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For a moment there's nothing but white and the taste of the gag, cotton and something chemical clinging to the back of my throat, then the room drags itself into focus around me.

I'm in some kind of abandoned building. Bare concrete, a high, damaged ceiling and gray morning light coming through a number of holes. It's freezing, and it stinks of old water and dead fish. I don't need anyone to tell me I'm down by the river, in one of those empty places where nobody comes and nobody would hear me.

There are three men in the room. Two of them stand by the door, talking in low tones. The third is crouched right in front of me, close enough to touch, one hand still on the knot he's just untied at the back of my head.

I check myself over. It's what I do all day, just never on myself.

My wrists are taped together in my lap and my ankles are taped to the chair. My head is throbbing on the left where one of them hit me, and I don't remember the drive here at all. I have no idea how long I've been gone, or whether Laszlo even knows yet. He probably doesn't. He pulled all the surveillance off me, so he has no way of knowing I've been taken.

I'm not even remotely scared because I'm too furious to be. I waited a year. A whole miserable year, and I finally went back to him last night. I thought I finally had it all. The trip coming up, a proper proposal, the stupid perfect happily ever after with my unhinged Laszlo Novak. But no, I had to be kidnapped instead. These idiots took me on my way to work. I could scream. Part of me wants to, just to see if any of them so much as flinches.

They didn't even search me properly. Barely a pat down, the assholes. They think a doctor won't be any trouble. They have no idea they're dealing with the wrong woman.

Because there's something in my chest pocket they missed. A small, familiar weight I clipped there myself at the end of a long shift and forgot to throw away, the way I do two or three times a week without thinking.

A scalpel.

He crouches in front of me like he has all day, and I look at him and think about how much I want to hurt him.

I think I'm starting to lose it, because all I feel is this loud, roaring need to take this man apart for what he's done to my morning, my plans, the rest of my life. I was supposed to be thinking about what I was going to pack right now. After work, I’d go home and eat and probably fuck my ex-husband senseless to make up for lost time. Instead, I'm sitting here tied to a chair.

"Comfortable?" He smirks, the son of a bitch. "No. I don't imagine so."

The first thing that throws me is his voice, and the fact that he doesn't have any accent at all. I was expecting the heavy Eastern European voices of the men who threw me in the van, but this one sounds homegrown American. He looks young and ordinary too, not the kind of man you'd link to any of this. For some reason that leaves me more disturbed than scared.

The thick accents and the big silent men, those I can read. This one is different. He's calm, polite and reasonable, so much it makes my skin crawl.

"May I have some water?" I ask, partly for my dry mouth, partly because the longer he's talking to me, the less panicky I feel. "Or is hospitality not part of the package?"

He smiles like I've said something charming. Then he stands, takes out his phone, and points the camera at my face, a little red light blinking on.

"Do me a favor," he says. "Smile. Tell the camera what a lovely husband you have."

"He's not my husband. We're divorced." I keep my voice flat. "So whatever you think you've got here, you've got it wrong."

"Manon Valmont. A respected surgeon. You take your coffee black, and you left home at eight-thirty-five this morning to go and do your job." He tilts the phone toward me. "I know exactly who you are, and I know exactly what you are to him, divorce or no divorce. Now smile for the camera."

“Okay. Give me a moment please?” I sound suitably chastised. I just have to keep playing the frightened woman, and that isn't hard. The young, educated mafia man with no accent seems to buy it as he turns around and takes a few paces away from me. As his back is to me, I lift my hands and twist them to work my fingers inside the pocket. Retrieving the blade, I return my tied hands to my lap.

"You don't know me." He returns to me, his stride leisurely, like he's got all the time in the world. "That's all right. Nobody does yet. My stepfather and brother have had business ties in this city for thirty years. And for the last decade and a half, your husband has burned our shipments, taken our routes, and murdered our men. They sat there and took it because they wanted to focus on running things back home, so they let him have it all." He stops. "But I was born here. I don't care about Ukraine, so I want what’s mine. I want it all. But first, somebody needs to teach your husband a lesson."

I keep my fingers still around the scalpel. I want to ask him what he did to my husband—my ex-husband—to warrant such treatment, but I don’t want to piss him off yet.

“A year ago I hired a man and gave him an assignment. To infiltrate Novak’s house and make it seem he was from Ferro’s. Getting the key was easy. Ferro’s money man, Patrick, sold it to me, along with the poor bastard it belonged to. He did the cutting himself and never once asked who was paying. I hear Novak put him in a box this week.” He shrugs. “Saves me the bother. Anyway, my man’s job was to leave a small souvenir for you. I heard Novak is a fool when it comes to his woman, so I figured he’d go apeshit. Unfortunately he still hasn’t figured out who. And now I’m tired of waiting. Your divorce threw a wrench in the works, then his funeral home went up in smoke—that wasn’t me, by the way. They haven’t caught the culprit yet.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “Such a waste of time.”

He shakes his head and stares at me. I bite on my bottom lip to keep myself from speaking. “He never found my man. He was so good I hired him full time. Blue's outside on the door right now. You walked past him on the way in."

He turns and starts to pace again. I press the edge of the scalpel to the tape at my wrists and start sawing, small movements, shoulders still. When he turns back, I keep going, my eyes on his face so he keeps watching mine instead of my hands.

"So let me get this straight," I say, because as long as he's listening to me, he's not looking down. "You took me and brought me to … what? A fish factory. To send a message to Laszlo." I laugh, and it comes out ugly. "Does your family even know you're doing this? You seem so young, like you’re just old enough to order a beer. Or is this the part where you prove you're not the disappointment they think you are?"

That gets him. Something moves behind his eyes, so I keep my mouth running.

"That's it, isn't it. They have no trust in you. Don’t think you’re capable of this business. Granted, it’s not for the faint of heart. So now you're going to take Laszlo's wife and hope Daddy finally claps and pats you on the back."

"You think you're the first to try that on me." Crouching in front of me again, he grabs my chin and turns my face toward the little red light. "He'll come for you. He already thinks he knows where. My men are standing in an empty yard on the other side of the city right now, with a surprise waiting for him."

The tape finally gives. I grind my teeth. He thinks he can outsmart Laszlo. I don't believe he can pull that off in any manner, but I'm still afraid. I don't want him to die before we get the chance to start over.