HAILEY
Iawaken disoriented and alone.
The room is not mine. No sunlight streams past the cheap curtain. Blackout shades keep out every scrap of daylight. It could be midnight or midday, and I wouldn’t be able to tell. My stomach’s growl indicates it has to be near noon. Not an unusually late hour for me to sleep until after a long shift at the bar.
I sit up in the unfamiliar bed with my borrowed black T-shirt twisted around my waist. I can’t believe I slept like this. I can’t believe I slept sowell.
The bedroom door is cracked slightly. Radio sounds drift through the gap. I swing my legs over the bed and peek through, only to find three men gathered in the kitchen, speaking in low tones. The radio program seems to be in Russian, playing from one of the men’s phones. Two are dressed in full suits as if they’re headed to office jobs on Wall Street. The third is Rafail. He alone wears black jeans and no shirt. I inhale sharply at the sight of the tattoos covering his back and shoulders. He’s…cooking?
Preparing to, anyway.
There’s no way I’m stepping foot outside this room in a T-shirt and no panties. I’m embarrassed that I slept like this. Alone at home, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but I slept in what is apparently my kidnapper’s only shirt. How…gentlemanly, in a weird way, of him to give it to me.
I’m pretty sure he’s trying to win me over, despite the whole abduction thing. He can’t force me to say yes at the altar. That will be my escape route, then. All I have to do is ride this out until we get to wherever it is we’re supposed to get married, and turn him down. Then he’ll have to let me go.
Or kill me.
That’s a risk I’m willing to take. What kind of life would it be, married to a mafia boss? Not one I ever wanted, that’s for sure.
In the bathroom, I find a bag of brand-new personal toiletries. A white box with my name on it contains fancy makeup. Really nice stuff. The kind I’d never waste money on buying for myself. There are even two hairbrushes, one that would turn my curls into staticky frizz, and one that will do a decent job of untangling them without turning my hair into a fuzzy halo.
Thoughtful.
I avail myself of the basics and go searching through the drawers again in hopes of finding clothes. Jackpot. Someone, presumably Rafail, washed my bar uniform from last night and put it back for me to wear. Not entirely sure how I feel about him doing my laundry, but what else am I supposed to wear?
I omit the tank top and stick with wearing his T-shirt, which provides more coverage. Besides, I prefer the view of him without clothes on from the waist up.
Not that I plan to tell him that. The man has more than enough ego already. He doesn’t need me stroking it. Unsure what else to do, I edge out of the bedroom and into the mainliving area of this apparently rented apartment. The place is too barren and devoid of personal touches to be a home.
The instant I step out into the open, it’s as if a record scratched. The men’s conversation stops abruptly. Only the radio continues playing in the strained and awkward silence.
“Leave,” Rafail says to the men. They scrape their chairs away from the table and depart without hesitation. I’m not sure whether it’s better or worse to have them gone. I kind of miss the Russian radio, honestly, even though I didn’t understand a word. This place is too quiet.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks mildly once the men are gone.
“Fine. You?” For once, I can’t think of a smart comeback. Instead, I fill the silence with mindless babble. “You know, I had the weirdest dream that I was kidnapped by the bratva, and told I had to marry the mafia boss, or else. I was seriously hoping that I would wake up in my own bed at home.” Feigning confidence despite keeping my distance from him, I mosey into the kitchen to inspect what he’s doing. “You cook?”
“You sound surprised.” A metal whisk scrapes against the sides of a mixing bowl, oddly soothing. I pluck a sliced strawberry from a bowl and pop it into my mouth.
“A guy who looks like you, doing that, is definitely a conundrum.”
His mouth quirks up at the corner. “Using your college vocabulary, I see.”
“You’re the one who talks like he was educated at some fancy private school. I only had one year at West Cali High.” After that, it was back to public schools for me, including my one semester at college.
He huffs quietly and sets the bowl aside, placing a clean towel over the top.
“What are you doing?” Curiosity gets the better of me.
“Making you breakfast. Blini. Pancakes.”
“I mean, why did you set it aside?”
“The batter needs to rest,printsesa.” Lest I forget what he is, Rafail abandons the spread of sliced fruit, soft cheese, and ground meat. He turns to the table and begins inspecting the six—six!—handguns placed in a neat row. They all look menacing and powerful.
“You’re not going to shoot me?” My voice pitches embarrassingly upward to end on a squeak.
“Only if you refuse me at the altar tomorrow morning.”
