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I lick my lips slowly and debate what I’m about to say, but I’ve decided to go full-on apeshit. I’ll look crazy, but I really don’t give a damn.
“If you don’t figure out when we’re on the next flight out of here, I’m going to hurt myself and tell Ruslan you didn’t protect me. I’ll tell him it’s all your fault, and he’ll believe me because he’s fucking obsessed with me. He’s like a kid, and I’m his favorite toy to play with. I’m tired of the lack of progress you’re telling me, Danill, so get with the program or get your ass fired.”
Very calmly, Danill replies like nothing I’ve said phases him. “If you think getting fired is what will happen to me, you’re really out of your mind.”
“Great, then you value your life. When are we all leaving?” I raise both of my brows, trying to show Danill I’m not giving up.
“We all?” Danill questions.
“Yeah, I’m bringing her with me.” I point back to Emily, who’s slowly coming down the sidewalk.
“No.”
“I’m not asking for permission. She’s coming too. She can keep an eye on me while you go out and bust your ass finding Ruslan. She’ll keep me out of trouble.” I smile at the end, trying to be a bit more convincing, but Danill doesn’t buy it.
“Yeah, right,” he says sarcastically.
“Nothing is keeping us Stateside, Danill. We’re leaving. So do whatever you have to do to make sure we leave tonight. I’m not going to stay here while Ruslan could be hurt and need our help. And don’t you dare tell me you haven’t thought the worst. Obviously, nothing is okay. If it were okay, he’d be back by now. So save me the lecture and let’s go find him.”
Danill looks into my eyes and swallows. I know he wants to fight against me, to push back, but at the end of the day, I know he’s worried about his friend slash boss. I’m worried, too, and the sooner we get this flight organized, the sooner we can leave. Hopefully, it’ll mean we’ll find Ruslan quicker too. I just pray he’s still alive.
He’s the only man who’s ever made me feel worthy, and I don’t want to lose that yet.
Chapter Four
Ruslan
Two Weeks Later
It’s been two weeks since I had surgery. I know this because I’ve been staring out of the narrow window at the top of my room. Over my time here, I’ve discovered more small details. For example, it’s made of cinderblock, yes, but there are cracks near the bottom of the structure. When it’s very windy out, there’s a draft that comes through the room.
The old man comes to visit me at least once a day, and it’s usually when he brings me some pathetic excuse for a meal. He likes to taunt me with what the food was before he blended it up and made it into a porridge-like substance. Whenever he can, he makes sure I know this is what traitors get. I found it laughable at first how he calls me a traitor, but now I’m just so damned annoyed by it all.
He has the nerve to call me a traitor. It’s pathetic, really. What he needs to do is look in the mirror. Anzor isn’t an Umarova. He has no claim to the power my name holds. None!
The distinctive smell of cigar smoke wafts through the air, and I realize it must be that time of day. I wonder what type of food he’ll have for me today. Blended livers, perhaps? I figure he probably gives me the things his dogs don’t eat. The old man’s told me how much he despises me. He also never fails to tell me I’m still alive because he was instructed not to kill me.
I’m still strapped down to the bed at my wrists and ankles, so I can’t move even if I wanted to. Sure enough, the door leading to my room creaks, and he fills the doorframe. In his left hand, he’s holding a bowl with a spoon. This is a first. Normally there’s a straw. “You look extra aggravated today, Ruslan.”
“Well, you chopped off one of my fingers and torture me every day. I’m not exactly glad to see you, old man.” I still don’t know his name, even with as much time as I’ve been here.
The old man smiles sinisterly and digs into his right pocket, pulling out the cigar cutter he used to amputate my finger. “Why, because of this little thing?” The little thing he uses every day to open my wound. He has his questionable doctors close the wound back up, then he cuts it open again, and it repeats back and forth. I doubt whether it’ll ever stop. I could see it continuing for however long I am here.
Every few days, he goes to another finger and cuts it but doesn’t amputate it. He really doesn’t care if things aren’t healed or not. I think he’s betting on the fact some sort of infection will kill me, and then he won’t be “responsible” for my death.
“How long will you keep me in this fucking place?” I haven’t asked him this question since he amputated my finger. On that day after the amputation, I did, but I’ve learned not to speak to this man. He will use whatever I say as a way to punish me further, so I should expect some sort of pain or possibly lose another finger.
The old man sets the bowl on my lap and then tilts it over, definitely on purpose. “Oh, would you look at that? Tsk. I don’t have anything else to give you.”
I should know by now not to let anyone further aggravate me, but it’s growing more difficult by the day. This man does whatever he can within his power to make my time here insufferable. Now he’s taken my one meal a day away from me, and I already feel so weak. Over the last couple of weeks, I know I’ve lost weight. My once-muscular arms are anything but that these days. I’ve been strapped down to this bed so long that my ass fucking hurts. It’s so bad I’m sure I have sores on my bottom or behind my thighs.
“You’re a vile piece of shit,” I tell the old man, and he cranes his neck to look at me. If I was the type of man who became intimidated easily, I’d say right about now is the time chills would run down my spine, and my stomach would be in knots. But I’m not. All I want to do is get out of these damn bindings and beat him bloody.
He swipes the bowl from my lap and tosses it to the other side of the room. It cracks against the cinderblock and busts into many pieces.
Footsteps head in our direction, and the door to the room is shoved open. “Boss, you good?”
The old man turns and looks at the man now occupying the doorway. “Yes, this idiot threw his food at the wall. Stupid of him, no?”
