Chapter 8
Dmitry
The burner buzzed exactly forty-seven minutes after I’d pressed it to Zoya’s lips and made her speak into the void of his voicemail.
“Papa… it’s me. I’m still alive. Please, just give The Death Dealer what he wants.” She’d delivered it like she was reciting a grocery list, her voice flat, detached. The hatred in her eyes as she stared at me already carved so deep it had nowhere left to go but toward her father.
The fucker never answered the first call. He waited until his people traced the signal while his anger sharpened itself into something usable. When he finally called back, I let it ring three full times, each trill filling the dilapidated office walls like a warning shot before I answered.
His voice came through calm but cold. It was the voice of a man who still believed he held all the cards. I put the cell on speaker and set it on the center of the table so Zoya could hear it all, too.
“Dima,” he said, that lone word holding all his rage. “You took my daughter. Fine. You want leverage, you have it. Name exactly what you want to fulfill your little revenge fantasy, and I’ll see if I can make it happen. But you keep her intact. She still has value.”
I thought of the unspoken parts he’d left out. Zoya would be used for marriage, alliances, and securing bloodlines.
“She’s not disposable.” He didn’t plead. There wasn’t any fatherly anguish. He spoke as if I’d taken something that held materialistic value, something he’d use and barter. Not cherish as his own flesh and blood.
Just the same transactional chill I knew he’d always used when he looked at her.
I didn’t respond right away, just leaned back in my chair behind my desk and stared at Zoya.
She sat on her cot, knees bent to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs.
My coat was draped over her shoulders like a brand, and it did something to me… made my blood run hot.
Always the same position, like a scared bird afraid of her own shadow.
She may look small and vulnerable, but I knew she had a spine made of steel.
Her gaze glittered with something feral.
I had to give her credit. Zoya didn’t blink when she heard how her father talked about her.
She didn’t flinch or act hurt. She simply…
waited. This woman could be very dangerous, like a blade being slowly drawn from its sheath.
I let Andrey’s words crawl into the room like smoke. “You want to bargain?” I said, voice deadly and even. “Then let her hear how much she’s worth to you.”
Andrey exhaled. It was a short, impatient sound.
“Zoya. Whatever he showed you, whatever poison he fed you… it’s business.
Ugly business, yes, but necessary. I kept you separate from it.
I kept you protected. You were never meant to see anything from that side of my work. That was for your own good.”
Zoya’s breath hitched. The sound was small and broken, seeming to echo in the cold room.
She pressed her forehead hard against her drawn-up knees, shoulders curling inward as if she could fold herself small enough to disappear.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t lash out. She simply trembled, the quiet shake of someone who had spent her life learning how to survive silence.
“Enough,” I cut in. The single word sliced through the air like a blade.
I rose from behind the desk and crossed to her in three slow, deliberate steps.
When I crouched, my shadow swallowed her completely.
I caught her chin between my thumb and forefinger.
It was a firm but careful touch, one I ensured wouldn’t bruise.
I tilted her face until those wide, frightened blue eyes met mine. Her pulse hammered wildly at the base of her throat.
“Tell him,” I murmured, my voice pitched low and rough, meant for her ears alone. “Tell him what happens if he delays.”
She stared at me, lips parted, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls.
Tears finally spilled over. They were silent, hot tracks that slid down her cheeks.
She swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet, and when I moved back and gave her space, she cleared her throat and stared at the phone still on the desk.
“He… he’s going to hurt me, Papa,” her voice was barely above a whisper, cracking on every other word.
The confession fractured as she looked at me, and I gave her a slow nod.
“One piece at a time. Every week he’ll take a part of me away until you give him what he wants.
” She licked her lips and exhaled again. “You know what he wants.”
Andrey inhaled sharply on the other end of the line. “You won’t,” he said, the words flat and certain. “She’s your leverage. You damage her and this ends because she’s no fucking good to me.”
I smiled. Although he couldn’t see me, I made sure it was slow, cold, and the type of smile that always came right before I spilled blood.
