Chapter 25 Sokolovs Trap
POV: Maya
The fire escape door closed behind her with a final, metallic click.
Silence.
Then, darkness.
Maya plunged into the darkness, the smell of dust and concrete filling her lungs. The stairwell was a vertical abyss, lit only by faint emergency lights every few floors.
She ran.
She didn’t think. She just moved, driven by adrenaline and the lie she now believed to be absolute truth: He killed his sister. He’ll kill us too.
Floor after floor. The sound of her footsteps, cushioned by the soft boots he’d given her, echoed off the concrete walls. Each step was a small betrayal—using his shoes to run from him.
Sixty floors.
By the fortieth floor, her thighs were burning.
By the thirtieth, her lungs were two embers.
By the twentieth, she stumbled, falling to her knees on the metal step. The pain was sharp, the expensive jeans tearing on impact.
She didn’t stop. She got up, the taste of blood in her mouth where she’d bitten her tongue. Midnight. Kent Street.
On the tenth floor, the air changed. The sterile smell of filtered air conditioning gave way to humidity and the sour stench of garbage. The basement.
She burst onto the lowest level. It wasn’t the lobby. It was a basement garage, vast and silent. Kosta’s lair.
She froze. The silence was as frightening as Roman’s screams.
She hid behind a concrete pillar, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it would crack her ribs. Where was security? Where was Kosta, ready to punish her for her failed performance?
But there was no one.
Of course not. Why would he post guards in the garage when his “asset” was secure sixty floors above, supposedly softened by the yacht truce and the studio gift? He was in his office, waiting for her to crawl back to him. The arrogant bastard.
She ran through the garage, following the “EXIT” arrows. The exit ramp was blocked by a metal gate. No way out.
Panic.
She looked around. A smaller metal door in a corner. “Loading Dock.”
She ran to it, pushed the metal bar, and burst into the Manhattan night.
The air. The cold, dirty city air hit her like a slap. It smelled of wet garbage and freedom.
She was out.
She ran. She didn’t look back. She ran down the side street toward the lights of Second Avenue. She needed the subway. Anonymous. She wouldn’t use the credit card, not until she had to. She had… she searched the pockets of the expensive jeans.
Nothing. Of course not. He wouldn’t give her money.
Panic rose. How would she get to Brooklyn?
She stopped on the corner, gasping. And then she remembered. The heavy coat he’d given her for the trip to the studio. She’d left it in his studio in the penthouse. No. She was wearing it. No, she’d changed into the black sweater.
She cursed herself. She had nothing.
A taxi stopped on the corner, letting a drunk couple out. The driver looked at her. She looked like what she was: a desperate woman at midnight.
She had no choice.
She went to the taxi, her heart in her throat. “Do you take…” She stopped. She didn’t have the card. It was in the purse she’d left in her room.
She was trapped.
“Hey, lady, you getting in or not?” the driver shouted.
She was lost. She’d failed. Leo…
And then she felt it. Something small and square in the back pocket of her jeans. She reached in.
The black credit card. The one he’d given her. She’d put it there days ago, after her first escape attempt, as a reminder of her leash.
She showed it to the driver. “Brooklyn. 440 Kent Street. Fast.”
The ride was torture. Every red light an eternity. She kept glancing out the back window, expecting Roman’s black SUV to appear, its headlights like a wolf’s eyes.
But there was nothing. Just Manhattan traffic.
The taxi dropped her off in front of the address. 440 Kent Street.
It wasn’t a warehouse. It was a series of abandoned docks and crumbling brick buildings right on the edge of the East River. The black water lapped against the rotting pilings. The only sounds were the wind howling through broken windows and the distant roar of the bridge.
It was too quiet.
“Hey,” the driver shouted. “The meter, lady.”
She paid him with the card, the electronic transaction a beacon for Roman. I'm here. It didn't matter anymore. She was out in the open now.
She got out. The taxi sped off, leaving her alone in the darkness.
“Leo?” her voice sounded small, swallowed by the wind. “Leo, it's Maya!”
No sound.
She walked toward the largest brick building, the one closest to the water. The warehouse doors were boarded up.
“Leo!”
She found a side opening where a metal door had been torn from its hinges. The interior was pitch black. It smelled of river water, rot, and fear.
“Maya?”
The voice. It was him. It came from the depths of the warehouse.
