Chapter 23 – Sasha
I wake to the familiar emptiness of the bed beside me. Lev’s side is cold, the sheets rumpled where he was. I tug one of his sweatpants over my hips and push myself up.
The house is quiet, too quiet. I slip out of the bedroom, padding softly on the cool floor, searching for him.
His study door is closed. I press my ear to it. Silence. Not even the faint hum of his laptop.
“Lev?” I whisper, my voice barely carrying. No answer.
A shiver runs down my spine, part worry, part irritation. He’s always gone before me sometimes, but this…this feels different.
I push the study door open. Empty. His chair is neatly tucked in, laptop closed. My pulse quickens.
I check the library, the kitchen, even the terrace—every corner of the villa. Nothing.
Finally, I stride to the front door and stop the nearest guard. “Have you seen Lev?” My voice edges into panic.
He glances at me, then straightens. “Yes, miss. He left with Mikhail and Roman.”
I blink, processing it. “Left? Where?”
The guard shakes his head. “Didn’t say. Just left a few minutes ago.”
I bite my lip, frustration and worry twisting inside me. Gone again, and I have no idea what he’s walking into—or what he’s planning.
I exhale slowly, shoulders slumping. The villa feels too quiet without him. Against every warning from Lev and Mikhail, I find myself wandering into the courtyard.
The cool afternoon air hits my face, and I try to steady my racing thoughts. I know I shouldn’t be out here—every instinct screams that I’m breaking the rules—but I can’t bring myself to go back to the suite. Not when he isn’t here.
I pace along the stone path, my fingers brushing against the carved balustrade.
The gardens are immaculate, the fountains gurgling softly, but none of it soothes the tight coil of worry in my chest. Being outside—still within the villa’s walls—feels like the only thing I can do to keep my mind from spinning entirely out of control.
The serenity shatters in an instant.
Two men are suddenly on me, their hands like iron bands around my wrists and upper arms. Shock steals my voice for a fraction of a second before fear takes over.
I kick, claw, scream, but it’s useless. Their strength is unnatural, terrifyingly precise, and it sends waves of panic through me that I’ve never felt before.
“Let me go! Get off me!” I shriek, but my words are swallowed by the roar of the courtyard and the thundering of my own heartbeat. I twist, I punch, I try to bite—anything—but they are relentless, like predators, their movements too fast, too exact.
A rough shove sends me tumbling backward. The cold asphalt scrapes my palms as I try to rise, and before I can even gather my wits, I’m yanked into a waiting black SUV. The door slams with a finality that makes my chest tighten. The engine growls, and the vehicle lurches forward.
Inside, it’s dim, suffocating, the smell of leather and something metallic in the air.
My hands press against the seat, my nails digging into the fabric as my mind races.
I press my face to the glass, but all I see is the villa shrinking in the distance, my safe haven disappearing with every heartbeat.
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away. I try to focus, to think, to plan an escape, but terror has a way of eating reason alive. My fingers clutch at the edge of the seat, knuckles whitening, and I feel the raw, sharp edge of helplessness like ice through my veins.
And then, beneath the helplessness, a single thought slices through the chaos: I disobeyed him.
Lev had told me not to leave the suite, not to wander. And now, here I am, trapped, powerless. I had thought the courtyard was safe, that I wouldn’t be walking far, but my reasoning feels so childish now. I should have listened. I should have stayed put.
I slump against the seat, wishing I could rewind time, wishing I’d stayed behind. Shame and fear curl together in my chest, tighter than any restraints these men could put on me. I feel small, foolish, and entirely responsible for what’s happening.
I close my eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. I tell myself: You made a mistake. You got yourself here. Now you have to live with it.
The thought doesn’t calm me—it sharpens the fear—but at least it’s honest. I’ve disappointed him. I’ve disappointed myself. And now, I have no choice but to face the consequences.
After what feels like hours—maybe minutes, maybe forever—the car jerks to a stop. My head snaps forward, heart slamming against my ribs. For a split second, there’s silence. Then the door is yanked open, sunlight cutting through the dim interior like a blade.
“Get out,” one of them barks.