“Test that theory. Twenty-four hours. First encrypted list to the address I sent. If I find out you did anything other than that, the first piece of your daughter arrives in a velvet box tied with a ribbon.”
Zoya’s breath shuddered out of her in a broken exhale.
I wondered if she thought I’d truly do what I said.
Every other occasion but this, I had no conscience.
I did what needed to be done. But as I stared at her and thought about taking little pieces off her body, I knew I wouldn’t so much as pluck a hair from her head.
Andrey’s voice returned, stripped raw, but not with worry or concern, with marrow-deep anger. “I’ll send it. But when I find you, Dima… there won’t be enough left to identify.”
I ended the call, and the silence crashed in. It was thick, heavy, and scented with the sharp metallic edge of fear. I was back in front of her before I realized I’d moved and reached out to smooth my thumb along her cheek, brushing away the wet track of a tear from her cheek.
She stayed curled on the cot, small and innocent, staring at me as though the world had tilted and she couldn’t find level ground anymore.
I watched her for a moment longer. Zoya was scared.
It was bone-deep fear, one she’d been sheltered from in the worst way.
She’d been wrapped in luxury while the truth rotted underneath.
But all was broken open now by things she’d never been allowed to face. And yet… my gut whispered something quieter. She truly, genuinely, wanted her father gone. Not just for the women he’d destroyed but also for herself. For the cage he dressed up as protection.
I didn’t trust her fully. Not yet. But I trusted my gut that she wasn’t a threat.
This time, I reached for the handcuffs and unlocked one wrist, then the other.
The metal clinked softly as it fell away, leaving angry red marks circling her skin like cruel bracelets.
She stared at her freed hands as though they belonged to someone else.
“Come on,” I said quietly and stood, holding out my hand for her. But Zoya didn’t take what I offered right away. She looked at me as if it were a trick, but after a few seconds, she slowly unfolded herself from the cot, still not taking my hand.
Her legs were unsteady beneath her, and I adjusted my coat on her shoulders without thinking.
She flinched at the brief contact of my fingers but didn’t pull away.
I led her out of the cold office, through a narrow, dimly lit corridor, then down a heavy steel staircase that most people would never find unless they already knew where to look.
The kind of staircase that doesn’t appear on any blueprint.
Two flights down and past the first sublevel with its meat hooks and drain grates.
And deeper still to the room I’d had renovated two years ago after a critical hit left me bleeding for three days in a place that smelled like rust and death.
I’d paid cash to a crew who asked no questions, men who knew how to pour concrete, run ventilation, and keep their mouths shut. I told them one thing only: make it livable. Nothing more.
It was buried deep underground, far below street noise and any hope of natural light reaching it.
Made of thick concrete walls that were double-insulated and soundproofed to where a scream twenty feet away would never reach the surface.
I had the door installed with reinforced steel and had a manual bolt installed on the inside.
Created with a separate ventilation system, independent power and water feed.
But it had an actual bed and clean sheets, a working bathroom with a shower, and a small kitchenette that was stocked with enough food and water for a year. Everything here was essential and had a purpose. It was a safe house, a tomb. A place to disappear when the city wanted you dead.
Until tonight.
I guided her inside and closed the heavy steel door behind us with a dull, final thud. This time, I slid the manual bolt home from the inside. Three thick inches of reinforced steel locking us in together. The sound echoed once then died against the concrete. No one would hear it.
Zoya stood frozen in the center of the small room, arms wrapped so tightly around herself that her knuckles turned white.
Her eyes darted first to the bolted door, then to the bathroom and kitchenette, and finally to the dim, amber lamp that barely pushed back the shadows.
She looked as if she expected the floor to open and swallow her whole.
I moved to the small propane heater in the corner. It was compact, ventless, and the kind designed for sealed spaces like this one. The independent gas line fed from a tank tucked behind the half wall, and the unit ran on a low, steady blue flame that produced no smoke and minimal exhaust.
