Chapter 2 #2
The two men look at each other. “Is this not…” They pause, still speaking in Russian. “We were told the Volkov girl would be leaving an exercise class at the time that this one did. Same building, same class. Blonde. She fits the description—”
I draw in a slow breath through my nose, my teeth gritting together. “Did you not look at the photos of Katya Volkov?”
The younger one speaks up, his voice cracking with nerves. “We did! This looks like the girl—”
“Platinum blonde hair. Almost white.” I glance back toward the woman tied to the chair. “Does that look like the right hair color to you?”
Both men go silent. I blow out air through my teeth, resisting the urge to shoot them here and now. I need answers before violence, at least for now.
I turn back to the woman. "What’s your name?"
She hesitates, and I can see her mind working, calculating whether to answer and, if anything, what to say, how much to reveal. She’s smart. Most people in her situation would be crying or begging by now, without any thought to the consequences or what they should or shouldn’t say.
She twists in the chair, trying to get a look at me.
She can’t turn around far enough, and I walk around in front of her, hands on the edge of my desk as I lean back against it.
Her eyes widen slightly as she takes me in.
I don’t know what she expected, but I don’t think it’s the man standing in front of her.
If we were in any other situation, the brief expression of shock on her face would almost be gratifying.
Then it disappears, the fear taking over again. “Your name,” I repeat.
"Liesl," she says finally. Her voice shakes slightly. "Liesl Baumann."
The name means nothing to me. I look at the two men standing at the door. The older man looks nervous now, and the younger has gone pale white. I reach for my phone and dial Viktor.
He picks up immediately. “Da?”
“Look up someone named Liesl Baumann for me. Get me any information you can on her.”
“Right away, boss.”
I shove my phone back into the pocket of my suit trousers and study the woman in front of me.
She's scared. I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her fingers curl slightly against the armrests, scratching at the leather…
but she's holding it together. She must be absolutely terrified, but she’s trying not to be.
"I don't know what you think I did," she says suddenly. There’s a surprising hint of defiance threading through the fear in her voice. "But I'm sure this is a mistake. If you let me go, I won't say anything. I won't go to the police. I just want to go home."
One of my brows rises. She’s quick to catch on that there’s something wrong here, but she also seems horribly naive.
I shift forward, and I see her try not to flinch, and fail. "You think it’s that simple?" I ask. "You think I just let you walk away?"
"I think keeping me here is more trouble than it's worth." She tries to sound reasonable, logical. "I'm nobody. I don't know anything. I can't hurt you."
She's wrong about that last part. She's already hurt me by being here—by being the wrong woman and creating a complication where there should have been none. It’s not her fault, but in this world, that hardly ever matters.
But I find myself almost impressed by her attempt at negotiation.
I would have expected her to break down by now.
“She’s seen our faces.” The older man at the door speaks up. “And yours, boss. She might’ve heard some things on the ride over. We should kill her. Too dangerous to let her live.”
He says it so easily, like this woman, who has been grabbed because of a mistake that they made, has no right to live now. Like she can be tossed out like so much trash, when even the woman I meant for them to kidnap was not supposed to be harmed.
Killing a woman—hurting one seriously, even—feels like crossing a line. But I know for my father, it wouldn’t have been. For a lot of my men, it isn’t. And now I’m caught between the respect I’m fighting for with them and what I can or can’t bring myself to do to this girl.
Her face has gone bloodless. After hearing that, her lips parted as if she wanted to beg but couldn’t find the words. I can see her chest starting to heave. She’s on the verge of panic.
Killing her is an easy solution. She can’t cause any more problems, then. And a captive causes problems of their own. I asked for Katya to be brought to me for a reason, one that was worth the complications. I doubt this woman is worth anything.
“Please—” she manages to gasp the word, and I hold up a hand. She falls silent, but I can see her eyes have turned glossy, as if she’s fighting back tears.
Before I can make a decision, the door opens, and Viktor walks in. My second takes in the scene immediately—the wrong woman in the chair, the tension in the room, my barely controlled anger.
His gaze focuses on me. "Boss. We have information."
