewhere else. Do something else…” I realize as I say it that I have no idea what she does now. I don’t know anything about her.
“It’s not that easy,” she says, and I know she’s telling the truth. I knew it wouldn’t be that easy for me to run from Ilya. If her father is as well-connected as she says, it won’t be easy for her to run, either.
“What else do you do?” I ask, trying to find some distraction as I work my wrists up the beam, trying to find some ragged edge.
Svetlana is quiet for a moment, and I think she’s not going to answer, before she finally speaks.
“I was a ballerina. I injured my knee, so it was shortlived. After that, I became a model. I like to take pictures, as a hobby. I’d love to be a fashion photographer.” She laughs bitterly. “But my father needed me to be a wife and produce heirs for Ilya Sorokov, so that was going to be my career.”
I bite my lip, feeling as if anything I could possibly say would be woefully inadequate right now. “I’m sorry,” I say finally, even though I know it’s not enough. She doesn’t say anything in return.
I keep working at the zip ties, and finally—finally—I find a spot where the metal has rusted rough, angling my elbows at a terribly painful angle to get to it.
I rub the zip ties back and forth as fast as I can, and all of a sudden, just when I think I can’t take it any longer, I feel one of them snap.
My right hand is free, though my wrist is raw and bleeding.
I bring my hand around in front of me, flexing my fingers to get feeling back into them.
"Oh my God," Svetlana breathes. "You did it."
"Not yet." I work on the zip tie around my left wrist, my fingers clumsy and shaking. It takes longer than the first one, but eventually it gives way too. "Okay. Okay, now let me get to you."
I try to stand, but my legs won't cooperate. They've been in the same position for too long, and the pins and needles have turned into sharp, stabbing pain. I half-crawl, half-drag myself over to Svetlana, my hands leaving bloody smears on the concrete.
"Your wrists," she says, staring at the damage.
"They'll heal." I can’t let myself think about how bad it might be right now. I position myself behind her, examining her restraints. They're the same as mine were—industrial zip ties, pulled tight. "This is going to hurt."
"Everything hurts." She braces herself as I start working on the plastic.
It's harder than doing my own. My fingers are slippery with blood, and I can't get the same leverage. But I keep trying, sawing the plastic against the edge of the metal beam, looking for any weakness.
"Why are you helping me?" Svetlana asks quietly.
"Because we're in this together. Because Sergei wants us to be enemies, and I'm not going to give him that." I feel the zip tie start to give. "I’m not just going to leave you to die. This isn’t your fault any more than it’s mine.”
"I don't even know you."
“That doesn’t matter.” I look at her as I push the zip tie tighter against a ragged edge of metal. “I couldn’t just leave anyone here who didn’t deserve it. Right now, , we're all each other has."
Svetlana gasps as one of her hands comes free. "Thank you," she whispers.
"Don't thank me yet. We still need to—"
The sound of engines cuts me off—multiple vehicles, getting closer. Doors slamming. Voices shouting orders.
Svetlana and I freeze, our eyes meeting. Her fear mirrors my own, and I see the question we're both thinking reflected in her face.
Is it rescue? Or is it death?