Chapter 19
Alice
What a fucking bitch.
I’m so goddamn mad at myself, I can’t even feel the heartbreak I know is lingering beneath the rage.
Rope much less forgiving than the one that bound my wrists a few hours ago scratches at my skin, wearing away at it until I bleed every time I move.
My whole body screams with a horribly lethargic pain.
It feels like I can’t contract my muscles, like I don’t have the strength or capacity to will my body into motion.
At the same time, I know doing so would expel the sensation that wasps are making vicious homes in my joints.
I hate her.
I hate myself for trusting a gut instinct that has done nothing but lead me astray.
I hate that she made me vulnerable and open and myself, only to rip that away after I’d given her everything.
I hate that I handed over every ounce of control, and instead of cherishing it like I trusted her to, she took and took and took until I had nothing left to give.
I try to think past the excruciating physical and mental anguish to assess my situation.
I’m definitely on land—I would recognize the feeling of even the calmest seas beneath me.
I’m tied to a metal chair, and I think I’ve been here for a while, considering the metal is warm from my body heat.
Everything is sore but warm, so we must be somewhere climate-controlled, or it may be daytime.
There are no windows, no light, nothing surrounding me except the concrete floor beneath my feet. I have no idea how long I’ve been out.
There’s an acute pain in my left shoulder.
I assume that’s where Emily injected me with some sort of paralytic, which must be synthetic because my body doesn’t seem to have a tolerance for it.
I instinctively run my tongue over the cap at the back of my mouth, relieved when I find it intact.
I suppose I’ll have to decide if I need to use it on her or wait until she turns me over to Ilya.
I try not to think about the way I’ll have to press my lips to hers again to pass the venom into her mouth. I had accepted I’d have to kiss Ilya to kill him, I can do it with Emily too.
Even if it feels so much worse to bear.
I take deep breaths through my nose, trying to fight the familiar nausea clutching at my stomach.
I need whatever’s in my stomach to stay put, mostly to avoid dehydration.
I have no idea how long I’ll be down here until Ilya or Emily or my father comes to retrieve me, and I must conserve my strength.
I truly do not know what I’ll do if Konstantin Zakharov is the evil I face today.
My entire plan has hinged on Ilya wanting revenge on his traitorous wife, and my father being too proud to chase after an errant child.
If I’m wrong, I have no strategy to kill my father.
Passing the venom to him from my mouth is obviously out of the question, and unfortunately by design there isn’t enough in this capsule to kill myself before he can bring me back to Vladivostok.
I hadn’t planned past Ilya, because I wasn’t sure I’d survive him. I’m regretting that now.
In the distance, a heavy door creaks open.
No light filters in, so the entrance to this place must be far from me.
My heart beats faster and faster, fear overriding the effects of the drugs in my system as I try to focus my adrenaline on categorizing what I hear.
Footsteps, one pair. Heavy, slow, coming from behind me and to my right.
They’re not Emily’s, unless she’s purposefully changed her gate.
I have the sound of her walking from her motel bed to the kitchenette sink to get me water burned into my mind. I’d know if it was her.
I’m reminded of my failure when a tiny thread of disappointment snakes its way into my heart, constricting around it like a thin, deadly tourniquet. I am disappointed that I won’t see her. That I might never see her again, now that she’s completed her job.
So fucking pathetic I could scream if it wouldn’t make me puke.
What feels like an eternity later, the footsteps grow loud enough that I know they’re close. They stop behind me, and they don’t smell like anything. Not perfume or aftershave, not gunpowder or the sea or black licorice.
Which tells me exactly who it is.
“Hello, Ilya.”
A small click, and yellow, fluorescent light from a swinging overhead bulb floods the area directly around me.
The concrete beneath my feet is stained—maybe with oil, maybe with blood.
With a flare for dramatism I associate with his brother, Ilya walks around me slowly, seeing if I’ll turn my head, if I’ll flinch first.
I want to keep facing forward, refuse to show him fear. But I know that for my plan to work, he has to think I’d do anything to avoid being killed. So I whip my head over my shoulder, curving my posture in like I’m afraid he’ll strike me.
