Chapter 13 Alina
ALINA
Darkness.
That's the first thing I'm aware of. Complete, suffocating darkness that presses against my eyelids like a physical weight. My head throbs with a pain so intense it makes my stomach roll, and there's a chemical taste in my mouth that makes me want to gag.
I try to move my hands to touch my aching head, but they won't respond. Something cuts into my wrists, plastic biting into skin.
Zip ties. I'm bound.
Panic floods through me, sharp and immediate, cutting through the fog in my brain. I force my eyes open, but the darkness remains. Not complete darkness, I realize as my vision adjusts. I'm in some kind of vehicle. A van, maybe, based on the way it's moving, the rumble of the engine beneath me.
I'm lying on my side on a hard metal floor, my cheek pressed against cold steel. Every bump in the road sends fresh waves of pain through my skull. My mouth is dry, my tongue feels thick, and when I try to swallow, my throat burns.
What happened?
I search my fragmented memories, trying to piece together how I got here. I was at my father's house. In his study. I'd found the folder, the documents proving his betrayal. The communications with the Kozlov family. The plans for the church attack.
And then the door opened.
My father's face flashes through my mind.
The way his expression transformed when he saw me with the evidence of his crimes.
The cold calculation in his eyes as he moved toward me.
I'd backed away, my hand going to the pendant at my throat, pressing the center stone. The panic button Dimitri gave me.
Did the signal go through? Does Dimitri know I'm in trouble?
I remember my father's hand clamping over my mouth, cutting off my scream. The sharp, chemical smell of something pressed against my face. Chloroform, my brain supplies. His voice in my ear, almost apologetic.
"I'm sorry, Alina. But you've left me no choice."
Then nothing. Just darkness and the sensation of falling.
Voices filter through my consciousness, speaking Russian in low tones. Male voices, rough and unfamiliar. Not my father's men. These are strangers.
"How much longer?" one of them asks.
"Twenty minutes, maybe less," another responds. "The cabin's remote. No one will hear anything."
Hear what? The question sends ice through my veins.
I force myself to stay still, to keep my breathing even despite the terror clawing at my chest. If they think I'm still unconscious, maybe I can learn something. Maybe I can figure out where they're taking me, who they are, and what they want.
"Kozlov's going to be pissed we had to move so fast," a third voice says. "He wanted more time to set up."
Kozlov. The name confirms what I already suspected. These aren't my father's men. They're soldiers from the Kozlov family, the rivals who helped orchestrate the church attack. The ones who wanted Dimitri dead.
"Popov didn't give us a choice," the first voice responds. "The girl found the documents. She knows everything. We had to extract her before Morozov's man could interfere."
Alexei. Oh, God, what did they do to Alexei?
I remember hearing a commotion downstairs while I was in my father's study. Shouting. A gunshot. Then my father was there, and everything happened so fast.
"Is she even worth the trouble?" the third voice asks. "We should have just killed her at the house, made it look like Morozov did it."
"Boss wants her alive. For now." There's a pause, then a dark chuckle. "She's leverage. Morozov's got a thing for her, apparently. Took her from the church, kept her at his estate. Word is he was planning to marry her."
Was. Past tense. As if that plan is already dead.
The vehicle hits a pothole, and I can't suppress a small gasp as pain explodes through my head. The conversation in the front stops immediately.
"She's awake," one of them says.
I hear movement, then rough hands grab my shoulders and flip me onto my back. A flashlight beam hits my face, blinding me. I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare.
"Open your eyes, princess," a voice commands. "Let's see if you're really with us."
I force my eyes open, squinting against the light. I can make out shapes now. Three men in the front of the van, one of them twisted around in the passenger seat to look at me. He's big, with a shaved head and a scar running down his left cheek.
"There she is," he says, grinning. "The famous Alina Popov. Or should I say, Morozov's whore?"
The crude words make anger flare hot in my chest, burning through some of the fear. "Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere your boyfriend can't find you." The man with the scar leans closer, and I can smell cigarettes and vodka on his breath. "Unless he's very, very good. And very, very lucky."
"Dimitri will find me," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "And when he does, you're all dead men."
The driver laughs, a harsh sound. "Big talk for someone tied up in the back of a van. Your precious Pakhan doesn't even know where you are. By the time he figures it out, you'll be long gone."
But he's wrong. Dimitri knows I'm in trouble. I pressed the panic button before my father drugged me. The signal went through. It had to.
I cling to that hope as the van continues its journey, bouncing over what feels like increasingly rough roads. We've left the city, I realize. The smooth pavement has given way to gravel, then dirt. We're heading somewhere remote. Somewhere isolated.
Somewhere no one will hear me scream.
