Chapter 6
ANDREI
There’s blood under my fingernails when I go back to the estate, late in the evening the next day.
It’s dried around the creases, staining the skin.
I tried to wash it off in the warehouse bathroom but the lighting was shit and I was in a hurry.
Now it's there, a reminder of what I did tonight.
My knuckles are bruised too, split across two of them where I hit bone instead of soft tissue.
The man I was interrogating had a hard skull.
Took longer than it should have to get the information I needed.
But I got it. And now I'm driving back to the estate with that information burning in my chest like acid, my hands still marked with evidence of how I extracted it, and my mind already three steps ahead trying to figure out how to handle what comes next.
The gates open as we approach, and security waves us through. The car pulls up to the main entrance and I'm out before it fully stops.
I need to think. Need to process.
I need to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.
The compound is quiet at this hour. Most of my men are either on patrol or asleep. The hallways are empty except for the guards stationed at key points, all of whom nod as I pass.
I head for my office but stop halfway there. I need a drink first. Something stronger than water. Something that might take the edge off the rage that's been building since I heard what Alexander Baumann has been doing behind my back.
The library is closer than my office. There’s a full bar stocked in there. And if anyone comes looking for me, they’ll go to my office first. It will be a little while before they find me.
I push open the heavy wooden door, step inside… and stop.
She's there.
Why the fuck is she in here?
Liesl is curled up in one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace, a book open in her lap, and her hair falling over one shoulder.
The honey blonde of it shines in the lamplight, glossy and looking like it would feel like silk sliding through my fingers.
She's wearing soft clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder—and her feet are tucked under her.
She looks comfortable. At home.
Like she belongs here.
The thought makes something twist in my chest that I don't want to examine.
She looks up when I enter. Her eyes widen slightly—taking in my appearance, probably. The blood on my hands, my rumpled shirt. The tension radiating off me in waves.
“What,” I begin slowly, “are you doing in here?” I enunciate each word, carefully, and I see her eyes widen slightly. The book drops into her lap.
"Andrei," she says. Her voice is slow and soft, like she's approaching a dangerous animal. "I didn't think anyone would be—"
"That’s not what I asked. What are you doing here?" The words come out harsh, rough with anger that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with her father.
She blinks. "Reading. One of your men said I could use the library if I wanted. I thought—"
Anger floods through me—more at the idea that she spoke with one of the men than the fact that she’s in here… even more so than the knowledge that someone was buttered up enough by her beauty and her glib tongue to disobey me. "Who said this?"
"I don't know his name. Tall, dark hair, scar on his—"
"You should be in your room." I cut her off before I can say anything else, already thinking dark thoughts about what I’m going to do to the man who she’s referring to.
The one who talked to her, let her out of her room, left her unguarded.
Three orders, broken. Enough for me to put a bullet in him, and that’s before the part where I want to let him bleed out slowly for spending enough time around her to let her charm him.
That possessiveness is sliding through my veins again, that feeling that I want to keep her locked up and away from everyone, not just to keep her captive, but to make sure no one else gets to look at her.
This beautiful little bird.
"It's barely nine o'clock." There's a hint of defiance in her voice, and that brightness that never quite dims no matter what's happening around her. "I'm not a child who needs a bedtime."
My teeth grit together. "You're a captive who needs to follow rules."
"Well, what I was I supposed to do when he said it was okay? Say I was just kidding, that I didn’t want to leave my room after four days locked up without…
” She suddenly stops, and goes still, her face paling slightly.
As if she’s remembered the clock that’s running out.
She swallows hard, and I can’t help but look at her throat as it moves, remembering how it felt under my palm.
My cock twitches, thickening against my thigh. “Did my father call?”
"No."
The word hangs in the air between us. I move further into the room and close the door behind me. The click of the latch sounds too loud in the quiet space.
Her face has gone pale in the lamplight. “He hasn’t called?” she repeats slowly, as if trying to believe the words herself. I could almost feel sorry for her, for the way her world must be fracturing around her right now, if I wasn’t so damn pissed off.
I’ve been put into an impossible situation, one I wouldn’t be in if my men had just grabbed the right fucking girl in the first place.
I wouldn’t be thinking about how I wanted to fuck her, how I still want to fuck her, and how much more complicated that makes all of this.
I wouldn’t be worrying about what my men will think if I don’t kill her.
I wouldn’t be imagining her face right before I pull the trigger and feeling my soul shrivel up inside my body every time I do.
“Andrei…” she whispers my name, and my teeth grit against each other.
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t say my fucking name.” I walk to the bar cart in the corner and pour myself three fingers of vodka. Drink it in one swallow. Pour another. "Your father is playing fucking games.”
She’s white as a sheet now, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. All of her calm, all of her relaxed demeanor, is gone. Her gaze flicks to the gun hanging from my leather shoulder holster, under my arm. "I don't understand."
I turn to face her. She's watching me with those wide eyes, her expression confused and so fucking naive it makes me want to shake her. “Your father won’t pay. Like I said. He’s playing games.”
"What kind of games?" Her voice trembles.
"The kind that get people killed."
