Chapter 16 The Taste of Freedom
POV: Maya
His vulnerability became her armor.
For four days after the night she watched him break, Maya played the model prisoner. The shift was so sudden she worried Roman would see right through her.
She ate.
When the phantom housekeeper brought the trays, Maya ate every crumb. The food was delicious and tasted like ash, but she ate. She built her strength back up. She was an asset, and assets required maintenance. She would use his own logic against him.
She bathed. She used the expensive soaps and shampoos that smelled of citrus and wood.
She didn’t wear her paint-stained clothes. She went to the closet and slipped into the beige and gray uniform he’d chosen. She became the ghost he wanted.
And most importantly, she went to the studio.
The smell of turpentine and oil paint filled the studio—once her sanctuary, then her protest cell, now her command center. She painted. She painted with cold, controlled fury, layering dark colors onto the linen.
But mostly, she watched.
The studio window was different from the one in her bedroom. It faced north, but at an angle that gave her a partial view of the building’s service entrance far below.
She watched the guards. Kosta’s men.
They were like Roman: efficient, silent, predictable. There was a pattern. She studied it for seventy-two hours while pretending to mix sepia tones.
Morning shift, 7 a.m. Afternoon shift, 3 p.m. Night shift, 11 p.m. The afternoon changeover was the quickest. Three o’clock, on the dot. The day guard left, the night guard arrived. There was a window of… maybe five minutes.
She needed to know.
Roman’s nightmare had changed everything. The man who terrorized her, the man who’d broken her on the floor, was haunted. He was a man with a weakness—and her name was Anja.
Viktor Sokolov’s warning echoed in her head: “Roman breaks his toys.” “He was buying you from me.”
It was all a lie. His “protection” was control. His “safety” was a prison.
But what about Leo?
What was real? Roman had promised Leo was safe. But Sokolov said Roman did nothing out of kindness.
She had to see for herself. She had to know if the only reason she’d given up her life—Leo’s safety—was real, or just another link in her chain.
She waited. On the fourth day after his nightmare, at 3:58 p.m., she was ready.
She wore the full prisoner uniform: beige cashmere pants, a cream silk sweater, and soft leather flats that made no sound. She looked like one of the women she used to despise at the museum.
She grabbed the black, nameless credit card he’d given her. His “collar.”
At 4:02 p.m., she left her wing.
She didn’t take the service elevator. She didn’t sneak. She marched. She walked down the main hallway, past the living room where he’d taken her on the floor. The marble was cold beneath her expensive shoes.
The main elevator. The one that had delivered her like a sacrifice.
She pressed the button. Her heart wasn’t beating; it was trying to escape her ribcage. Do not leave this floor. His rule. His threat about Leo.
But she’d seen him break. He was just a man.
The elevator arrived with a soft ding. The doors opened.
Kosta was inside.
The air rushed out of Maya’s lungs. The bodyguard with the Slavic features stared at her, his eyes dead and unsurprised. He was heading to the night shift.
Maya froze. It was over. He’d grab her, drag her back to the room, and Roman…
Kosta didn’t move. He just watched her.
“Miss,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble.
Was he… holding the door?
Maya stared at him, confused. He wasn’t moving to grab her.
The test. This was the test. The rule was “Don’t leave this floor.” She was on the floor. But if she stepped into the elevator…
She drew a deep breath, tasting fear and adrenaline. She stepped inside.
Kosta didn’t stop her. He pressed the button for the lobby, then his own floor. He got off two floors down, at a security level, without another word.
She was alone.
Her heart pounded. The elevator descended. Every second stretched into an eternity. The mirrored walls showed a pale, wide-eyed woman she barely recognized.
The doors opened. The lobby.
It was like the restaurant, but bigger. Marble, art, and silence. The doorman, in a uniform straight out of a movie, spotted her. His eyes widened for a second. He recognized her from that first night. He nodded.
“Miss Ventura.”
He called her by name. She was no longer anonymous. She was his.
She crossed the lobby, each step a thunderous victory. She pushed through the revolving glass door.
And then... air.
Real air. New York City air, cold and damp on an autumn afternoon, hit her face. It wasn’t the filtered, sterile air of the penthouse. It smelled of diesel, roasted chestnuts from a vendor on the corner, and the metallic tang of thousands of people.
It was the sweetest smell she’d ever experienced.
Freedom.
She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, dizzy with the noise. The roar of traffic. The voices.
She had done it. She was out.
Adrenaline drove her forward. She knew she had little time. The moment Kosta registered her exit, or the moment she used the card, Roman would know.
She ran to the corner and stuck out her hand. A yellow taxi screeched to a stop.
She got in, the smell of cracked leather and pine disinfectant enveloping her.
“Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked, looking at her in the rearview mirror.
She pulled the address from her pocket. The only piece of information Roman had given her, days ago, in a moment of calculated control. An envelope with an address in Brooklyn and nothing else. “To keep him safe,” he’d said, “you need to know that I kept him safe.”
She read the address to the driver.
The ride was torture of a different kind. She was out, but every red light, every bus stopping in front of them, felt like a trap. She kept looking back, expecting to see Roman’s black SUV on her tail.
But there was nothing.
Forty minutes later, the taxi stopped in front of a new building in Brooklyn. It wasn’t Queens. It was one of those new glass-and-steel condos that looked like they’d been copied and pasted. It was impersonal. It was sterile.
It was Roman all over.
“That’ll be... twenty-eight fifty,” the driver said.
Maya handed him the black credit card. He swiped it. The receipt came out.
He knows. The moment the transaction was approved, he knew. She didn’t care.
