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My body goes into fight or flight mode, so I thrash in a desperate attempt to get away, but it doesn’t work. As I try to move, the pain gets worse, and the tugging sensation grows more intense. My screams drown everything else out, and I close my eyes, trying, praying, in fact, for this all to be over.
Out of nowhere, a pair of hands press on my chest, and there’s an impact against the side of my cheek. “Shut the fuck up, you stupid idiot!” a man’s voice I don’t recognize tells me.
“Fuck, he’s being too loud. We need to kill him and stop this madness,” another man speaks up.
“We can’t kill him. You know this, so why do you speak like you don’t?”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect him to be this much of a fucking problem. Why did we even agree to this? We didn’t get paid enough for this shit, boss,” the man who suggested they kill me says.
“Of course, he’d be a fucking problem! He’s an Umarova, for fuck’s sake. Yes, our options are limited, but we will deal with him to the best of our ability, just as we deal with all the others,” the original man tells the other, and for a moment, there’s silence.
I find myself focusing on what they’re saying, trying not to think about the pain that isn’t ceasing. Nausea courses through me, and the tugging sensation continues. It gets worse by the moment, and I begin thrashing again. It’s a natural response. I have to keep moving. My heart thuds inside my chest, pounding so intensely that I feel it in the center of my head. Fuck, when will this stop?
All of a sudden, a crashing sound overrides all the other noises in the room. “What the fuck is wrong with you all?! We have a job to do, and thus we will do it! Anzor entrusted us to do this for him, and we won’t fail to do as he’s asked. If we do, I’m sure you all can figure out what he will do to us.” This is the old man’s voice from the shack. No one says a thing after he speaks. I’m sure they’re all processing what he said, but so am I.
I suspected my stepfather had something to do with this, but I got it straight from the horse’s mouth. The confirmation I was so desperately seeking. That bastard did this.
He fucking did this.
I open my eyes for a moment, and the old man’s peering over me, holding a syringe. “This should get you to shut up for a while.” I’m stuck in the neck again, and a few moments later, darkness surrounds me.
***
I wake up in so much pain I vomit. I’m strapped down to the bed at my wrists and my ankles, but I have enough room to throw up over the side of the bed and not on my sheets. My head pounds, and I highly doubt they gave me any painkillers. The same agony I felt hours ago courses through me in waves, mainly focused in the center of my stomach.
The room I’m in isn’t anything spectacular. It looks like it’s cinderblock, and the floor is cement. I bring my right hand up as high as I can get it, and I attempt to bend. My stomach curls, and the pain only grows worse, but I don’t care. I have to try to get out of here, even if I feel like I’m dying in the process.
The door to the room opens, and the old man presents himself once again. He runs a hand along his brittle beard and shakes his head. “I thought maybe you’d learn after the first time, but alas, you have not.”
“What can I say? I’m a stubborn bastard,” my voice comes out in a crackling tone.
“No, foolish is what you are. You’ve been stabbed, and during surgery, you tried to escape. You could’ve bled out on the table, and now, here you are, trying to get out when we both know you won’t make it very far.”
“Maybe, maybe not. At least I’ll have tried,” I snap, anger evident in my voice. He has no idea what it’s like to be in this fucking place. My stepfather broke every code our family had. He’s no longer my family. He’s public enemy number one.
“It’ll only cause you more pain if you work against us.” Like I have a choice? I know how this works. If I don’t try to get out of here, I’ll be tortured and eventually killed. Sure, they might not want to kill me yet, but there will be a time when they get the green light, and I’m not planning on sticking around long enough for that.
“What does it matter? All I know is pain,” I roar at him at the top of my lungs. I don’t care about typical pleasantries like respect or manners. “How much is he fucking paying you? I bet it’s fickle because his pockets don’t run deep.”
“It was enough to secure the job,” the old man tells me, his eyes trained on mine. He’s a tough, old type, and our roles aside, I admire that in a man. It’s hard to find people like this. People who will never stray from the task at hand.
“Anzor has nothing. Everything he does have is mine. It’s the Umarova family’s, and Anzor is not an Umarova, even if he tries so desperately to pretend to be one. So it seems I’ve paid you to do this to me, not him,” I laugh because this is laughable. My stepfather is technically using my family’s money, and I know it. He’s been doing it for years, and I should’ve had his cards shut off when I threatened him. Looking back now, I would’ve done things so much differently.
“I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do. It’s sneaky, like a snake,” the old man tells me.
“No, it’s the damn truth. You don’t like it because you know I’m fucking right,” I hiss.
The old man pulls out a cigar from his suit jacket and pulls out the cutter for the cigar. He cuts the tip off at the end and lights it, then takes a few puffs. There’s a dense silence between us, and he approaches me. Every step is calculated, and he comes within reach. The old man slides the cigar cutter over my left middle finger and closes it without hesitation.
“The thing is, Ruslan Umarova, I am not loyal to you, and I never will be.”
Chapter Three
Amelia
It’s been three days since I called Danill and gave him literal hell. I wish it were enough, but I haven’t heard a damn thing from him. I’ve seen him parked outside my apartment complex, though. He’s here every day, and when I drive to work at Illusion, he’s behind me in the blacked-out SUV. Ruslan told him to keep an eye on me, and Ruslan doing that makes me feel like I must be special to him. Then again, I might not be special at all. It could simply be because of everything that happened at Illusion.
I walk over to my coffee pot, grab it, place it under the faucet, and fill it up to the eight-cup mark. I could kill this whole pot myself if I wanted, but I’ve really been trying to cut back. The extra caffeine makes me a bit more jittery, and I’m not trying to be overly stressed. I tilt the pot over the water tank and slowly pour it in, careful not to spill any water on the counter. As I proceed to get a clean filter and put coffee grounds in the top, all I can think about is Ruslan.
