Chapter 25 - Lily
My wrists burn from the rope being done up too tight.
Every subtle movement causes them to dig into my skin deeper, cutting in with those small but sharp fibers.
I try to keep quiet and still, but everything in me is screaming to do something. To move, to run, to fight if I have to. Just something.
But my head aches, and the gag in my mouth smells and tastes like oil, as if it’s been used already. Tears burn in my eyes, and I force myself not to lose my mind completely, but it feels so much harder while breathing that filth in.
My left side leans against a cold steel wall while my hands rest in my lap, and while my vision is still somewhat hazy, while pain roars behind my temples, I can still see what looks like the open double doors of a shipping container.
The air is so still inside the container that every breath sounds loud in my ears, and every noise outside reverberates, keeping me on edge.
In the distance, I can hear muffled voices, the sound of boots against the tarmac, and the soft clink of weapons. I’m alone in here, but out there, I can only imagine how many people are moving around.
This is everything I never wanted to be a part of. Everything I considered a nightmare ever since the reality of what Wyatt had been involved in finally got back to me.
It’s even worse than that because I’m not an active participant. I’m not someone who signed their life away to serve a gang or some family. Instead, I’ve been taken and bound, and surely, I’m meant to be a message or collateral.
I thought I was done with that fear, and I thought marrying Mikhail was supposed to be my security.
Now, I don’t know anything, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to get out of this.
Time means nothing as I sit here, feeling my shoulder ache from leaning against it while the rest of my body goes numb. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, and that concept is especially hazy, considering I’ve been in and out of consciousness the whole time.
Eventually, I hear steps approaching the container, and one door opens a bit more, letting in harsh beams from the floodlights overhead. The figure of someone steps inside, making me freeze immediately.
I squint to try and adjust my eyes to the shift in brightness, and a masculine shape moves closer. He’s tall and built like a brick wall with a hard face.
My heart picks up as he approaches me, but before I can even attempt to move, he pulls the gag down, giving me immediate relief from the horrible-tasting material. A plastic bottle crinkles in his grasp while he lifts it, pouring water down my throat without any warning.
I cough and sputter on the immediate stream as it soaks the front of my dress, but I drink anyway.
The man stares at me, but nothing moves through his eyes, betraying no thoughts. He doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t untie me. Then he’s gone again.
Panting quietly, I’m left alone in the container, trying to calm my racing heart after the quick exchange.
When I don’t see anyone else, I let go of a shaky breath and lean against the wall again.
As much as I want to assume this has all happened by chance, I know that isn’t true. It’s not random at all. It’s planned.
Because of Mikhail. Because of my connection to him.
He tried so hard to convince me I didn’t have to worry about a thing as his wife. He made it seem like I had complete immunity because of him, but he was wrong.
One minute, I was jealous at the sight of those women surrounding him, and the next, I woke up bound inside an empty shipping container. I was ambushed and taken.
I was so stupid to believe I was untouchable.
Time seems to drag with those sounds moving around me, but then I register clear words now. They sound close, and I pause to listen, leaning further against the insulated steel.
The words are hazy at first, but I catch a familiar-sounding voice—the same one from earlier. The man who cornered me.
The other sounds different, with subtle hints of another accent. Italian-American, maybe.
Whatever it is, it sounds cold as the man mutters, “They’re stretched thin after those previous attacks, I’m assuming, to compensate and beef up their defenses during their shipments. That’s the only reason this plan even has a shot at working.”
“I wouldn’t waste my time if I didn’t think it would work,” the other returns, sounding smooth and arrogant. “Roman and his bastard brothers assume nobody can outmaneuver them…but while they were busy flaunting, I was watching.”
“Yet, you still needed help.”
The other pauses, and the more I consider it, the more a new suspicion sinks in. This has to be Maxim.
He then says, as if saving face, “You’ll get your cut regardless. The girl’s leverage.”
“And you’re sure he’ll come for her? She isn’t just some bitch he pulled at the club?”
Maxim scoffs. “Of course he will. There was a ring on her finger.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“You should see the size of it. Nobody but a Lukov is letting that much money sit on just any woman’s hand at any given time,” he reassures him, letting a touch of amusement enter his voice. “Trust me, he’ll be here. And when they pull up, we’ll be ready.”
