Chapter 9
MARIYA
The door closes behind him with a soft click that echoes through the room like a gunshot. I stare at it, my body still trembling, my skin still flushed from what we just did. What I just did.
I can't believe it.
I actually had sex with him. With a Bratva member who's holding me prisoner. A man whose name I don't even know.
I press my hands against my face, feeling the heat in my cheeks.
This was supposed to be a tactic, a way to get close to him, to make him lower his guard so I could escape.
But somewhere between the first kiss and the moment he pushed me down onto the bed, the plan fell apart. Or maybe I fell apart.
No. I refuse to think about how it felt. I refuse to acknowledge the way my body responded to his touch, the way pleasure crashed through me when he moved inside me. That wasn't real. It was just biology, just a physical response. It didn't mean anything.
It can't mean anything.
I stand on shaking legs and walk to the bathroom, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I don't want to see what's written on my face right now, don't want to confront the truth that's trying to claw its way to the surface.
The shower is already familiar to me after last night, and I turn the water as hot as I can stand it.
Steam fills the bathroom as I step under the spray, letting it wash away the evidence of what just happened.
I scrub my skin until it's pink, trying to erase the memory of his hands on me, his mouth on me, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress.
But no amount of soap and water can wash away the fact that I enjoyed it. That for those few minutes, I forgot I was his prisoner, forgot that he's dangerous, that he wants information I don't have, and that he could kill me at any moment.
I forgot everything except the way he made me feel.
The realization makes my stomach twist with shame. So now what am I supposed to do? The seduction plan failed spectacularly. If anything, I've made things worse. He got what he wanted from me, and I'm still locked in this room with no way out. I'm no closer to freedom than I was yesterday.
I stay in the shower until the water starts to run cold, then force myself to get out.
The robe is still hanging on the back of the door, and I wrap myself in it, suddenly exhausted.
The adrenaline that's been keeping me going for the past two days is finally wearing off, leaving me hollow and drained.
I should stay awake. I should use this time to search the room for anything I can use as a weapon or a tool to escape. I should be planning my next move.
But my body has other ideas. The moment I lie down on the bed, my eyes grow heavy. I try to fight it, try to force myself to stay alert, but it's useless. Sleep pulls me under like a riptide, and I'm too tired to resist.
A knock at the door jolts me awake. I sit up, disoriented, my heart pounding. Sunlight streams through the barred windows, bright and cheerful, completely at odds with my situation. How long did I sleep? It feels like only minutes, but the quality of the light tells me it's morning.
The door opens before I can say anything, and a woman walks in. She's wearing a tidy uniform consisting of black pants and a white button-down shirt, and her arms are full of clothes. She's middle-aged, with graying hair pulled back in a neat bun, and when she sees me, she smiles.
"Good morning," she says in accented English. Russian, but she's been in America long enough that the accent has softened. "The Pakhan sent these for you. He thought you might want a change of clothes."
The woman sets the clothes on the dresser, still smiling at me like this is a perfectly normal situation. Like she brings clothes to prisoners every day. Maybe she does.
"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice rough from sleep.
She nods and leaves without another word, the door locking behind her with that same soft click.
I stare at the pile of clothes, part of me wanting to refuse them on principle. But that would be stupid. I can't stay in this robe forever, and my own clothes are still damp and wrinkled from yesterday's interrogation.
I sort through what he sent. Jeans that look like they'll actually fit, a soft sweater in deep green, underwear still in the package, socks, and even a pair of sneakers. Everything is high-quality, expensive, and exactly my size.
How does he know my size?
The thought makes my skin crawl, but I push it aside and get dressed. The clothes fit perfectly, comfortable and warm, and I hate that I'm grateful for them. I hate that he's thought of this, that he's providing for me like I'm a guest instead of a prisoner.
I'm just finishing tying my shoes when I hear the sound of a key in the lock. My pulse spikes, and I stand, smoothing down the sweater with nervous hands. The door opens, and there he is.
He looks different in the morning light.
Still dangerous, still commanding, but there's something softer about him now.
His dark hair is slightly damp, like he's recently showered, and he's wearing jeans and a black shirt that stretches across his broad chest. The bandage at his side is visible through the thin fabric, a reminder of what I did to him.
His blue eyes sweep over me, taking in the clothes, and something flickers in his expression. Satisfaction? Approval?
"Good," he says. "They fit."
I don't respond. I don't trust myself to speak without saying something that will make this worse.
