Page 5 of The Bratva’s Captive Flame

"And once he's yours," I say, "what stops you from turning into exactly what Solano was to him?" None of this sounds good. My father won't like it—to be yanked out of Spain and brought to Germany only to be in the same position he was there. I don't know if these people even speak Spanish. Papa’s English isn't that great.

"Think about it," he says, rising from his chair. He straightens his tie and looks down at me. "If you need anything, feel free to ask. I have a guard outside your room for now, and the doctor will be back to check on you soon."

I'm not sure how to take that. He hasn't removed the cuffs, and why do I need a guard? Am I just his prisoner now? Yeah, I put his drugs in the warehouse so they didn't get to him, but it isn't like I can pay for them or something. I have nothing but the clothes I came in with that are now God only knows where.

"Are you going to let me go?" I hiss, jerking at the cuff. My voice is getting stronger but my body is still in massive pain.

"I'll think about it," he says, winking, then he's gone and I'm left raging.

I don't know what I was thinking. Of course a drug dealer who buys meth from the Cartel isn't going to be a nice gentleman who runs to my rescue. I should never have come here. I should've gone to the police.

4

DEMIN

I've been sitting in my office for the better part of an hour, turning a glass between my fingers without drinking from it, thinking about the woman they pulled out of my crate last night. I keep coming back to the fact of her, curled up under the bricks where half my product should've been. She chose that over whatever she was running from in Spain.

People don't ship themselves in a box across the border on a whim. It's a move of desperation driven by circumstances so dire, there was no escape. It's very telling of how Javier Solano runs his business—such a contrast to the Family and how we handle things.

She's clearly ready to suffer a great deal to help her family get away from whatever hell Solano put them through, and the Roshin family is absolutely in the market for a chemist who can produce superior product. So I pick up the phone and call the one man who'll see this the same as I do.

Sebastian answers, and like normal, he sounds irritated to be interrupted from whatever he was doing. "Tell me it's good news," he grumbles.

"It's interesting news. I'll let you decide whether it's good." I set the glass down and lean back, peeking through the blinds across the lawn toward the drive. "The Spanish shipment came in last night. Five crates of product, holding as strong as the samples promised, and a sixth crate with a woman inside it instead of what I paid for."

"A woman," he says. "Alive?" His immediate answer reveals a lot. It's a surprise to both of us, but instead of sounding annoyed or angered, he sounds curious.

"Barely, when we found her. She pulled the product out to make room and rode the whole way. She's beat to hell, though." I turn the glass a few more times and give him the real punch. "She's the chemist's daughter, Sebastian. The old man who cooks for Solano." I let him add it up for himself because the picture should be very clear. He must be reeling over this. To get our hands on the Cartel's chemist means to cripple them and remove the middle man for ourselves. The money we'll make…

Sebastian lets out a low whistle, and I can practically see the calculating gleam entering his eyes even though I can't see him. "The daughter herself climbed into your shipment. That's bold as hell, Demin. Or stupid." He pauses for a second then says, "Either way, it's an opportunity we can't waste. You get her to talk, find out everything she knows about Solano's setup in Madrid. Then we use her to pull the old man out.

"Once he's with us, we apply the right kind of pressure—family loyalty, protection, whatever keeps him productive—and we cut Solano out entirely. No more middleman fees bleeding us dry."

His words align perfectly with the thoughts that've been circling in my head since Mishka carried her out of that crate. It confirms I'm on the right path here, that this unexpected complication could turn into one of the most profitable moves we've made in years. "Exactly what I was thinking. She's desperate enough to have done this to herself, which makes her the perfect leverage. I'll get what we need from her one way or another."

We exchange a few more details about the product quality and the missing half-crate before ending the call, and I sit there for another moment letting the plan solidify in my mind. Sometimes, a lightning strike isn't a bad thing, and in this case, I'm seeing the light.

Then I press the intercom button on my desk, saying, "Bring the girl in here. Now."

It doesn't take long before the door opens and Mishka guides her inside. She moves slowly, carrying the IV bag that she's been hooked to.

I gesture for him to sit her in the chair across from my desk, and he does so before stepping back to stand by the door. She's still in the loose clothes we put her in after the doctor treated her, but even with the day's rest, her bruises look worse today, deeper and more vivid, as if the full extent of the trauma from that brutal journey is only now blooming across her skin.

I study her for a long moment, watching as she sits there trying to hold herself straight despite the obvious discomfort. Her dark hair is still matted in places and her eyes carry that same defiant spark from last night even as exhaustion lingers in them. "Tell me everything you know about Solano's operation in Madrid," I tell her calmly. I'm no fool. This woman knows what the most evil man in all of Europe is like. I'm sure threats and screaming will do nothing but waste my energy. "The warehouses, the routes they use, who handles distribution, any weaknesses in their security—every detail you can remember. Start talking."

She crosses her arms over her chest as best she can, given the lingering pain, and meets my gaze without flinching. "I already told you what I needed. My father. That's why I'm here. I'm not your informant." That defiant streak is going to get her in trouble at some point, but I'll play nice for a while. Maybe the bruising has made her forget what sort of man I am.

"You're in no position to negotiate terms with me, Isabela. I can make this easy or I can make it impossible for you. Help me get your father out from under Solano, give me the intel I need to do it cleanly, and we both get what we want. Refuse, and I can always send you back to him with a nice note explaining exactly what you did—climbing into my crate, dumping half my product in that warehouse, trying to play both sides. You know better than anyone how the Cartel deals with betrayal."

Her eyes flash with anger at that, and though she's still hoarse and dehydrated, she spits out angrily, "You'd do that? After I came to you for help? You're no better than them."

She clams up then, pinching her lips together and turning her face away slightly. She refuses to meet my eyes anymore even as her hands clench into fists in her lap. I watch her carefully, seeing the way she's processing the threat and realizing how thoroughly she's trapped herself by making this journey. I lean back in my chair and continue pressing her.

"Isabela," I say patronizingly, "what sort of man did you think buys that much product? You had to know who I really am. So tell me about the main warehouse in Madrid. Where is it located? How many guards rotate during the night shift?"

Isabela remains silent for several seconds, staring at my desk, but I can see her shoulders tensing. Finally, she mutters, "I'm not giving you anything until you promise you'll help my father without turning him into your slave."

"Privileges are earned through cooperation," I reply calmly and then drum my fingers on my desk as I continue. "The compound… Describe the layout. Entrances, exits, where they store the finished product."