I try to scream. The sound dies muffled against fabric and the hand that tastes like leather. I kick backward, connecting with something solid enough that someone grunts, but the grip doesn’t loosen. Cold air hits my skin as we move outside, then I’m being shoved into a vehicle.
The engine starts before the door fully closes. Tires squeal. My shoulder slams against the wheel well as we take a corner too fast.
“Keep her still,” someone orders in accented English. Russian, maybe. “Boss wants her undamaged.”
Hands grab my arms, wrenching them behind my back. Zip ties cut into my wrists tight enough that I feel circulation restricting immediately. I thrash anyway, trying to wrench free, but there are too many of them and the hood disorienting me completely.
“Settle down.” The voice near my ear is calm, almost bored. “You fight, you get hurt. You stay still, you stay pretty. Simple choice.”
Terror spikes sharp and cold. These are Sartore’s men. They have to be. The precision, the timing, the fact that they’re keeping me alive instead of killing me immediately—this is Lorenzo retaliating for Felix’s protection.
I force myself to stop struggling, conserving energy and trying to think through the panic. Felix will notice I’m gone within minutes. Security will review footage, trace routes, mobilize response protocols we discussed during briefings I’ve been attending.
He’ll come for me.
The thought anchors me enough that breathing becomes possible again.
The drive lasts thirty minutes, maybe forty. Enough time to leave the city but not so long we’ve crossed state lines. When the van finally stops and the doors open, hands drag me out roughly. I stumble on the uneven ground, unable to catch myself with my arms restrained.
“Careful.” The same bored voice from earlier. “She’s worth more intact.”
They march me forward across what feels like gravel, then concrete. A door opens. Interior spaces echo differently—large, mostly empty. Warehouse, probably.
The hood is yanked off without warning. I blink against fluorescent lighting that’s too bright after the darkness, trying to orient myself.
Industrial warehouse interior, exactly as I suspected. Concrete floors, high ceilings with exposed ductwork, metal shelving units along the far wall. Four men surround me—all armed, all watching with the kind of professional detachment that suggests this is routine work for them.
One of them gestures toward a metal folding chair positioned in the center of the room. “Sit.”
I sit, mostly because standing on shaking legs feels impossible. My wrists throb where the zip ties cut into skin. Theshoulder I slammed against the wheel well aches with what’s probably going to be spectacular bruising.
“Comfortable?” The man who seems to be in charge circles around me slowly. He’s older than the others, maybe fifty, with the kind of weathered face that suggests decades in work that ages people prematurely.
I don’t answer.
He stops in front of me, studying my face with clinical interest. “You’re calmer than expected. Most civilians panic more.”
“I’m not most civilians.”
His mouth curves slightly. “No. You’re Felix Rudenko’s wife. That makes you specifically valuable.”
The confirmation that this is about Felix rather than random violence should probably comfort me.
Instead, it clarifies exactly how bad this situation is. I’m leverage now, a bargaining chip Sartore can use to destabilize Felix or extract concessions or prove he’s compromised beyond recovery.
“He won’t negotiate,” I say, testing.
“Won’t he?” The man gestures to one of his colleagues, who produces a digital camera. “Smile, Mrs. Rudenko. Your husband needs proof you’re still breathing.”
The flash blinds me temporarily. I blink away spots, aware that they’re sending Felix evidence I’m alive, and probably evidence I’m restrained, scared, and entirely at their mercy.
He’s going to lose his mind when he sees that photo.
The thought should worry me more than it does. Instead, I feel something almost like satisfaction. Felix claimed I was his in ways that transcended operational necessity. Now he gets to prove it.
They leave me restrained in the chair for hours. They keep tabs on me with surveillance—cameras positioned in corners, guards rotating in pairs, constant awareness that I’m being monitored for any sign of escape attempt or breakdown.
I don’t give them either.
