Chapter 13 Zoya
Zoya
My hands are still shaking as I replace the glass carefully on the table. I don’t know what I was thinking, but his crudeness is unacceptable. I may be trapped here, caged, but I won’t tolerate him being offensive. Even if it does make my insides heat up.
“Arsehole,” I mutter and turn back to my salmon. He’s right about one thing. I need to keep my strength up. I can’t plot my escape if I’m too weak to move. My brain needs to be kept sharp.
Unlike this damn fork.
I stab the salmon, and the tines bend, making me roll my eyes.
Without Roman looking over me, I finish the food quickly and enjoy every bite. I push it away and sit back in the chair, staring out the window, lost in my thoughts and my grief.
I get up suddenly and move to the bag that I’ve left half emptied on the bed.
Picking up the crystal ducks, I carry them to the dressing table.
I place them carefully in order, my heart swelling as I remember my mother picking them up and dusting them carefully every day.
“Is he with you, Mum? Did Daddy find you? Have you forgiven him for being an idiot?” Silence is my only answer.
The room absorbs my whisper, indifferent to my loss.
I run a finger over the smooth facet of the smallest duck, grounding myself in the cold glass.
It’s a fragile piece of home in a fortress built on blood and testosterone.
But sentimentality won’t get me out of here.
Smarts will. I wipe my damp cheek with the back of my hand.
Turning away from the dressing table, I saunter towards the bathroom.
Once inside, I lock the door—a flimsy barrier, but a necessary psychological one—and drop to my knees.
My fingers fumble in the tight gap between the cupboard chassis and the wall, panic spiking for a heartbeat until I feel the cool, leather spine.
I pull the red ledger out, clutching it to my chest like a holy relic. Dad didn’t leave things to chance. He left plans.
Sitting on the cold tiles, huddled behind the door, I flip it open to the first page. My name stares back at me in his familiar scrawl. That string of numbers and letters next to it taunts me. Zoya Melina Antonova - 76-T-MK.
It’s not a bank account. It’s not a coordinate. I trace the ink, my mind racing back to Sunday afternoons in the library, to the chess games we used to play. Dad never made it easy, but he always left a breadcrumb.
“Come on, old man,” I whisper, the paper smelling faintly of his cigars. “Don’t be cryptic now.”
Frustration wells up as I have absolutely no idea.
This is going to take a long time to figure out.
But I suppose I’m not going anywhere. I flip through the pages, scanning the dozens of names and corresponding codes.
Some I recognise—other Bratva families, politicians, celebrities.
Others are complete strangers. But every single one has the same cryptic combination of numbers and letters.
Nik’s name is halfway down the list. Nikolai Antonov - 23-B-VR. Whatever this ledger represents could make or break Nik. The realisation sends a chill through me.
I keep flipping, my breath catching when I spot another familiar name near the bottom. Baron Voronov - 88-A-BM.
The head of the Voronov family. Notoriously violent with ice in his veins. It’s little wonder his son turned out the way he did.
My fingers trace the page, searching for patterns. The numbers vary wildly, but the letters seem to follow a system. Some entries have single letters, others have pairs. The third element is always two letters.
I close my eyes, thinking back to Dad’s study, to the books he cherished, the way he organised everything. He was methodical. Paranoid. He wouldn’t create a code without a way to crack it.
But I’m flying blind. I stare at the pages for a while longer and then, with a sigh, shove the book back into its hiding place.
The door to the bedroom opens, and I freeze, halfway to closing the cupboard doors under the sink.
“Miss Antonova? It’s Katya, the housekeeper.”
I rise swiftly and smooth out my dress. Cracking the door open, I peer out to see a heavyset woman, maybe in her late fifties, bustling about, tidying up. She approaches the dressing table with her feather duster, and I lunge forward.
“No!” I say, startling her. “Please leave the Swarovski. I will attend to it myself,” I add with a little more grace.
She grunts something in Russian that sounds like a curse my dad used to say, turning the air blue.