A rough hand clamps around my arm and drags me out before I can move on my own. My legs buckle when my feet hit the ground, knees stinging against gravel. The air hits me—salt, metal, diesel. I blink hard, trying to see past the glare.
We’re at a dock.
The kind that smells like rust and rot, where the sea crashes against thick concrete pilings, and the cries of distant gulls mix with the thrum of idling engines. Shadows of cranes loom overhead, and beyond them, ships float like dark beasts waiting to devour.
My breath trembles. The men don’t slow down. They keep dragging me forward, boots crunching on the gravel, gloved hands bruising my skin. I twist, trying to look behind me—nothing but a stretch of water and gray sky.
The fear returns, heavier this time, coiling around my throat.
I don’t ask where we are. I don’t scream anymore. I just take it all in—the shimmer of oil on the water, the sound of the wind slapping through the rigging, the faint outline of a warehouse ahead with its door half open.
That’s where they’re taking me.
And as they drag me inside, my heart slams from the cruel, sinking realization that this place, this smell, this cold—the Greeks have me now.
They shove me into a metal chair, and one of them slams my wrists down on the arms, rough rope biting already as he ties tight knots.
The other rips a strip of cloth from his jacket and gags me, the fabric rasping against my teeth.
My hands tremble where they’re bound; the ropes are coarse, the knots practiced. I taste salt and fear.
The man with the phone steps back, pockets his lighter, and dials. He holds the device to his ear, then speaks rapidly in Greek—fast, clipped, all business.
“Christos, we have her. Tell him to bring the ledgers, or she dies.”
The man listens, nods once, then laughs, the sound ugly and small.
He hangs up and looks at me as if I were an object he owns.
The gag muffles a sound that could be a sob or a curse.
My throat tightens. The dock smells of oil and salt and something old and mean, and the rope at my wrists is the only thing keeping me from lunging at them.
Guilt curls under my ribs—hot and useless—because I’d disobeyed the orders to stay put. Now those small, stupid choices sit between me and whatever comes next. The man spits tobacco into the gravel and laughs again.
I force myself to breathe—slow, steady. Panic is a luxury, one I can’t afford. Lev’s voice rings somewhere in the back of my head. I know they want fear. I won’t give them that.
I try to speak, but the gag bites into the corners of my mouth every time I try. My words come out muffled—frantic bursts of sound swallowed by the thick fabric. I shake my head, trying to form anything that sounds like a sentence, but it’s useless.
They ignore me. One leans against a crate, lighting a cigarette, while the other scrolls on his phone, speaking rapid Greek I can barely catch. Every few words I recognize—ledger, money, Petropoulos. My stomach twists.
I try to speak again—louder this time. The taller one glances at me, irritation flashing in his eyes.
“What?” he snaps. “You want to talk?”
I nod, the gag damp against my lips.
He curses under his breath, pushes off the crate, and strides over. His hands smell like tobacco and sweat as he jerks the gag down. The sudden rush of air stings my throat.
“Go ahead,” he says, voice sharp. “Let’s hear what the princess has to say.”
I lick my dry lips, forcing the tremor out of my voice. “You don’t have to do this,” I start, keeping my tone low, steady. “Whoever sent you—he’s not going to pay you enough to survive what comes next.”
He laughs, harsh and humorless. “You think you’re scary because you married a Rusnak? We will eat you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”
I straighten in the chair, ignoring the burn of the ropes on my wrists, and tilt my chin. “You know, if you’re going to kidnap someone,” I say, my tone sharp enough to cut through their smug silence, “you could at least learn to tie proper knots. I’ve met fishermen who’d laugh at this.”
“You talk too much.”
“Or maybe you’re just not used to women who do,” I counter, my pulse a steady drum under my words. Every second I keep them talking is a second to observe—to learn. “You’re Petropoulos muscle, right? Not his men, though. You don’t have the look. You’re too jumpy.”
He stiffens. Just a fraction, but I catch it.
The other one grunts something in Greek—something that sounds like a warning. “We work for the Karras faction. Xander Karras—Petropoulos’s cousin. He runs that wing. We’re not afraid of anybody! Not even a Rusnak.”
Xander Karras. I file the name away. It might be useful.
