Chapter 6
ANDREY
Ipress my hand against my side, feeling the warm stickiness of blood seeping through my shirt. The wound throbs with each beat of my heart, a constant reminder that I underestimated Mariya Pushkin.
Matvey glances at me from the driver's seat, his dark eyes flicking to my side before returning to the road.
His expression is as blank as always, but I know him well enough to see what others would miss.
There's a slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the barest hint of amusement dancing in their depths.
The bastard is laughing at me.
"Not a word," I warn him.
He doesn't say anything, but his lips twitch. Just barely, but enough that I catch it.
"I mean it, Matvey."
He shrugs one massive shoulder, still silent, but I can feel his amusement radiating off him in waves. And why wouldn't he be amused? I'm a Pakhan, a man who's survived countless fights, who's built an empire through violence and strategy, and I just got stabbed by a librarian.
I'll never live this down.
In the backseat, Mariya thrashes against her restraints, her muffled curses barely audible through the gag Matvey had to put in her mouth after she wouldn't stop screaming.
The black bag is still over her head, her wrists and ankles bound with zip ties.
She fought us the entire way to the car, kicking and clawing like a wildcat. It took both of us to get her secured.
I have to admit, I'm impressed. Most people would have given up by now, accepted their fate, but not her. She's still fighting, still refusing to surrender even though she has to know it's useless.
The drive to my estate takes thirty minutes, and Mariya doesn't stop struggling the entire time. By the time we pull through the gates, I can hear her breathing hard through the bag, exhausted but still defiant.
Matvey parks in front of the main house and comes around to open my door. I climb out slowly, my side screaming in protest. The wound isn't deep, I know that much. She didn't hit any major organs, didn't nick anything vital. But it still hurts like a bitch and bleeds like crazy.
"Take her to the interrogation room," I tell Matvey as he pulls Mariya from the backseat. "I need to get this stitched up."
He nods once, hoisting her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing. She immediately starts fighting again, her bound legs kicking uselessly against his chest.
I watch them disappear into the house, then make my way to the infirmary. My estate has everything I need, including a fully equipped medical room and a doctor on call twenty-four, seven. When you're in my line of work, you learn quickly that hospitals ask too many questions.
The doctor is waiting when I arrive, already laying out supplies on the sterile metal table. He's in his fifties, gray-haired and efficient, and he's patched me up more times than I can count.
"Let me see," he says without preamble.
I peel off my ruined shirt, wincing as the fabric pulls at the wound. Blood has soaked through completely, staining the expensive material beyond repair.
He examines the injury with practiced hands, his expression neutral. "Clean cut. Shallow. You're lucky."
"Lucky," I repeat, the word tasting bitter. "Right."
He cleans the wound with an antiseptic that burns worse than the initial stab, then begins stitching. I watch his hands work, the needle pulling thread through my skin with methodical precision.
“Twelve stitches."
"Keep it clean," the doc says when he's finished, applying a bandage. "Change the dressing twice a day, and no strenuous activity for at least a week."
I nod, already knowing I won't follow that last instruction. I have work to do.
By the time I make it to the interrogation room, my side is throbbing again despite the painkillers.
The room is in the basement, soundproofed and secure, with concrete walls and a single metal chair bolted to the floor and affixed to the wall.
It's where I bring people who need to answer questions they don't want to answer.
Matvey is standing guard outside the door, his arms crossed over his massive chest. When he sees me, he straightens slightly.
"She's loud," he says, which for Matvey is practically a speech.
I can hear her before I even open the door. The bag has been removed from her head, but she's wearing a blindfold now, and the gag is still firmly in place. If she can't see where she is, she can't plan an escape.
I step inside and close the door behind me. The sound cuts off immediately. She goes still, her head tilting as she tries to figure out who just entered.
"Hello, Mariya," I say quietly.
She tenses at the sound of my voice, her bound hands clenching into fists.
I circle around to stand in front of her, studying her in the harsh fluorescent light.
Her blonde hair is disheveled, falling in tangled waves around her shoulders.
The blindfold covers her eyes, but I can see the tension in her jaw, the way her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths.
She's terrified, but she's trying not to show it.
Brave. Foolish, but brave.
"I'm going to remove the gag," I tell her. "If you scream, it goes back in. Understood?"
She doesn't respond, but after a moment, she gives a slight nod.
I reach forward and untie the cloth, pulling it free from her mouth. She immediately gasps for air, her lips parted, and for just a second, I find myself noticing how full they are. How the fluorescent light catches the curve of her cheekbone.
I push the thought away. She's not here for me to admire. She's here to give me answers.
"Where is your father?" I ask.
"I don't know." Her voice is hoarse from screaming, but steady.
"Where are the heirlooms he stole?"
"I don't know."
"When did you last speak to him?"
"Nine years ago."
I lean against the wall, crossing my arms carefully to avoid putting pressure on my stitches. "You expect me to believe that? That he sent you to America and never contacted you again?"
"I don't care what you believe." She lifts her chin, defiant even though she can't see me. "It's the truth."
"Your father is a traitor. He testified against the Bratva, stole valuable heirlooms from my family, and then disappeared. You're his daughter. You're telling me you know nothing about any of it?"
"That's exactly what I'm telling you."
I study her face, looking for signs of deception. But all I see are exhaustion and fear and something else. Resignation. Like she's been expecting this moment for years and has finally accepted that it's here.
"Let's try this again," I say, pushing off the wall. "Where is Yegor Pushkin?"
"I don't know."
"Where are the heirlooms?"
"I don't know."
"When did you last see him?"
"Nine years ago, the day he testified."
We go on like this for hours. I ask the same questions over and over, varying the order, changing my tone, trying to catch her in a lie.
But her answers never change. She doesn't know where her father is.
She doesn't know anything about stolen heirlooms. She hasn't seen or heard from him in nine years.
Either she's telling the truth or she's the best liar I've ever encountered.
Matvey brings in a bucket of water at one point, and I pour it over her head, hoping the shock will break through her defenses. She gasps, sputtering, her clothes soaking through. But when I ask again, she gives me the same answers.
"I don't know where he is. I don't know about any heirlooms. I haven't seen him in nine years."
By the time midnight rolls around, I'm exhausted and my side is killing me. Mariya is shivering in her wet clothes, her hair plastered to her face, but she hasn't broken, hasn't given me anything useful.
I don't believe in hurting women. It's a line I've never crossed, not even in self-defense beyond what's necessary to protect myself. But I'm running out of options. How else am I supposed to get answers from her?
"Fine," I finally say, my voice rough with frustration. "Let's try something different."
I reach forward and untie the blindfold, pulling it away from her face.
She blinks against the sudden light, her green eyes watering as they adjust. When her vision clears, she looks directly at me, and I see the moment recognition hits. She remembers me from the library, from the alley. She knows exactly who I am.
"You're going to be my guest," I tell her, keeping my voice level. "You'll stay here, in my estate, until you decide to give me the answers I need."