I glance once more at Liesl, who is now visibly trembling, and look at Viktor. "Talk."
Viktor looks at the woman, then back to me. "She's an heiress. Baumann family. Her father is a billionaire in real estate and private equity. She's worth more alive than dead."
I draw in a slow breath. That, at least, is something I can sell to my men if they question why I haven’t killed her. If she’s worth something, then a bullet is the foolish choice. I run my tongue along my teeth, considering.
"How much?" I ask Viktor.
He glances at her again. "Her father? He'd pay millions to get her back. Tens of millions, probably."
That works out neatly enough. I can hold her here and send her father a ransom demand, then carry out a clean exchange once payment is received.
It's more complicated than just killing her, but the payoff is substantial.
And it solves the problem of my men's incompetence in a way that actually benefits the organization.
I look at the two men standing at the door. “Untie her and escort her to one of the guest rooms. Make sure it’s locked and guarded. Then I want you two and whoever else was on this job waiting for me downstairs.”
"But boss—" The younger man starts.
"You think I'm asking?" My voice drops to a lethal quiet. "You think this is a discussion?"
The younger man shuts his mouth. The older one looks thoroughly uneasy, now. Good.
"She's worth money," I continue flatly. "More money than any of you will see in a year. We ransom her back to her father; we make a profit from your fuck-up. This is a strategic decision. A business decision."
Both men swallow hard and nod.
"Move her," I order. "Now."
I stand there while they both jump quickly to follow my commands, going to undo her restraints and pull her up from the chair.
She doesn't fight as they help her stand, but I can see the fear spike in her eyes now that she's being moved again.
She doesn't know where they're taking her. She looks at me as they guide her toward the door, and I can see that she’s still pale and terrified, but she says nothing. She doesn’t fight, as if she knows it would be pointless.
She lifts her chin, as if trying to summon a tiny bit of defiance, and I fight back the astonishing and startling urge to laugh.
She’s helpless and completely at my mercy, but she doesn’t want me to see her crumple. Once again, I’m struck with a jolt of admiration. There’s steel somewhere under that pretty blonde exterior.
Then she's gone, the door closing behind her and my men.
I stand in my office, alone with Viktor, and feel the weight of the day pressing down on me.
The morning's challenges with my men, and now this kidnapping fuck-up. I’d already planned for a ransom for Katya, but this is an unknown quantity, which means I’ll have to come up with a strategy for this woman.
It should be easy enough, though. Contact her father, collect the money, and hand her over.
Then I can figure out what to do next about the Volkovs, now that my plan has gotten fucked up.
"Why ransom?" Viktor asks quietly. "You could have just had her killed. Cleaner."
I reach up and rub the back of my neck. The tension there has my muscles knotted tight. I need a fucking vacation, but I probably won’t get one until I’m six feet under. If some of the men in this organization have a say, that might be sooner rather than later.
I need this to go well.
"Money is always useful," I say finally. "And this way, the mistake becomes profitable."
Viktor nods, accepting this explanation. “Money is good,” he allows. “Dead, she’s not worth anything. But this was unplanned. And your men don’t seem to fear making mistakes as much as they should.”
“They will.” My jaw clenches as I push away from the desk. “Come with me. We’re going to talk to the men who screwed this up right now. Call the rest of the men. My lieutenants, security, anyone working for me directly.”
Viktor's expression doesn't change, but I see the understanding in his eyes. "All of them?"
"Da. Time to send a message."
—
The front courtyard is packed when I walk outside.
Viktor stands at the center, near the fountain, the three men assigned to this morning’s mission next to him.
The younger one that was in my office earlier looks nervous, but the oldest of them is grey-faced, as if he knows what’s coming.
He’s been around for a long time; I have a feeling that he does.
The rest of the men stand in a loose formation, talking in low voices, most of them gathered by rank in the organization. I see Alexei, his hand bandaged, talking to a group of younger men. My jaw clenches. After this, he’ll be glad all I did was drive a car key into his hand.
When I get closer, I see that the older man is sweating. It’s hot out, but the look in his eyes tells me it’s not for that reason.