She clearly thinks I can’t understand her.
I raise my eyebrows and turn away from her, grabbing my book that Roman brought from my bedside at home and sitting on the sumptuous sofa.
Katya cleans around me, efficient, quick and completely oblivious to the fact that I’m being held hostage.
I narrow my eyes. Did someone lock the door behind her, or is it open?
Only one way to find out. Although what I will do if I find myself suddenly free from this room is another question entirely. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I wait until Katya moves to the far side of the room, her back turned as she dusts the ornate lamp. My heart hammers against my ribs as I rise slowly from the sofa, the book forgotten in my lap. The door is maybe ten feet away. It might as well be ten miles.
I take a careful step forward, then another. The thick carpet muffles my movement. Katya continues her work, humming something under her breath.
Three more steps until I can reach for the handle. “Sit your pert arse back down,” Katya’s voice resounds around the silent room.
I freeze, and then turn to look at her. She is glaring at me, arms folded, an expression on her face that dares me to try it.
Slinking back to the sofa, I plant my arse down. There is no way I’m going up against her. She would flatten me and take enjoyment out of it. I pick up my book with a huff. “You are a better guard dog than Andrei,” I mutter.
She snorts, a harsh sound that might be laughter. “I would flatten him,” she boasts, echoing my thought.
“I bet you would,” I mutter.
She beams at the apparent compliment and goes back to work. I consider asking her a few questions, but she won’t say jack shit. She is loyal to Roman, and I’m just the prisoner.
Twenty minutes later, she finishes and heads for the door.
I hold my breath as she raps on the door and the bolt slides open.
She turns the handle and steps out. The heavy click of the lock sliding back into place echoes through the room, sealing my fate once again.
Well, I guess that answered that question, then.
Escape through housekeeping - out.
My only way out is through Roman, and I doubt he will let me get even one step in the direction of the door. Unless…
I chew the inside of my lip as the thought ricochets around my head, daring me to finish it.
Unless I get him into a position where I can slip away from him in the dead of night while he sleeps next to me. Can I do it? Can I sell my soul for a chance to escape him?
The thought makes my stomach twist, but not entirely with revulsion. That’s what terrifies me most.
Would I really consider using my body as a weapon?
The thought makes me nauseous, but desperation has a way of lowering standards.
I’m not na?ve—I know what Roman wants from me.
The way his eyes track my movements, the hunger barely leashed beneath his civilised veneer.
He promised not to touch me unless I ask, but what if I did ask?
What if I played the game better than him?
I shake my head violently, dispelling the poisonous thought. I can’t. I won’t. There has to be another way.
My gaze drifts back to the crystal ducks, catching the afternoon light streaming through the reinforced window. Mum would be horrified at what I’m considering. She raised me to be strong, never to compromise my dignity for anyone. But she also raised me to survive.
Did she consider I might end up a prisoner to a Bratva heir? Maybe it wasn’t a reach. Or maybe she was in on the promise Dad made to Roman.
Pushing my book to the side, I rise and move across to the window again, staring out over the garden bathed in watery sun that has shown its face after all the rain.
I blink and hug my arms around myself as I see a man jogging into view.
He is dressed in black sweats and a tight black tee.
His arms are inked, like his hands, and I wonder where else that tattoo needle has been.
Roman.
My breath hitches.
Even with all that fancy gym equipment downstairs, he still chooses to run outside in the mud and cold.
He doesn’t look up as he runs past. I wonder if he knows I’m watching him.
I wonder if he knows the thoughts racing through my head.
I wonder if he will let me run with him outside.
He wants me fit and healthy, doesn’t he?
Why would he refuse? After a few times of scanning the perimeter, I can find a weak spot I can exploit.
This is a better plan than inviting him into my bed and hoping I wear him out enough for him to sleep so I can slip out.
It may take longer, but at least I can hold my head high and say I didn’t give in, even if it means a chance to escape.