Page 38 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Chapter Fifteen - Serena

I wake to the smell of rust and motor oil, my head pounding from whatever they injected me with. The world comes back in fragments: the concrete floor and metal walls, the echo of voices speaking Russian somewhere in the distance.

My wrists ache. When I try to move them, plastic digs into skin, zip ties securing my hands behind the back of a cold metal chair. My legs are free but that hardly matters when I can barely keep my eyes open.

The warehouse—because that’s clearly what this is—stretches around me in industrial decay. High ceilings disappear into shadow, broken windows letting in slivers of streetlight that do nothing to warm the space. Stacked crates line the far wall, their contents unknown. The floor is stained with substances I don’t want to identify.

Two men stand near the entrance, smoking cigarettes and speaking in low tones. Neither pays me much attention now that I’m secured, which tells me they consider me handled. Contained.

I test the zip ties carefully, trying not to draw their attention. The plastic bites deeper with every subtle movement, and the chair itself is bolted to the floor. Whoever prepared this space knew what they were doing.

The clarity of that realization cuts through the lingering drug haze.

This isn’t improvised. They were ready for me—waiting at exactly the right location with restraints and a secure facility already prepared. Which means they’ve been planning this for longer than just tonight.

How long have they been watching the mansion? Studying guard rotations, waiting for the perfect opportunity?

How did they know I would run?

The questions circle uselessly while I struggle to focus through the headache still pounding behind my eyes. Time passes in unmeasured increments—could be twenty minutes, could be two hours. The men near the entrance change once, new guards replacing the old without comment.

No one speaks to me. No one checks the restraints or offers water or acknowledges my presence beyond occasional glances to confirm I’m still secured.

I’m cargo. A package delivered and waiting for the next stage of whatever plan brought me here.

The thought should terrify me more than it does, but exhaustion and residual sedative keep pulling me toward numb acceptance. This is real. This is happening. I escaped Pavel’s mansion and walked directly into something infinitely worse.

A door opens somewhere behind me, heavy metal scraping against concrete. Footsteps approach.

The guards straighten immediately, cigarettes extinguished, postures shifting to rigid attention.

Whoever just arrived commands authority that even armed men respect.

He circles into my line of sight slowly, taking his time, letting me see him in pieces before the full picture resolves. Tailored suit despite the industrial setting, graying hair slicked back with precision, a face that might have been handsome once before violence and cruelty carved lines into sharp features.

When he smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Mrs. Rudenko,” he greets in accented English, his tone almost pleasant. “I apologize for the accommodations. I’m afraid we weren’t expecting guests tonight.”

I don’t respond. Can’t trust my voice not to shake.

“My name is Anton Kravin.” He continues circling, studying me from different angles like I’m livestock at auction. “I run the organization that brought you here. Perhaps your husband has mentioned me?”

The Kravin Syndicate. The rivals Pavel has been pushing out of territory. The organization responsible for infiltrating his operation with the man I saw interrogated in the basement.

Recognition must show on my face because Kravin’s smile widens.

“Ah, so Pavel does discuss business at home. How domestic.” He stops in front of me, tilting his head. “Tell me, Mrs. Rudenko, are you happy in your marriage? You seemed quite eager to escape your husband’s protection tonight.”

“What do you want?” My voice comes out rougher than intended, throat dry from the sedative.

“Direct. I appreciate that.” Kravin pulls over another chair and sits, casual despite the circumstances. “What I want is quite simple. Your husband has been interfering with my operations for the past year. Undercutting my prices, pressuring my contacts, killing my men when they resist his expansion. The losses have been… significant.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on knees.

“Taking you seemed the most efficient method of teaching Pavel Rudenko that actions have consequences. Originally, I planned to make this very quick: kill you, send proof to your husband, watch him suffer the way I’ve suffered watching my organization bleed resources.”

My pulse spikes, fear finally cutting through the numbness.