6. Cara
CARA
The bidding has started.
That’s the kind of thing men like Dmitri say when they want panic to put on manners.
The words herd me into the car, settle coldly under my ribs, and ruin any chance I had of pretending this is only Patrick being Patrick.
My choices narrow to leather seat, armed men, and the Russian winter glaring through tinted glass.
A woman can build many dreams from less if all of them involve kidnapping charges and frostbite.
Dmitri shuts the door after me.
The journey becomes a replay. He takes the front passenger seat, angled enough to see me in the mirror. Nikolai sits on my left, Herman on my right, and neither man touches me.
The car leaves the hangar and turns onto a service road.
Behind us, the airport shrinks into strips of white light, metal fencing, and freight buildings.
Black cars move around us with the neat spacing of a funeral procession planned by men who turn panic into a schedule.
Ahead, Moscow waits under a bruised sky.
I keep my hands folded in my lap. Any movement might become a tremor, and I can’t afford that. Shaking is data. Men collect data.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Dmitri watches me through the mirror. “Maksim’s estate.”
“The Pakhan’s house.” My voice stays flatter than I feel. “Very cozy. Should I have brought a gift?”
Nikolai’s mouth twitches. Dmitri’s gaze cuts to him once. The twitch dies.
Good to know. Humor is permitted only when state-approved.
Moscow thins behind us. Streetlights grow rare. Buildings become warehouse blocks, then fences, then dark trees packed close on both sides. My phone is gone. My laptop is gone. My son is across the ocean with Kathryn, if God, luck, and our emergency phrase have done their work.
Pancake emergency.
If Kathryn got the alert, she would’ve used her key.
She would’ve woken him gently and told him it was an adventure if he asked whether I was hiding.
The red and blue cars would’ve gone into his bag if she’d had five spare seconds.
If they didn’t make it, he’d cry for them later, and the thought of him crying for anything without me there cuts so deep, I almost make a sound.
I bite the inside of my cheek until blood floods my mouth.
Dmitri looks at me through the rearview mirror. He says nothing.
The road bends, and the car leaves the cleaner stretch for narrow, muddy lanes flanked by tall trees stripped bare for winter. Snow clings in patches along the ground, and the grey sky presses down until the whole place feels designed to swallow sound.
My eyes miss nothing. A camera is mounted in a tree at an angle meant to look accidental.
Another sits near a utility pole with no utility lines attached.
The car slows before a gate I don’t see until it opens.
There’s no guardhouse at first glance, then I spot the slit in the stone wall, the black lens under the overhang, and the man standing half behind a pillar with a compact carbine across his chest.
The first gate shuts behind us before the second opens. A sally port. Nothing says welcome home like a castle checkpoint with better asphalt.
The drive continues through the forest. The vehicle’s signal screen on the dashboard flickers, then blanks.
Dead zone. Engineered, not natural. We pass a service road branching left, then another, both closed by retractable barriers.
Two vehicles follow us. One more appears ahead after the third gate, then falls in behind like it was waiting for a cue.
Escape from here is possible in the same way jumping out of a plane is possible. The math doesn’t encourage enthusiasm.
The estate appears through the trees, modern and severe, stone and smoked glass and dark wood, built into the land.
Lights burn in narrow strips along the roofline.
Cameras sit where decorative fixtures should be.
The approach curves toward an inner courtyard where three men wait in coats, motionless until our car stops.
I take in every detail. Wide doors. Reinforced frame. No visible handles from the outside. Controlled access. Multiple camera angles.
Beautiful murder box.
Dmitri opens his door. “Out.”
“Still not asking prettier.”
He comes around and opens mine himself. “Please.”
The word is so flat it almost becomes funny.
I step into the cold. It cuts through my coat and straight down my spine. Boston gets cold. Moscow has a personal grudge.
The men outside look at Dmitri first. Then at me. Then away. That sequence tells me more than introductions would. I’m not a guest. I’m an object with a custodian standing beside it.
Custodian.
His word, not mine.
“Walk.”
“Do I get a leash, or is that for premium guests?” I ask innocently.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then returns to my eyes. “You talk when you’re afraid.”
I let my eyes travel from his coat to the men at his back, then back to his face, slow enough to make the inspection insulting. “I also talk when I’m bored, angry, hungry, or dealing with men who confuse kidnapping with logistics. It’s a versatile skill.”
