Chapter 23 The Kent Street Warehouse
POV: Maya
Revulsion was a constant companion.
Days had passed since the confrontation in the office. Days since she'd screamed Anja's name, and Roman's non-denial had sounded like a confession. Days since he'd given her the studio of her dreams—a blood-soaked bribe she couldn't bear to look at.
That studio, with its perfect light and expensive paints, remained untouched. The explosion of blue paint on the white canvas was the only piece in it—a monument to her hatred.
She returned to her routine in the gray cage. She ate the food, wore the beige clothes, slept in the sterile bed. But she was no longer the frightened prisoner, nor the starving rebel, nor the curious investigator.
She was a woman waiting.
She was locked in a skyscraper with Anja's killer.
The truce on the yacht made her sick. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel his lips on her, and now all she could see was the ghostly face of her dead sister. He hadn't been kissing Maya; he'd been apologizing to Anja.
She was in her gray cell, reading a book she wasn't absorbing, when the door opened.
Her heart jumped. Was it him?
No. It was the ghost-like housekeeper. The same stone-faced woman who'd brought her Sokolov's note.
Seven in the evening. Dinnertime.
The woman entered, her face—as always—a mask of unsettling professionalism. She placed the silver tray on the desk. But this time, something was different.
Her eyes. For a fraction of a second, the woman's pale eyes met Maya's. There was something in them. Panic? The woman looked away instantly.
She turned to leave. But as she did, her hand—hidden in the folds of her apron—slid sideways and dropped something.
It fell silently onto the plush carpet. A small black object.
The housekeeper left. The door closed with a click.
Maya held her breath. She stared at the object on the floor.
It wasn't an envelope.
It was a phone. A cheap, disposable burner, the kind you buy at a pharmacy for twenty dollars.
Her blood ran cold. Sokolov.
The housekeeper. The spy. She'd just handed Maya a bomb.
With trembling hands, Maya slid off the sofa and picked up the phone. It was light. Plastic. She pressed the power button.
The cheap green screen flickered to life. A second later, it vibrated in her hand.
A text message. From a blocked number.
Her thumb shook so badly she could barely open it.
“Maya? For God's sake, it's Leo. I got this phone. You have to listen to me.”
The air left her lungs. Leo. Her first thought was overwhelming relief, followed immediately by absolute terror. How did he get this?
Before she could type, another message arrived.
“He lied. Maya, he lied about everything.”
Viktor Sokolov's words, now coming from her brother's fingers.
“You have to believe me. I'm not safe. That apartment in Brooklyn... it's a prison. His men are everywhere.”
Maya frowned. She knew that. She'd seen the guards. She'd told Leo it was a prison.
“But it's not to protect me from Sokolov. It's to keep me quiet.”
A new message.
“Roman didn't pay the debt. He's not who he seems. He's keeping me prisoner. He's working WITH Sokolov, Maya. I heard them.”
No.
Maya shook her head. That didn't make sense. Roman hated Sokolov. She'd seen it. The broken wine glass. The nightmare.
“No, you didn't see! That's what he wants you to think! It's a game to them, Maya! They're monsters!”
How did he know what she was thinking?
“He didn't pay. He took over the debt. I'm still a prisoner. But now I'm HIS prisoner. He doesn't want me talking to you. He's afraid I'll tell you the truth.”
The next message made her stop breathing.
“About Anja.”
Maya gasped.
“I heard them talking about her. About what he did. Maya, he's the monster. Sokolov is afraid of him. And now he has us.”
The manipulation was brilliant. So perfect it was almost invisible. It exploited every seed of doubt she had. Sokolov's police report. Roman's non-denial.
The man she'd thought was the enemy (Sokolov) was now... afraid? And her jailer (Roman) was the master of them all?
“I can't take it anymore. He's going to kill me, Maya, or move me somewhere you'll never find me. I have a plan. I can get out.”
Maya's fingers flew over the tiny keyboard.
“What? How? Leo, where are you?”
The response was instant.
“Doesn't matter. I can get out. There's a window in the bathroom. The guard changes at 11:30. I can make it to the roof. But I need you.”
“I need you to meet me.”
“Where? What should I do?”
She was falling into the trap, and she didn’t even care. It was Leo.
“There’s an old warehouse on the waterfront, near the Brooklyn Bridge. Where we used to hide when we were kids to watch the fireworks. Remember?”
Maya frowned. She didn’t remember any warehouse. But her childhood was a blur of escapes and fear. Maybe she’d forgotten.
“440 Kent Street. Tomorrow. Midnight. I can get there. But I need you to meet me. We’ll run together. Catch a bus. Disappear. Forever.”
Run. The word was so sweet, so impossible.
“How do I get out of here?” she typed.
The response was chilling.
“You’ll figure it out. You’re the smart one, Maya. You already escaped him once. Do it again.”
He was referring to her trip to Brooklyn. He was flattering her. He was pushing her.
The last message arrived.
“Don’t trust him, Maya. He’s the monster. He killed his sister. He’ll kill us too.”
“Hurry, throw this phone away. Break it. Water. Flush it. Now. Tomorrow. Midnight.”
The messages stopped.
Maya stared at the green screen, her heart pounding like a war drum.
He killed his sister. He’ll kill us too.
He’s working with Sokolov.
Did it make sense? No. Yes. Maybe.
Her mind was spinning. What was real?
Sokolov’s police report was real. The guilt on Roman’s face was real. The cage she was in was real.
The only thing that mattered was Leo.
Her loyalty—the only pillar still standing in her devastated life—won out.
Roman was Anja’s killer. He was a liar. He’d locked her up, used her, and now he was lying about protecting Leo. He was working with Sokolov, using her brother as bait.
The truth was clear. She had to save her brother.
She looked at the phone in her hand. The only thing connecting her to Leo. And the only thing connecting her to Sokolov.
Destroy.
Maya looked at the bedroom door. She imagined Roman on the other side, in his office, moving billions of dollars, controlling the world, controlling her. She heard the faint sound of his voice on the phone in the hallway.
A killer. A liar.
She stood up. She went to the marble bathroom.
She didn’t break the phone. She held it over the toilet, the clean white water below. She hesitated, the weight of this final decision pressing down on her.
She was choosing Leo. She was choosing the word of a loan shark—one she now believed was afraid—over the man who owned her.
She dropped the phone.
It hit the water with a soft plop and disappeared around the bend. She flushed. The suction was violent and final.
The connection was gone. The plan was set.
Tomorrow. Midnight.
She returned to the bedroom. She sat on the bed. The dinner on the silver tray looked like a last meal, mocking her.
She had to escape.
She thought about the yacht. Roman thought he’d softened her. He thought she was his.
She would use that. She would be the perfect doll. She would be the docile “asset.”
And then, tomorrow, she would escape the cage. She would find Leo. And she would make Roman Lazarov pay for what he did to Anja, and for what he did to her.