“Leo!” Relief, so potent it almost knocked her down, flooded through her. She ran inside, stumbling over trash on the dark floor.
She saw him. A faint silhouette sitting on a pile of wooden pallets at the back.
“Leo! Thank God!” she ran to him, throwing her arms around him.
He was rigid. And trembling.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him. “We have to go. Now. Where's your…”
“Maya,” he choked. The smell of him. He smelled of sweat and panic.
“What is it? Are you hurt?”
“No,” he whimpered. “Maya… what did you do?”
The blood in her veins froze. She pulled back. “What? Leo, I came to save you. How did you…”
“Save?” His voice was a high-pitched sob. “You shouldn't have come! I told you not to come!”
“What?” Confusion was a cold fog. “You sent me a message! You said… Kent Street, 440. Disappear…”
“I didn't!” he screamed. “I never…”
“What a touching performance.”
The voice wasn't Leo's. It was smooth. Cultured. And it came from the shadows behind her.
A single industrial spotlight flooded the center of the warehouse. The light was so bright that Maya screamed, shielding her eyes.
Viktor Sokolov was standing there. He wasn't dirty. He wore an expensive camel-colored overcoat, and his silver hair seemed to gleam. He was clapping, slowly and sarcastically.
“Bravo, my dear,” he said, his gentle smile not reaching his icy eyes. “Bravo.”
“Sokolov,” Maya gasped, placing herself in front of Leo.
“Him,” Sokolov mocked. “He doesn't need protection. At least, not from you.”
“Stay away from him!”
“Ah, but I'm so close.” Sokolov stepped into the light. “Leo and I have an… arrangement. Don't we, boy?”
Maya turned to her brother. Leo wasn't looking at her. He was staring at Sokolov, his face pale with terror.
“Leo?” she whispered. “What does he mean? The message…”
“He made me,” Leo whimpered, tears streaming down his face. “He said… he said he'd clear the debt, Maya. The whole debt. If I just… brought you here.”
The betrayal.
It wasn't Roman. It wasn't Sokolov.
It was Leo.
The foundation of Maya's world, the only pillar holding her up—the need to save her brother—crumbled to dust.
“You…” she couldn't form the words. “You sold me out.”
“I had no choice!” he screamed. “He's a monster! And you… you were with the other monster! What was I supposed to do?”
“So,” Maya turned to Sokolov, her voice dead, the panic gone, replaced by an icy emptiness. “All of this. The housekeeper. The phone. The accident report.”
“A lovely forgery, don't you think?” Sokolov smiled, relishing it. “A bit of truth—Roman's negligence—mixed with a big lie. I knew you'd believe it. You wanted to believe he was the villain.”
“And the partnership?” she asked. “You and Roman.”
Viktor laughed—a genuinely amused sound. “Partners? Roman Lazarov? My dear, what a foolish idea.” He shook his head. “Ah, but Roman isn’t the villain of this story. At least, not yours. He just thinks he is.”
He moved closer. “He really believes I killed his little sister. It was so easy to make you believe that he killed her.”
The truth. The truth was an ugly, impossible mess.
Roman wasn’t Anja’s killer. He was just a grieving man, consumed by guilt—the one she had accused.
Sokolov wasn’t her frightened ally. He was the puppet master.
And Leo... Leo was the traitor.
“You really believed I was afraid of him?” Sokolov mocked. “I’m not afraid of Roman. I just enjoy breaking his toys. And you...” he looked at her, the smile fading, “you’re the prettiest toy he’s had in a long time.”
The realization hit her. She hadn’t escaped. Roman hadn’t let her go.
She’d been stolen.
“Take her,” Sokolov said, bored, his show over.
Hands grabbed her from behind. Strong hands, like Kosta’s, but these weren’t for protection. They were for capture.
Maya fought. She kicked. She screamed Leo’s name, a sound of betrayal and rage.
“Leo! How could you?”
Leo just cried, his face buried in his hands.
One of the hands grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. She saw Sokolov’s face one last time, hovering over her, his icy blue eyes filled with nothing but boredom.
“Tell Roman,” he said, “that the game is over.”
A cloth was pressed against her face. The smell was chemical, sweet and sickening.
She fought against it, but the adrenaline from the escape had left her exhausted.
Darkness enveloped her. The warehouse disappeared. Leo’s tearful face disappeared.
Maya Ventura’s last thought, before being swallowed by nothingness, was one of sick irony.
She had run from the wrong man.