The other man sighs. “If you’re wrong about this, it’s your ass.”
“You worry too much, Aldo.”
“Cattaneo, to you.”
Maxim chuckles, and their steps recede.
I keep my ear against the wall for a moment longer, but they’re too far now, and their voices become too distorted.
My skin crawls as I sit with those words.
They’re working together. Whoever this other man is, he’s obviously hoping to get something out of this deal. It’s likely more than just the cut Maxim promised.
Aldo Cattaneo. Maxim Nikolaev.
I repeat those names in my head again and again, trying to memorize them.
They’re trying to lure Mikhail and his family in while using me as bait, and if they manage that much, I have to tell him. I have to warn him.
Letting go of a shaky breath, my heart aches from how fast it races, and that, paired with my running thoughts, leaves me feeling exhausted. But I can’t just sit here.
If Mikhail comes, he’s going to walk right into their trap.
I need to move. I have to move.
The words echo in my mind, and as I shift in place, more pain moves through my head.
I know I need to go, but I have no idea what’s out there waiting for me. There could be guards waiting silently outside the container. By the sound of it, there are men everywhere.
As I try to work through it in my head, pushing for more courage, the air seems to change.
An overwhelming rush of squealing tires and roaring engines fills the space, surrounding the cans. Immediately, men start yelling, and boots pound on the concrete. Then, volleys of gunfire sound off, echoing through every pop.
It’s rapid. Dangerous.
The Lukovs. Mikhail.
Rounds continue to fire, zinging off steel and surely ricocheting in every direction.
My heart is in my throat, and that chaos seems inescapable. Inevitable, even.
The sound of a body slamming against the back wall of the can jolts me to my feet, and I’m up before I even have the chance to process it. There’s shouting in multiple languages—English, Russian, and what sounds like Italian. The gunfire is constant, sounding more like a war than anything else.
Standing there, my whole body sings with adrenaline, and I realize this is it.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
Pushing the pain in my head aside, I move.
My legs shake at first, and I have the balance of a freshly born deer, but it doesn’t matter.
I can’t focus on anything else but getting out of there.
The rope around my wrists still burns and digs in, but I don’t care.
It won’t mean anything if I die here. Or if anything happens to Mikhail and his family because I managed to get caught.
Stumbling out of the shipping container, I squint through the agonizingly bright floodlights, but the moment my eyes adjust, that’s when it all sinks in.
I’m not just hidden behind someone’s safe house or a backwoods property.
No…it’s a scrapyard of some kind. Full of row upon row of old containers. Some are stacked so high that they form a wall.
Pausing on the spot, I glance around while my breath sounds especially loud in my ears.
There’s nobody around the container. No guards waiting to take me out—not with this chaos.
Something in me wants to stay put and to wait it out while I clutch onto the door. I want to hope and pray that Mikhail somehow finds me. Running out there would be suicide with all that gunfire.
But at the same time, I’m even more of a risk as a sitting target. And I need to warn Mikhail. I have to find him.
Before I can lose my nerve, I pull in a big breath and push my way out, breaking into a run.
The yard is seemingly endless, creating a labyrinth of containers beneath the night sky. Trying to create the most difficult path to follow, I weave in and out of them, looking in every direction before hustling forward.
My lungs burn, and my heart feels like it’s about to give out, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
Even though I don’t know where I’m going, I know I have to go. I have to push even while my head aches.
Bullets fly somewhere behind me, so close that it sends a ripple of fresh fear through me. Someone yells, and I can’t tell if it’s one of Mikhail’s men or not, and I don’t stop to check.
I keep running, only stopping to catch my breath while I glance around before continuing.
Container after container, I sprint like I know this place, even though I don’t. Even though I’m surely getting lost deeper and deeper in the maze of steel.
My short heels are long gone, as they weren’t even on my feet when I woke up. My soles feel raw from the loose chunks of concrete I run over, but I don’t care. I push through it anyway, moving as fast as I can.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear Mikhail’s voice. First in Russian, then in English. It’s muffled, but it’s him. I know it is.
That’s all the hope I need to run faster. To not give in.