She stands up slowly, like she's not sure if she should move closer or stay where she is—like there’s anywhere for her to fucking run if she decided to do that instead. "What are you talking about?"
I take another drink. The vodka burns going down, but it doesn't touch the rage. Nothing touches it. "The ransom. He's been stalling, making excuses. Asking for more proof you're alive, more time to gather the money. More assurances you'll be returned safely."
Liesl licks her lips nervously. I try not to stare at her mouth, and fail. Try not to imagine handing her a drink and then licking drops of vodka off her lips. I’m half-hard now, and I grit my teeth as she speaks again, her voice shaking. "That's... that's normal, isn't it? He's being careful."
"No." I set the glass down harder than necessary. "He's buying time."
Her eyes are very wide. "For what?"
"For his real plan."
She takes a step closer. Her hands are clasped in front of her, fingers twisting together.
It’s a nervous gesture that makes her look younger than she is, more vulnerable.
As if I needed to hate myself any more for the fact that I’m considering just killing her.
Just getting this over with. I don’t need this complication.
A girl I didn’t want here, who is weakening my defenses and my standing in this organization, who makes me lose control.
Who has me at half-mast right now while I try to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do with her, this little caged bird who I so badly want to make sing with pleasure.
"What plan?" she asks quietly.
I look at her for a long moment. I take in the soft sweater, the bare shoulder, the fear in her eyes. She’s terrified of me. Any want I saw before is gone, in this moment. She’s afraid for her life, and she should be. It’s very much in danger right now.
"Your father," I say slowly, "has made contact with the Volkov family."
Her brow furrows. "I don't know who that is."
"A rival organization, based in Brooklyn.
They've been trying to expand into Manhattan for years. Into my territory." There’s no purpose in keeping that from her, right now. She needs to understand what her father has done. Maybe there’s some way to use this to my advantage, to keep from having to kill her. And if not, well…
It won’t matter what she knows if she’s dead.
Understanding starts to dawn in her eyes. "And my father contacted them?"
"Three days ago. While you've been here, while he's been pretending to negotiate your ransom." I can hear the anger creeping into my voice, tightening my jaw. "He's been meeting with Volkov. He’s looking to destabilize my organization from the inside."
She shakes her head. "That doesn't make sense. Why would he—"
"Because he's using you." The words come out flat and hard.
"Your kidnapping. He's using it as a distraction.
While I'm focused on managing you, on negotiating the ransom, on keeping my men from questioning why I'm keeping a captive instead of just killing her—he's been working with my enemies to undermine everything I've built. "
The color drains from her face. "No. He wouldn't—"
"He would." I slam back another drink of vodka. "He has. I got that information tonight.”
"You're lying."
I chuckle, low and dangerous in the back of my throat. "I don't lie. I may be many things, pevchaya ptitsa—a murderer, a thief, a criminal of many kinds—but I am not a liar."
She stares at me. I can see her mind working, trying to reconcile what I'm telling her with whatever image she has of her father in her head.
"He's trying to get me back," she says. But there's uncertainty in her voice now… doubt. "He's just... he's being strategic. He's a businessman. He knows how to negotiate."
"He's not trying to get you back." I see the pulse leap in her throat, and I want to wrap my fingers around it again, feel that fragile heartbeat against my skin. "He's trying to use your kidnapping to destroy me. He’s decided that he would rather risk you and get revenge for what happened than ensure you’re safe at home. He’d rather throw in his chips with a man who might make him richer, if he accomplishes this, rather than make him pay money out of his own pocket.”
"That's insane."
"It’s smart." I correct her. "It’s ruthless. Is exactly what I would do if I were in his position."
Her eyes widen. “You wouldn’t. If you had a daughter…”
“You clearly don’t understand who I am, ptitsa, if you think that.”
She takes a step back, then another, like proximity to me makes it harder to think. Or maybe just because she’s afraid of me.
"He wouldn't risk my life like that," she says finally. Her voice is small. "He wouldn't use me as... as bait."
"Wouldn't he?"
She glares at me, her chin tipping up in that defiance I’m beginning to recognize, that unfaltering belief in the goodness of the world around her. "You don't know him."
"I know men like him." I pick up my glass again and finish the vodka. "Men who see everything as transaction, who calculate risk and reward. Who sacrifice pieces to win the game."
"He's my father."
"And you're his daughter. But you're also clearly a means to an end." I set the glass down. "How much time does he spend with you? How often does he call? How many times has he chosen business over you?"
Her silence is answer enough.
"He loves me.” She swallows hard. “He’s always taken care of me. Given me everything I wanted, always seen that I was comfortable…”
"Maybe." I shrug. "But he loves power more. Loves winning more. And right now, you're more valuable to him as a captive than as a daughter."
"Stop." Her voice cracks slightly. "Just stop."
I should let her process this on her own. Should walk away and let her come to terms with what her father is. I would, if I was a better man.
But I can't.
Because I have a choice to make, and it needs to be made before I walk out that door, before I risk seeing any of my men, who all know that the clock has run out on Liesl Baumann’s life.
Whether I’m going to kill her, as I should… or save her, and risk everything.