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WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?
“How long have we been here?” I ask, attempting an even tone.
There’s a slight pause. “Fifty-seven minutes.”
“Oh, God.”
His warm breath fans across the back of my neck. “What is wrong?”
Everything.
“We have to go… Now.” I grab his hand, ignoring the way it stiffens. I don’t care if he wants to be near me or not. He can ghost me later when we’re both safely in China.
“You are upset, yes?”
Yes, I’m upset. I’m mad. I’m ashamed. But most of all, I’m petrified.
“Mik, please…” Gripping his hand tighter, I drag him toward the door. Surprisingly, he follows without argument.
Until my phone springs to life again. Only this time, it’s ringing.
I try to mask the face on the screen, but Mik grabs it out of my hand, the muscles in his neck tightening.
“Why the hell is Ava Chernova calling a stripper?” Before I can craft a convincing lie, his phone buzzes. Muttering under his breath, he pulls a small black burner phone from inside his jacket. “Wait,” he commands.
“Old girlfriend?” I joke nervously.
“New detail,” he says, tapping the screen. “One I have been waiting for.” Antsy, I shift from foot to foot as he scans the text, his eyebrows bunching in confusion. Then every bit of color drains from his flushed cheeks. Holding both phones in a death grip, he lifts his head and stares at me. Hard. “Oh fuck.”
“What?”
“You…” he says, infusing the word with dark contempt. “You are Zasha Gaheris.”
There’s no use in denying it now. Besides, I have more important things to worry about than my unveiled identity.
I shrug. “I told you the name sounded familiar.”
He scowls at my quip. “You said your name was Bebe.”
“It is. Baby Bee. The initials are Bebe…” At the blank look on his face, I roll my eyes. “It’s my father’s nickname for me. You didn’t actually think I’d give you my real one, did you?”
At the mention of my father, Mik steps back, his hand diving into his unruly hair. “You are Niko’s daughter, and I just…” He glances back at the shackles hanging from the ceiling. “We just—” Facing me, he exhales a breath of finality. “He is going to kill me.”
I’m about to offer a worthless promise when a familiar voice shouts in perfect Russian, the sound carrying from the end of the hallway and through the door.
“YA naydu tebya i ub'yu, Zasha!”
I’m going to find you and then kill you, Zasha!
When it comes to Mama, those aren’t just idle words.
“We have to go,” I repeat.
“Are you insane? Ava Chernova is outside that door, and I am in here”—he glances down at our entwined hands—“cavorting with her daughter.”
“So what are you going to do? Hide in here until the cavalry arrives?”
He glares at me. “Do you have a better idea?”