“You’re alive because of logistics.” His mouth hardens.
We enter through the main doors into heat, stone floors, high ceilings, and a silence so well-funded, it should have a trust account.
Staff move along the edges of the hall. A woman in a dark dress carries a tray and lowers her eyes when Dmitri passes.
Two guards straighten near an interior arch.
A man with a tablet stops speaking mid-sentence.
It’s obvious who Dmitri is here. He is the enforcer, and people notice him the second he steps back into the house. Something hard brought back inside.
A woman’s name moves through the hall in a murmur before we reach the staircase.
Elena.
A maid says it softly to another, and the second woman gives her a look that shuts her mouth fast. Correction comes first, with reverence tucked under it.
Dmitri notices me noticing. “Don’t ask questions about her.”
“I’ll ask questions about the murder lighting instead.
” I follow him across the polished floor and hate how fast he walks.
I keep up with Bratva cardio after a kidnapping, a flight across oceans, and one full night of not falling apart.
Worse, I hate that I have to follow him at all.
He doesn’t need to touch me to make me obey.
“There’s no murder lighting.”
I glance at the recessed fixtures set into the stairwell, angled to avoid glare on camera lenses, and say nothing.
He takes me through a side corridor instead of up the main stairs.
The estate is a nervous system with carpets.
Formal sitting areas open and close behind guarded doors.
A long hallway gives me a glimpse of green-shaded lamps, brass-labeled cabinets, and a central table under white light before a guard steps into the sightline.
Legal wing.
Another turn reveals a bank of monitors through a closing door.
Estate feeds. Route maps. Men in shirtsleeves under suit jackets.
Someone says “fuel” in English, then switches to Russian when he sees me.
The estate works as a command center, a court, a prison, and a battlefield with rugs.
All of it breathes around Maksim Volkov, though I haven’t seen him. His permission is in the walls.
Dmitri leads me to the north wing.
Two guards stand outside a set of double doors. One unlocks them with a card and a code. The doors open into a smaller corridor with fewer lights, thicker carpeting, and tasteful furniture that looks chosen by someone who believes captivity should photograph well.
My suite is large. A maid appears the instant I step inside and gives me a tour with a brisk calm.
A sitting area with a writing desk. Windows facing black trees and snow.
A bedroom with good linens. A private bath.
An outer door that locks from both sides, which is cute if you enjoy jokes written by security consultants.
A tray waits on the table. Tea, dark bread, butter, sliced fruit, and something pale and creamy in a bowl that looks suspiciously comforting. It makes me want to sit down and rest.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Eat later,” Dmitri says.
“Will I? Add clairvoyance to the résumé.” I make a show of crossing to the balcony window and trying the handle. It doesn’t move.
He moves through the suite with a soldier’s attention, yet every check faces outward. Window seals. Door frame. Balcony line. Corridor angle. He’s securing the room against men coming in, not me getting out.
My temper sparks.
“What, no ankle bell?” I ask. “Or have I reached the luxury-prisoner tier where the furniture gets to supervise me?”
Dmitri glances back. “You won’t run tonight.”
I smile. “That sounded almost stupid.”
“Trusting the outside would be stupid.” He finishes his survey and plants himself in the doorframe, arms folded, feet braced, face unreadable.
I stand near the bed and hate the linens for being soft.
“Where is my phone?” I ask.
“Under review.”
“My laptop?”
“Same.”
A laugh leaves me, brittle and ugly. “You drag the cybersecurity person across the world over my brother’s digital shitshow, then take away my tools. This is insane. Is this a hostage situation or a group project run by idiots?”
Dmitri turns from the window. “You’ll get access when Maksim approves it and when I’m certain you won’t use it to damage this estate from inside.”
Heat climbs up my neck. He thinks I’m reckless, and that’s insulting. He thinks I’m amateur reckless, which is unforgivable.
“I’d never be that obvious.”
The corner of his mouth almost moves.
It makes me furious. I don’t want little echoes of Boston, the man who laughed at my stupid organ-theft joke. I want this version to stay monstrous enough to hate without splinters.
“Rules,” he says.
“Ah. My favorite genre.” I fold my arms and give him the smile I save for Patrick’s favors.
“You won’t leave this wing without an escort. You won’t speak to men outside approved staff unless necessary.”