I’m about to throw another jab when the door creaks open, and a familiar silhouette steps in. My heart stutters before my mind catches up. Viktor Markovic. The same man I saw at the reception weeks ago. Calm, composed, his presence immediately filling the room.
Up close, I can tell he’s very good-looking. His hair is a warm sandy brown, combed back from his face. He’s dressed in cargo pants and a loose yellow beach shirt, like he’s going out for brunch.
He stops a few feet away, hands relaxed at his sides, a faint smile playing across his lips. “Sasha,” he says smoothly, his English heavily accented but precise. “I must say…that dress at your reception—it suited you perfectly. You carried it with…elegance.”
His words are polite, almost unnervingly so, but every instinct in me tightens. I want to shrink back, to measure my words, but the gag, the ropes, the helplessness—I can’t do more than stare, while putting up a very brave front.
Viktor tilts his head slightly, watching me with those calculating eyes, like he’s seeing more than just my fear. “I wanted to tell you…before all of this,” he says lightly, “that you left quite an impression that night.”
I ignore his words and ask instead, “Do you work for Christos?”
Viktor raises an eyebrow and crouches slightly to meet my eye level.
“You think I work for Christos?” he says, his accent thick, deliberate. “No, no, Sasha. I work with him. We both want the same things—the ledgers, the money…. You understand, don’t you?”
He lets the words hang in the air, and I feel a chill. Every syllable is a reminder of how precarious my position is.
I glance at the ropes, the gag, the men around me, and force myself to swallow the rising panic.
Viktor leans back, folding his hands, calm as if discussing the weather. “Christos wants his part; I want mine. And somehow”—he tilts his head with that unnerving charm—“you are the key to both.”
“You…you’re using me,” I manage, voice shaking, though the fire in me won’t die. “Both of you.”
Viktor’s smile only widens, polite, deadly. “Not using, Sasha. Guiding. We need what is owed, and you…you hold the path to it.”
I force words past the rawness in my throat. “I—I don’t know where they are. I swear. I can’t help you.” The truth tastes like metal in my mouth, but at least it’s the truth.
Viktor’s polite smile doesn’t falter. “Ah,” he says, tilting his head, “then perhaps we’ll need to be a bit…persuasive.”
Before he can move closer, one of the men’s phones buzzes. He checks it, swears under his breath, and barks something in Greek. “Christos just texted. He’s on his way. Let’s move her—now.”
Viktor steps back, keeping that calm, controlled demeanor, as the men hustle around me. They yank the ropes from my wrists; the gag is still loose, so I suck in a lungful of cold, salty air. My body shakes, but I force it steady.
Reflexively, my hands find the chain on my wrist. I slip my bracelet off, letting it fall onto the ground. It clatters once, then slides toward a support beam. Maybe Lev will see it. Maybe it’ll tell him where to start.
One of the men shoves me toward the open door. Viktor watches from the shadows, his eyes cold but unreadable. “We’ll wait for Christos,” he says smoothly. “Then we’ll get the answers we need.”
I’m shoved inside. The air is thick, metallic, smelling of oil and dust. My wrists sting where the rope burned, but I rub them and force my breath steady.
Fear coils in my chest, sharp and insistent, but beneath it, a sliver of resolve blooms. I don’t know where the ledgers are, but I can survive.
I can be smart. I can be a signal, a clue, a challenge.
If Lev finds my bracelet, if he pieces it together, maybe this place will become the point where he finally closes the net. Until then, I keep my head up. They want fear? I’ll give them calm. They want control? I’ll give them resistance. I will not make it easy.
Once we’re outside, a man appears. I notice the others stand at attention when he shows. He moves with ease, confidence radiating from him, and for a split second, I almost think he might be on my side.
“Hello, Sasha,” he says sweetly. “I’m Christos.”
Yeah. He’s the enemy. He can’t fool me.
“Did the others take proper care of you?” he asks, his tone disturbingly casual.
I glance at him, jaw tight. “I don’t care. Just let me go. I don’t have your ledgers.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s cold, sharp, and deliberate. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he says, stepping closer. “Let’s see if you share her talent…for betrayal.”
My stomach knots. Even though I don’t know exactly what he means, the implication chills me.
I clench my hands, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
My mother. My past.
It all suddenly feels like a trap I never saw coming.