The thought makes my breath come faster, panic threatening to overwhelm me. I force myself to breathe slowly, to think. I'm alive. That means I'm valuable to them, at least for now. They need me for something. Leverage, the man said. They want to use me to get to Dimitri.
Which means they won't kill me. Not yet.
The pendant is still around my neck. I can feel the weight of it against my skin. Did the signal reach Dimitri? Is he already looking for me? Or did my father's men destroy it before the transmission could complete?
I don't know. And not knowing is almost worse than anything else.
The van finally slows, then stops. I hear the driver shift into park, hear the engine cut off. Then doors opening, boots hitting the ground.
The back doors of the van swing open, and hands grab my ankles, dragging me toward the opening. I try to kick, to fight, but with my hands bound and my head still spinning from the chloroform, I'm helpless.
They pull me out of the van, and I get my first look at where they've brought me. We're in a clearing surrounded by dense forest. The trees are so thick they block out most of the fading daylight, creating an oppressive gloom. And in the center of the clearing sits a cabin.
It's old, the wood weathered and gray, the windows dark and empty like dead eyes. This isn't a vacation home or a hunting lodge. This is a place where bad things happen. A place where people disappear.
"Move," one of the men orders, shoving me forward.
I stumble, my legs weak and uncoordinated.
The man with the scar catches my arm, his grip bruising, and half drags me toward the cabin.
The front door hangs crooked on its hinges, and when we step inside, the smell hits me.
Mold and rot and something else. Something metallic that might be old blood.
The interior is as decrepit as the exterior. A main room with a sagging couch and a table covered in empty bottles. A small kitchen area with a sink full of stagnant water. Two doors leading to what I assume are bedrooms.
They throw me into one of the bedrooms, and I land hard on a bare mattress that reeks of mildew. The room is tiny, barely big enough for the cot and a broken-down dresser. There are no windows, just four walls closing in on me.
I scramble to sit up, my back against the wall, as the man with the scar stands in the doorway watching me.
"Make yourself comfortable, princess," he says. "You're going to be here a while."
"What do you want from me?" My voice comes out stronger than I feel.
"That's not for us to decide. We're just the delivery boys." He grins, showing yellowed teeth. "Boss will figure out what to do with you. Whether you're worth more alive or dead."
The door slams shut, and I hear a lock click into place. I'm alone in the darkness, in this tiny room that smells like death and despair.
I pull my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. The zip ties cut into my wrists, but I barely feel the pain. All I can think about is Dimitri. About whether he received my signal. About whether he's coming for me.
He has to be coming. He promised to protect me. He said I was under his protection, that no one would dare touch me.
But they did touch me. They took me. And now I'm here, in this nightmare, and I don't know if anyone even knows where to look.
Time passes. I don't know how much. It could be minutes or hours. The darkness in the windowless room is absolute, disorienting. I try to work the zip ties loose, twisting my wrists, but they only cut deeper into my skin. I feel warm blood trickling down my hands.
Then I hear voices outside the door. The men are arguing about something, their Russian rapid and heated.
I press my ear against the door, straining to hear.
"We should just do it now," one voice says. "Get it over with. Why wait for orders?"
"Because Kozlov wants to decide," another responds. "She's valuable. We can use her to draw out Morozov, make him come to us on our terms."
"Or we kill her and send him pieces. Send a message that no one crosses the Kozlov family."
My blood turns to ice. They're discussing my death like it's a business transaction. Like I'm nothing more than a problem to be solved.
"If we kill her without permission, Kozlov will have our heads," a third voice argues. "You know how he is about following protocol."
"Protocol?" The first voice laughs bitterly. "We're talking about Dimitri Morozov's woman. The man who's been a thorn in our side for years. This is our chance to hurt him where it counts. To show him he's not untouchable."
"I say we call Kozlov now. Get his decision. If he says kill her, we do it. If he says keep her alive, we use her as bait. Either way, Morozov loses."
There's a pause, then agreement. I hear footsteps moving away, presumably to make the call.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, my whole body shaking. They're going to kill me. Maybe not right now, maybe not in the next hour, but eventually. Whether they use me as bait first or just execute me immediately, the end result is the same.
I'm going to die in this cabin in the woods, and no one will ever know what happened to me.
No. I can't think like that. Dimitri is coming. He has to be coming. I pressed the panic button. He knows I'm in trouble. He'll find me.
But what if he doesn't? What if he's too late?
The voices outside grow louder, more animated. I press my ear against the door again, desperate to hear what they're deciding.
"Kozlov says to wait," one of them announces. "He's sending someone to assess the situation. Wants to see if Morozov takes the bait."
"And if he doesn't?"
There's a long pause, then a response that makes my heart stop.
"Then we kill her and dump the body where he'll find it. Send him a message he won't forget."