Not a wholly unreasonable fear, knowing how our last interaction ended.
“Alisa,” he says, voice devoid of any emotion. I didn’t really expect much, but irritation and rage were possibilities. Should have known better. “You look well, for a dead girl.”
I dart my eyes away from his cold glare, letting unfamiliar, manufactured fear flood me like a tide. I’m certain he can smell it, that he likes it.
“Where am I?” I ask, even though I’m fairly certain I know.
There’s a defunct shellfish processing warehouse about thirty miles inland from the harbor.
Ilya is a creature of habit, ruthless yet predictable.
On the few occasions I was privy to his actions, he either brought victims back to Vladivostok so he had complete control over his environment, or he stayed as close to the abduction site as possible.
Travel is the most vulnerable function of an operation, my father once told me, in one of the rare moments he shared his work with me. I’m sure he taught Ilya the same.
My muscles would be stiffer if I had been out long enough to get all the way back to Russia.
“That is not what you should be concerned about,” he replies, his hands in his pockets so casually, like this whole situation is no more than an irritating errand.
“Ilya, I’m sorry, please don’t—” I start, feeling false tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I was worried my acting wouldn’t be convincing, but so far I’m doing a pretty good job, if I say so myself.
“Your death was inconvenient, Alisa,” he says, speaking over me.
I clamp my mouth shut, annoyance cutting through my fabricated fear before I shove it back down.
“Our union made the succession of your father’s empire easy, smooth.
No one would dare challenge his decision to pass the torch if I was his son-in-law.
But with you dead, I’ve had to maintain a very delicate balance to ensure I stay in his good graces. ”
He squats in front of me, resting his forearms on his knees and staring into my eyes.
There’s a new-to-me burn scar on his hand, covering most of his pinky and ring finger and traveling past his wrist. His hair is so short now it’s barely a shadow on his pale head.
But those pale green eyes are the same. Cold and distant and assessing. Critical and disengaged.
Cruel.
“Your absence opened the door for him to consider others. He thought merging with another enterprise might expand our network. Not only guns, but drugs. People. Information.” I fight the roiling in my stomach at Ilya’s words.
I wonder, if I had gotten what I wanted as a teenager, would I have ever balked against my father’s operations, his evil greed?
I hate that I don’t know the answer. “So you see, my wife, you should not be concerned about where you are. Your only question should be how can I fix this, my husband.”
“I don’t—I thought you’d kill me if you ever found me,” I reply, honestly surprised that he’s presenting me with the option to redeem myself in his eyes.
My father always seemed so fond of him, I never imagined a world where my marriage to Ilya would be his anchor to our power.
And even with that being the case, I’m shocked Ilya’s pride would allow him to take me back, no matter the conditions.
“I may still,” he replies, still emotionless, like my life means less than nothing to him.
“But you could be more worthwhile to me alive. If I bring you home, Konstantin will be so grateful he will find me in favor again. And with our engagement still intact, perhaps he’ll have no choice but to name me his successor. ”
Ilya stands back up, a rueful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth when I flinch at his movement. He must be as desperate as I am, because his plan is fundamentally flawed.
“My father would never let a traitor back in his stronghold,” I say, knowing the truth of it deep in my bones.
He’s killed dozens, if not hundreds, for much lesser crimes.
My mother, a woman I believed he once truly loved, likely died because he no longer wanted to tolerate her discontent.
Being his daughter would not save me that wrath.
“A traitor?” Ilya asks, patronization soaking his tone.
“What a horrible misunderstanding. No, Alisa Zakharov was kidnapped by her uncle, who began working for one of our enemies when his sister tragically drowned. She was a victim of one of the families who dares challenge us. But I found her, and she is ever so grateful to be home.”
He is desperate. I may have been obedient, but it’s not like I kept my growing discontent a secret from my father, especially where Ilya is concerned.
And even if I played along with his story, my father is paranoid enough to demand evidence of its veracity.
We have many enemies, but it wouldn’t make sense for one of them to kidnap me for half a decade and not use it against him.