"You're going to be my guest," he says, his voice calm and measured. Like he's inviting me to dinner instead of holding me prisoner. "You'll stay here, in my estate, until you decide to give me the answers I need."
Guest. Right. Because guests are usually tied to chairs and interrogated for hours.
He grasps my upper arms, his grip firm but not painful, and pulls me to my feet. My legs nearly buckle beneath me. I've been sitting for so long that they've gone stiff, and the muscles protest as I try to support my weight. He steadies me, waiting until I find my balance before he starts leading me toward the door.
I try to jerk away from his hold. It's instinctive, automatic, even though I know how useless it is. His fingers tighten around my arms, not enough to hurt but enough to make it clear I'm not going anywhere he doesn't want me to go.
And even if I did manage to break free, the beast is right there. He's been standing guard by the door this whole time, silent and watchful, and I know without a doubt that he'd grab me before I took two steps. In the car, I heard the man I stabbed call the beast Matvey. At least I have one name.
I let myself be led out of the interrogation room, my wet clothes clinging to my skin and making me shiver. The hallway beyond is dimly lit, with concrete walls and floors that echo with eachstep. We're in a basement, I realize. Underground, where no one would hear me scream.
We reach a staircase, and I climb it on shaking legs. My captor keeps his hand on my arm the entire time, guiding me upward. The beast follows behind us, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. I'm trapped between them, sandwiched between two men who could overpower me without breaking a sweat.
At the top of the stairs, everything changes. The concrete gives way to marble floors and expensive rugs. The walls are painted in warm tones, decorated with artwork that probably costs more than I've made in my entire life. Crystal chandeliers hang from high ceilings, casting soft light over everything.
This isn't just a house. It's an estate, the kind of place that screams wealth and power.
We walk down one hallway, then another. I try to memorize the route, counting doors and noting turns, but my exhausted brain struggles to keep track. Left, then right, then another left. Or was it two rights? Everything starts to blur together.
Finally, we stop in front of a door. My captor releases one of my arms to pull a set of keys from his pocket. The metal jingles as he sorts through them, finding the right one. He unlocks the door with a soft click, then pushes it open.
Before I can even process what's happening, he's shoving me inside. Not roughly, but firmly enough that I stumble forward a few steps. I spin around, ready to fight, ready to beg, ready to do whatever it takes to get out of this.
But he's already closing the door.
The lock engages with a finality that makes my stomach drop. I'm alone.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door and listening to the sound of footsteps retreating down the hallway. When the silence becomes absolute, I finally turn to look at my prison.
And I'm stunned by what I see.
It's not a cell. It's not some dark, dingy room with a cot and a bucket. It's a bedroom. A beautiful bedroom.
The bed is huge, easily king-sized, with a plush comforter in deep burgundy and more pillows than any one person could possibly need. There's a dresser against one wall, an armchair by the window, and a door that I assume leads to a bathroom. The walls are painted a soft cream color, and there are paintings hanging in elegant frames. A thick rug covers most of the hardwood floor, and everything looks expensive. Luxurious.
But then I notice the bars on the windows. Thick metal bars that would be impossible to break or bend. And when I look closer at the door, I see the security system. A keypad mounted is on the wall beside it, with a small red light blinking steadily. The kind of system you'd find in a museum protecting priceless artifacts.
Or in a prison protecting valuable prisoners.
I walk to the window, my wet shoes squelching with each step, and look out through the bars. It's dark outside, but I can make out the shapes of trees and manicured lawns. The estate stretches out in all directions, surrounded by high walls topped with what looks like razor wire. Even if I could somehow get through the bars, I'd never make it over those walls.
I'm trapped. Completely and utterly trapped.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my body finally giving in to the exhaustion. My clothes are still soaked from the water they poured over me during the interrogation, and I'm shivering despite the warmth of the room. My wrists ache where the zip ties cut into them, and my throat is raw from screaming.
How did I let this happen? How could I be so careless?
The man who found me, the one I stabbed, he's Bratva. I'm certain of it. Everything about him screams organized crime. The way he carries himself, the expensive clothes, the casual violence. And this estate, with its security systems and underground interrogation rooms, this is the home of someone powerful.
A boss, maybe. Or maybe he interrogated me first, and the Pakhan will be visiting me soon. Maybe the real torture hasn't even started yet.
My stomach twists at the thought. I've heard stories about what the Bratva does to traitors and their families. The creative ways they extract information. The things they do to make examples of people who cross them.
Is that what's going to happen to me? Will they hurt me until I tell them what they want to know? And when I can't tell them anything because I genuinely don't know where my father is or what happened to their precious heirlooms, will they kill me?
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop the shivering. I need to think. Need to come up with a plan. But my mind feels sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion and fear.
Fighting them didn't work. I tried that in the alley, and all it got me was overpowered and tied up. I tried it again in the car, and they just restrained me tighter. Physical resistance is useless against men like these. They're too strong, too experienced, and too prepared for that kind of response.
