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Hours later, as we drove to the old warehouse near the waterfront where Celia was being held, I was on an adrenaline high and thought how good it felt just to act. After being in cells for a week, I realized action was in my blood – planning and executing operations. I felt best when on a mission, however dangerous it might be, for it meant I was doing something, creating my own reality, rather than sitting by passively letting events simply happen. I had decided, after Sean's death, that I would never again allow other people to determine my fate.
As the buildings whizzed by, I realized that Celia had become too important to me, and that there was no way she could stay in Boston any longer. Until Sergei was gone, Celia was too much of a risk in my dealings with the Boston mob. My wanting
her was a whole other matter – a distraction from the bigger goal – requiring more self-control on my part. My desire for her would have to be kept in tight check. Desiring anything outside the mission too much was a liability.
If you desire nothing beyond the mission, nothing else matters. The only thing that really mattered to me was vengeance. I tried to keep Celia restricted to a small corner of my thoughts, meant for physical gratification alone. A good sweet fuck on my way to revenge.
Only I was finding it more difficult than I anticipated. She occupied too much of my mental life. Her closeness to me made her dangerous and made it even more of a necessity to for her to leave and start a new life somewhere else. I didn’t want that, but I would have to make that sacrifice. I'd pick her up, take her to the FBI, and demand they gave her a new identity somewhere beyond the reach of the Romanov brothers. The thought of losing her after I'd had her to myself for the past few weeks was upsetting, but it was necessary to get her out of the equation.
Once she was gone, there would be nothing left but taking down Sergei Romanov.
Chapter 9
Celia
When I woke up, I tasted blood.
I lay on the hard concrete floor in a dark room. It was nothing more than a cell with bars on the walls. The only light filtered in from a tiny window near the ceiling.
A basement. I had no idea where.
When Sergei came at me with every intent to rape me, I fought back. I always fought back, even when Spencer threatened me. It just wasn't in me to let someone hurt me or humiliate me without resisting. That resistance probably brought me more punishment and pain, but at least my pride was intact.
Sergei was so much bigger than me that my resistance only brought on more anger, but whatever he did when I was unconscious was lost to me. For that I was glad, although the ache between my thighs and in my rear suggested it hadn't been gentle.
The last thing I remembered was fighting him, and the feel of his skin beneath my nails when I raked them over his face. I kicked him, I hit him, and finally, when he was unable to control me, he hit me, breaking my nose, the blood running down over my lips and chin. That was the last thing I remembered clearly. The rest was blurred images, sensations, sounds.
Whatever he did to me, whoever he let do things to me, I didn’t remember much of any of it. Thankfully. I remembered waking while lying face down with Sergei – or someone else – grunting over me. When I cried out, he pressed my face against the floor.
"Zakro´y svoy rot, su´ka!" Shut your mouth, bitch!
I had fallen back into unconsciousness as pain overtook me once more.
Now, I lay on my side and licked my lips, tasting coppery blood. I ran my tongue over my teeth and was glad that they were all still intact, at least. My lip had been cut, though, and was swelling, the flesh raw. Nothing else seemed broken, so I'd gotten off lightly.
The door opened, and light flooded into the room, illuminating it for the first time since I arrived there. It was filthy, with a rotting mattress on a platform, stained from who knew what. I didn’t want to think.
A man stood in the doorway, his face hidden in shadow.
Now what?
More rape? More pain?
"Get up."
I struggled up to a sitting position and hid my eyes from the painful light. A man came into the cell and I closed my eyes, waiting for whatever hell he was going to administer, but he only slipped his hand under my arm and lifted me, pulling me to a standing position. I wobbled on my feet, dizzy, my muscles aching.
"Your boyfriend is coming to rescue you," the man said with a chuckle. "Too bad. I could use you in one of my brothels. Some men like to fight with a woman before they fuck her. I get extra money for ones like you. He's going to have to pay a lot to get you back."
He dragged me out of the room and up a set of stairs. We entered a warehouse with brick walls, duct work, and hardwood floors. Shelves of boxes filled the space. It looked like some kind of storage unit. He threw me back down and I landed on my knees, my hands preventing me from hitting my face, but only just.
"Take her," he said to another man who stood a few feet away. I glanced up and took him in. Younger, dark haired, goatee. Prominent tattoos on his face and neck and wrists.
Bratva. Vor. The Brotherhood of Thieves. I'd read those terms before – the Russian mafia in the U.S.
"Should we clean her up first?"
"No," the man said. "Let him see what happens to his women when he crosses me."