I twisted the knob until the pilot caught then turned it up a notch. The ceramic elements glowed red almost immediately throwing clean, dry heat into the room. Warmth spread slowly.
“Sit,” I whispered, nodding toward the edge of the bed.
She obeyed, perching on the very corner of the mattress as if she might bolt if I so much as blinked. Zoya looked impossibly small swallowed by my coat and sitting on my dark sheets, trembling faintly even as the first threads of heat reached her.
I grabbed the thick, wool blanket from the wooden chair pushed up against a two-person table.
I took my jacket off her and draped the blanket over her shoulders, tucking the edges around her arms so it stayed in place.
Then, I took the spare pillow from the head of the bed, firm and unused, and slid it behind her back so she could lean without falling forward.
Not kindness but practicality, I told myself.
Our gazes met again, hers wide, confused, still searching mine like she was trying to read the next move in a game she didn’t understand. Something twisted hard in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. That look had no place in a room built for disappearing. No place in me.
I stepped back, putting distance between us. “Sleep if you can,” I told her. “Tomorrow, we collect what he owes.”
She nodded. “Thank you… for the warmth.” Her voice came out hoarse, cracked, almost inaudible over the soft hiss of the propane flame.
I exhaled through my nose, forcing the moment back under control.
“I didn’t bring you down here because I’m generous,” I said, voice low and even.
“The office is cold. The upper levels are exposed if anyone finds this place and comes looking too soon. And you’re no good to me if you freeze or break before we finish this.
This room is secure, buried deeply, and no one knows it exists except me.
That’s why you’re here. That’s the only reason. ”
“I understand. Thank you regardless.”
I nodded toward the narrow, metal locker bolted to the wall beside the half partition.
“Water bottles, protein bars, and basic toiletries are in there. The toilet and shower are behind that door. Bed’s yours for tonight.
The door stays locked from the outside when I’m not here.
You try anything stupid, pry at the vents, mess with the locks, scream for help that won’t come, and you’ll find out how fast this place can turn cold again.
And trust me, down here, cold kills slower than a blade.
” I let the words hang for a second, watching her take them in.
Her fingers tightened on the blanket edges, but she didn’t flinch. Not outwardly.
“There’s one camera in the corner above the door. It’s hardwired but has no audio. It’s just enough to make sure you’re not getting into trouble while I’m gone. Understand?”
She gave a small, jerky nod, eyes wide and searching mine like she was waiting for the trap to spring. Something in her look twisted low in my gut again. It wasn’t pity or compassion. It was… recognition. Zoya was seeing the shape of the cage she was in, and she wasn’t begging to be let out.
Her gaze didn’t leave mine, and that quiet confusion had gone nowhere. If anything, it had deepened, mixed now with something that looked dangerously close to trust she didn’t want to feel.
I turned for the door before the twist in my chest could tighten any further but paused with my hand on the heavy bolt. “I don’t trust you yet,” I said without looking back. “But I believe you want him gone. That’s enough for tonight.”
I slid the heavy internal bolt free, the three thick steel rods retracting with a low, metallic grind, then pushed the door open just enough to step into the corridor. The air down here was colder, carrying the faint metallic tang of the vents.
I pulled the door shut behind me. From the outside, I snapped the heavy padlock through the reinforced hasp. It was industrial grade and one only I could access. The mechanism clicked into place with the same finality it always had: solid, unyielding.
Zoya was locked in now. Safe from the world, from escape, and especially from everything except whatever waited in the dark of her own mind.
I walked the short distance back toward the upper levels, boots echoing on the steel stairs, the chill deepening with every step I climbed.
Down the hall, a knife sat on its sharpening stone.
The meat hooks swayed in the faint draft from the vents.
Revenge waited, patient, familiar, and always cold.
But for the first time in years, something else waited, too. It tasted like the faint, impossible promise of something I should never want. I told myself it was nothing.
And that fucking lie burned hotter than the desire for Zoya, slowly consuming me from the inside out.