"Come with me," he continues, stepping aside to gesture toward the hallway. "It's time for breakfast."
"I'm not hungry," I lie.
As if on cue, my stomach rumbles loudly enough that we both hear it. Heat floods my cheeks.
His lips twitch, almost smiling. "Liar. Now, are you going to come downstairs like a civilized person, or do I need to bind your hands again?"
The memory of the zip ties cutting into my wrists makes me flinch. I don't want to be restrained again, don't want to feel that helpless.
"I'll be civilized," I say quietly.
"Good choice."
He leads me out of the room and down the hallway. I try to memorize the route again, counting doors and noting turns, but it's even more confusing in daylight. The estate is massive, with hallways that seem to go on forever and rooms I can only glimpse through open doorways.
We descend a grand staircase, the kind you see in movies about rich people, with polished wood banisters and a crystal chandelier hanging overhead.
My sneakers are silent on the marble floors as we walk through what looks like a formal living room, then into a dining room that's bigger than my entire apartment.
A long table dominates the space, set with fine China and crystal glasses.
But only two places are set, at one end of the table, across from each other.
The Beast is already there, standing off to the side like a guard, his massive arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes track my movement as we enter, but his expression remains blank.
The Pakhan pulls out a chair for me, and I sit, feeling awkward and out of place.
He takes the seat across from me, and almost immediately, staff appear with food, plates of eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and pastries that smell like Heaven.
My stomach growls again, louder this time, and I can't help but reach for a piece of toast.
"I'm glad to see you have an appetite," he says, watching me butter the toast with steady hands.
I take a bite instead of responding. The food is delicious, and I'm hungrier than I realized. I haven't eaten since lunch the day before yesterday, before everything went to hell.
"The clothes are comfortable?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Good. I can have more sent up if you need them."
I look up at him, confused by the pleasantries.
"What's your name?" I ask suddenly.
He raises an eyebrow. "You don't know?"
"How would I know? You kidnapped me, interrogated me, and locked me in a room. You never introduced yourself."
"Fair point." He leans back in his chair, studying me. "Andrey Melnikov."
The name hits me like a punch to the gut. Melnikov. I know that name. Everyone in the Bratva knows that name. The Melnikov family is powerful and influential with connections that stretch across continents.
And I just had sex with their Pakhan.
"I see you recognize my name," Andrey says, something dark flickering in his eyes.
"Everyone recognizes it," I manage to say.
"Then you understand the position you're in." He picks up his coffee cup, taking a slow sip. "This is Matvey, my sovietnik."
The Beast nods once, acknowledging the introduction, but doesn't speak.
"Now that we've been properly introduced," Andrey continues, setting down his cup, "let's talk about your father."
And just like that, the civilized breakfast is over.
"I've already told you everything I know," I say, my appetite disappearing. "I don't know where he is."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care what you believe. It's the truth."
His jaw tightens. "Your father is a traitor. He testified against the Bratva, then disappeared. But before he disappeared, he stole something from my family. Something very valuable."
"I don't know anything about that."
"Family heirlooms," he continues, as if I haven't spoken. "Icons that have been passed down through generations. Worth a fortune, both financially and sentimentally. They disappeared around the same time your father did."
I shake my head. "I don't know anything about any icons. My father never mentioned them."
"Then where is he?" Andrey leans forward, his blue eyes boring into mine. "Where has he been hiding all this time?"
"I don't know!" The words come out sharper than I intend, edged with frustration and fear. "He sent me to America the day he testified. I haven't seen him or heard from him since. For all I know, he's dead."
"He's not dead." Andrey's voice is flat, certain. "If he were dead, someone would have found the body by now. No, he's alive and hiding somewhere, and you're going to tell me where."
"I can't tell you what I don't know."
We stare at each other across the table, the tension thick enough to cut. Matvey shifts slightly, drawing my attention. His hand rests on something at his hip. A weapon, probably. A reminder of what could happen if I don't cooperate.
But I can't give them what they want. I genuinely don't know where my father is. I don't know anything about stolen heirlooms or hidden fortunes. And even if I did, would I tell them? Would I betray my father to save myself?
"Let me make something very clear," Andrey says, his voice dropping to something cold and dangerous. "Your father stole from my family. Those heirlooms belong to me, and I will get them back. One way or another."
"I can't help you," I whisper.
"Then you'll be the price." He stands, towering over me. "Until Yegor Pushkin returns what he stole, you belong to me. You're collateral, Mariya. And I always collect what I'm owed."