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Footsteps. More voices. I strain to understand what they’re saying before I realize they aren’t speaking English.
I draw my legs to my chest, trying to cover myself as much as I can as a man stops in front of my cell. He’s tall, nearly taller than the cell door, and almost as broad, too. His dark eyes crawl over my skin. Then his beefy hand reaches through the bars. I flinch, expecting him to unlock the latch and venture inside. The only thing worse than being trapped in this room would be being trapped in this room with him.
But he doesn’t touch the lock.
Tucked into his massive hand is a small glass of water. It looks like a toddler’s sippy cup compared to his thick fingers.
“Drink,” he barks in a thick Russian accent.
I keep my knees to my chest and lean forward to grab the cup, but he pulls it back out of reach. A sick smile twists his mouth.
They aren’t going to let me die with dignity.
I want to refuse the cup on principle and stay seated on the bed, but every cell in me is screaming for even a drop of water.
So I uncurl myself, stand up, and reach for the cup.
Again, he pulls it back, his eyes lingering on my bare breasts.
More goosebumps spread across my skin that have nothing to do with the cold. My stomach flips like I’m going to be sick, but I force myself to stand still. To meet his gaze. When I lift my chin, looking directly into his dark eyes—that’s when he finally hands me the glass.
The moment the cup is in my hands, I no longer give a fuck about dignity. Water. I need water. So I drain the glass in one swallow. My tongue swirls around the lip, absorbing every drop.
“More,” I beg, holding the cup out to him. “I need more. Please.”
My legs are so shaky that I fall to the floor and my knees crack against the frigid cement. I feel the vibration in my skull.
The man curls his lip like he’s disgusted. But he isn’t disgusted with himself or what his boss has done to me—he’s disgusted with me for begging.
If I wasn’t so scared for my baby, maybe I’d be disgusted with myself, too. But I’ll do anything for my baby. Whatever it takes to get out of here, I’ll do it.
The man leaves without another word. The show is over…
For now.
Once I’m sure the cup is drained of every last drop of water, I crawl back to the mattress. It’s thin and stained, but it’s better than the floor. I curl up on my side and resume my shivering. Sleep comes to me in fits and starts. In those scant seconds, I dream of Yakov.
He isn’t angry in my dreams. Not like the last time I saw him. He’s smiling and tender. He cradles me against his chest and wraps his hands around my stomach. In my dreams, he knows about our baby.
If I don’t get out of here, dreams will be the only place where he knows. The only place where we can be together.
I close my eyes and try to stay there.
2
YAKOV
It’s been an hour since my brother bled out on the sidewalk and the man who killed him is laughing outside of a club.
The asshole has a big grin on his face as he holds up two fingers and mimes pulling a trigger. The trigger. The one that sent a bullet searing through my brother’s chest.
He’s retelling the tale like it’s the world’s greatest fishing story. He thinks he bagged a big one.
He has no idea what’s waiting for him.
It was easy enough to find him. I drove around to Akim’s clubs until I saw the black car. Then I looked for the scar. The raised white twist of skin that runs from his temple to his jawline. If I had a memorable marking like that, I’d wear a ski mask before I go around murdering people.
It doesn’t matter now. That scar is going to look like a beauty mark when I’m through with him.
