Chapter 25 #2
The air reeked of mold, motor oil, and something rotten and nauseating. Rusted metal frames and abandoned equipment everywhere. The ceiling was too high to see, a few lightbulbs hanging from crossbeams, swaying, casting huge twisted shadows dancing on the walls.
"Brought her," Dmitri called toward the warehouse depths.
A man emerged from the shadows.
The red glow of a cigarette ember flickered in the darkness, like an animal's eyes.
He stepped into the light—
Silver hair meticulously groomed, wearing a dark cashmere coat, cigar in hand. His face held some resemblance to Sergei's, but his eyes were completely different—they held only coldness, calculation, and a winner's arrogance.
Viktor Volkov.
"Ella Collins," he said slowly, approaching while sizing me up, exhaling smoke. "Finally. The woman who's bewitched my nephew."
He stopped in front of me, looking down.
Those eyes swept over me from head to toe, like appraising merchandise, then—he shook his head disappointedly.
"Nothing special," he said. "Unremarkable. I thought the woman who made Sergei lose his mind would be something extraordinary. Turns out—"
He paused, mouth twisting into a mocking smile.
"Just a cheap little whore."
"What do you want?" I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Straight to the point. I like that. Dmitri, tie her up."
"Yes, Grandfather."
Dmitri shoved me toward a rusted iron pillar by the wall, pulled rope from his pocket.
"Hands out."
"No!"
He grabbed my wrist, grip terrifyingly strong, knuckles cracking. He bound my hands behind my back, around the pillar. The rope was tight, coarse hemp fibers cutting into skin, bringing waves of burning pain.
"It hurts!"
"Shut up," he said, tying a dead knot. "You brought this on yourself."
Then he crouched and started binding my ankles.
The rope wrapped around and around, so tight my toes started going numb.
"Good," Viktor said, walking over to inspect, waving his cigar in front of me. "Nice and secure."
He stepped back, returned to a battered chair dragged from somewhere, elegantly crossed his legs.
"Now, call our Pakhan."
Dmitri pulled out his phone, dialed, and put it on speaker.
"Что? (What?)" Sergei's voice came through after two rings, cold as ice. Wind in the background, distant shouts and engine sounds.
"Uncle," Dmitri said, voice tinged with sick excitement. "I have a gift you'll definitely like."
He pointed the phone at me, camera on my face.
"See?"
Silence on the other end for one second.
Then—
"Ella."
His voice changed.
Completely changed.
All that calm, all that control, shattered in an instant.
"Speak," Dmitri commanded. "Let him hear your voice."
"It's a trap," I continued. "Sergei, don't—"
Dmitri grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, pulling so hard I thought my scalp would tear off.
"Ah!"
"Ella!" Sergei's voice became a roar. "What did you do to her?!"
"She's fine, for now," Viktor took the phone, tone full of amusement. "Old dock, Warehouse 3, Seryozha. Come alone."
"Don't bring anyone, don't call the cops, don't try anything clever," he said, word by word. "You have one hour."
"If I see one extra person, even one..."
He walked up to me, waved the cigar's burning end near my face. The searing heat scorched my cheek, ash falling on my shoulder, burning a small hole.
"This face won't be recognizable."
"I'll come," Sergei's voice came through the receiver, each word squeezed from between his teeth, from the deepest part of his chest. "Alone."
"But if she's missing a single hair—"
"Then come try it, nephew," Viktor sneered. "I've waited so many years for this day. A Pakhan bewitched by a woman—why should he keep that position? Someone more capable should take it!"
"You—"
"One hour, Seryozha," Viktor checked his watch. "It's eight fifteen now. By nine fifteen, I want to see you. One minute late..."
He waved the cigar near my throat.
"I burn a hole in her."
"Understood."
"Good," Viktor said, hanging up satisfied. "Seems our Pakhan does care about this little mistress."
He turned, walked back to sit in the chair, elegantly took a drag from his cigar.
"Now, we wait."
Dmitri stood to the side, still holding the gun, examining his pants leg torn by Misha. Clear teeth marks on the fabric, blood seeping through.
"Damn animal," he muttered. "I'll kill her later."
"Fuck you!" I said.
He turned to look at me, eyes narrowing.
"What did you say?"
"I said, fuck you!" I repeated, tone cold. "A coward who only bullies the weak. Can't do anything right."
He walked over and crouched in front of me.
"Me?" he said. "Ella, do you understand your situation? You're tied up here, your bodyguard's half-dead, your dog's unconscious—"
"And your supposedly invincible man," he leaned close, "is about to walk into a death trap."
"How about it, Ella?" he said. "Beg me. Leave that old man, come back to me obediently, I might consider letting you live as my mistress."
I looked at him, at this face I once thought I loved.
"Give it up. You're not worth one hair on Sergei's head," I said.
"Really?" He sneered. "Do you even know what he is? You've seen him kill—he's a monster—"
"He's not! I know he's killed people," I interrupted. "I know he's done terrible things."
"And you still—"
"But he's never betrayed me," I said. "He's never pushed me forward and run away, never treated me like a disposable tool."