She got out of the taxi and ran to the building. The lobby doorman looked at her with suspicion—the beige cashmere sweater made her look like she belonged, but the panic in her eyes gave her away.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Leo Ventura. Apartment 12B.”
The doorman checked a list. “You’re not on the approved list.”
“I’m his sister,” Maya said, her voice rising. “Please, it’s an emergency.”
“I can’t...”
“Leo!” she shouted into the intercom, pressing the 12B button repeatedly. “Leo, it’s me! Open up! Open up!”
A distorted, frightened voice came from the speaker. “...Maya? Is that you?”
“Yes! Open up!”
The sound of the lock buzzing was the sweetest sound in the world. She pushed past the doorman and ran to the elevator.
Apartment 12B was at the end of a hallway that smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. The door opened before she could knock.
It was Leo.
But it wasn’t.
The Leo she knew was all ripped jeans, disheveled hair, and panic.
This Leo was clean. His hair was cut. He wore plain khakis and a navy sweater. He was thinner, and color had returned to his face. But his eyes... his eyes looked like those of an animal caught in a trap.
“Maya?” he whispered, his face pale with shock. “What are you doing here? My God, you can’t be here! He’ll know!”
He pulled her inside the apartment and slammed the door, locking three locks.
She grabbed him, hugging him so hard his bones cracked. “You’re okay,” she gasped, relief making her legs tremble. “You’re alive. You’re safe.”
“Maya, stop,” he pushed her away, his panic greater than hers. “He’ll know you came.”
“I don’t care,” she said, looking around. The apartment was a carbon copy of her room. Beige furniture, graceless hotel art, gray walls. A clean cage. “Did he keep his promise? The debt. Sokolov.”
Leo nodded, his eyes wide. “Yes. I think. I don’t know. One day, Sokolov’s guys were hunting me. The next, two men in suits, just like the ones outside your building, showed up at Matt’s apartment. They didn’t say anything. They just took me.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“No. They... they cleaned me up. Gave me clean clothes. Brought me here. Said the debt was 'being taken care of.'” Leo walked to the window and peered through a gap in the blinds. “I've been here almost a week, Maya. I can't leave. There's a guy down there. Always. The same black SUV.”
Maya's heart sank. It was true. Roman had saved him from Sokolov. And buried him alive, just like her.
They were both assets, locked in separate beige boxes.
“So that's it,” she whispered, more to herself. “He kept his promise.”
Leo turned from the window. And for the first time, he really looked at her. He took in the cashmere sweater that probably cost a thousand dollars. The exhaustion in her eyes.
“Maya,” he said, his voice low. “What did you do?”
She looked away.
“What did you promise him for this?” He gestured around—to his apartment, to the world that now held them prisoner. “Who is this guy? What does he want from you?”
Maya looked at her brother, the brother she had saved, the brother whose shitty life had cost her hers. How could she tell him? I'm his property. He bought me. I'm an asset.
“I...”
The lie was easier. It was the only armor she had left.
She met his gaze, forcing a calm she didn't feel. “I'm working for him, Leo.”
His brow furrowed. “Working?”
“It's a personal assistant position. It's... complicated. The man is powerful. He wanted something from me, and I negotiated your safety.”
“Working?” Leo repeated, eyes narrowing. He knew her too well. “Maya, don't lie to me. You hate that world. You were serving drinks the other day. Now you're wearing... this.” He touched the sleeve of her sweater. “You look like a ghost. What is he doing to you?”
“It's not like that,” she said, her voice sharp, pulling back from his touch. “It's temporary. It's a contract. I just needed to see if you were okay.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost five. The panic returned. She had to get back. She had to return to the cage.
“I have to go,” she said, heading for the door.
“Maya, wait!” Leo grabbed her arm. “Don't go. Stay here. We can... we can run.”
Maya looked at him, at the naive panic in his eyes. “Run where, Leo? You think these walls are to protect us from Sokolov? They're to keep us in. We can't run from him. You can't, and I can't.”
She opened the door. “Stay safe, Leo. Don't do anything stupid. Eat the food. Do what they say.”
“Maya...”
She stepped into the hallway and didn't look back.
The trip back to Manhattan was a death march. The adrenaline was gone, the taste of freedom turning sour in her mouth. Reality was worse than she'd imagined. She hadn't saved Leo. She'd just transferred him to a different prison and locked herself in the cell next door.
She used Roman's card again for the taxi. The driver dropped her at the penthouse's main entrance.
The doorman spotted her. “Good evening, Miss Ventura.”
She stepped into the private elevator—the same one Kosta had used—and pressed the button for the penthouse.
The ascent was silent and smooth. A ride back to the gallows.
Her heart pounded. She'd broken rule number one. She'd defied his authority. What would he do? Hurt her, like last time? Threaten Leo?
The elevator doors opened with a soft ding.
She stepped into the main living area. The apartment was dark. The sun had set, and the city lights glittered like a billion mocking eyes through the glass walls.
The silence.
He wasn't there.
She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Was he out? Did he not know yet?
She walked slowly toward her wing, feeling like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.
She passed the large entrance wall, where the red and black abstract painting looked like a scream.
“Did you enjoy your outing?”
The voice came from the darkness.
Maya screamed, jumping back.
Roman Lazarov was sitting in one of the minimalist, uncomfortable armchairs, hidden in the shadows. She hadn't seen him. He'd been there in the dark, waiting for her.
He stood up. Slowly. He wasn't the man shattered by nightmares. He was the king of shadows.
He stepped into the faint city light, and she could see his face. It wasn't angry. It wasn't furious.
It was calm.
And that was a thousand times more terrifying.
“Brooklyn, is it?” he said, his voice soft. “An interesting choice for an afternoon. Is the apartment to your liking?”