"He's good to me," tears streamed down my face, but my tone stayed firm. "He remembers my dreams. He protects me. He shows up when I'm most afraid."
"He's a thousand times, ten thousand times better than you."
Dmitri's face twisted completely.
"You—"
He backhanded me across the face.
Harder this time. Meaner.
My head snapped to the side, ears ringing, vision exploding with stars. My cheek burned like it had been branded. The corner of my mouth split. Blood ran down my chin, dripping onto the floor.
"Bitch!" he yelled. "You're just a bitch!"
"Enough, Dmitri," Viktor said, tone flat. "Don't waste your energy."
"But she—"
"She's right." Viktor stood up, walked over. "You are worthless."
Dmitri froze.
"Grandfather—"
"Worthless trash who can't even control a woman," Viktor said, pointing at him with his cigar. "Two years ago, I gave you a job. You screwed it up. I told you to watch Sergei. You got caught instead."
"I—"
"Now," Viktor said, "get out and keep watch. When Sergei arrives, I'll handle it."
Dmitri looked at his grandfather, anger and resentment in his eyes, but ultimately said nothing, turned, and walked out.
The metal door slammed shut.
Only Viktor and I remained in the warehouse.
He slowly approached and stopped in front of me.
"You love him," he said. Not a question.
I raised my head, glared at him, and said nothing.
"But you know what, little girl," he crouched down, eye level with me, those eyes holding only ice, "in this world, love is the cheapest thing."
He took a drag from his cigar.
"Women are always just tools in men's power struggles."
"You think Sergei really loves you?" He sneered. "He's just temporarily infatuated. When he comes to his senses, you'll become his burden, his weakness."
"And weakness," he stood up, "in this business, is a death sentence."
"You're wrong," I said.
"When he's dead, you'll understand," he said, turning toward the exit, "who the real winner is."
"He won't die," I said.
"Really?" Viktor stopped at the door and looked back. "Then we'll see."
He walked out.
The metal door closed.
This time, even the lights went out.
The warehouse plunged into complete darkness.
Only faint light filtered through broken windows, casting pale patches on the floor.
I leaned against the iron pillar, gasping.
Everything hurt. The back of my head, my cheek, my waist—every part of me hurt.
But I couldn't just sit here.
I couldn't wait for Sergei to walk to his death.
I had to escape.
Or at least—at least get out of these damn ropes.
I took a deep breath and started observing my surroundings.
The warehouse was filled with abandoned junk—wooden crates, metal drums, rusted frames, trash everywhere.
The corner.
There was a pile of broken glass. Maybe from old windows, reflecting cold light.
If I could get a piece...
But the problem was, I was tied to the pillar.
So what now?
My mind raced.
Couldn't reach the corner, but I could—I could use my feet.
I looked down at my feet. Wearing flats, not fixed to the floor. Just my ankles bound together, but my legs could still move, range limited.
If I laid on my side...
Gritting my teeth, I tilted my body to one side. My hands bound behind me jammed against the pillar. Every inch of movement felt like my wrists would snap. But slowly, inch by inch, I managed to lay on my side.
The floor was freezing, gravel digging into my hip.
I took a deep breath, started reaching with my feet.
Legs bound together, range very limited. I needed to press my whole body against the floor and wriggle, like a snake pinned by its tail, using my core to push my legs forward.
Once.
Twice.
Couldn't reach.
Still too far.
I scooted my body more in that direction. The concrete floor was rough as sandpaper, fibers from my sweater breaking, skin scraping raw, burning.
But I was moving.
Little by little, within the range the pillar allowed, I twisted my body into an awkward angle.
Finally—
My toe touched something. A sharp scraping sound.
The edge of a glass shard.
I carefully nudged it toward myself with my foot, difficult as using chopsticks to pick up a peanut. The glass slid across the floor with soft grinding sounds.
Once.
Twice.
The glass finally reached where my hands could get it—if I could get my hands around there.
What should I do?
I stopped, panting, mind racing.
I tried pressing my whole body against the pillar, using my waist and shoulders to inch my arms to the other side.
The pillar was covered in rust and protruding weld scars. Rough metal scraped over my arms, over the backs of my hands, like someone cutting with a dull knife.
It hurt.
So much.
But I couldn't stop.
Finally, I moved my hands from "this side" of the pillar to "that side." Now my arms were twisted at an impossible angle, shoulder joints creaking under the strain, but my fingertips—
My fingertips touched glass.
Cold. Sharp.
Got it!
I carefully gripped the glass shard.
The edge immediately cut into my palm.
Searing pain.
Like someone taking a knife and slicing another cut into my already bleeding palm.
I felt fresh blood well up, mixing with the old, making my whole hand slick.
"Ah—"
I bit my lip, forced the cry back down.
Couldn't let go.
This was my last chance.
I adjusted my grip, then felt for the rope on my wrists.
Started sawing.
Glass cut into the hemp. A few fibers broke.
Blood made everything slippery—hand, glass, rope.
My fingers were numb, only a dull, constant burning sensation left. I could barely hold the glass anymore.
But I couldn't stop.
"Come on," I whispered to myself. "Ella, come on."