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BIANKA
It all happened so fast. It keeps playing through my mind over and over again. The sound of shattering glass that caught me so off guard. The sheer terror at having men unexpectedly pour through the window of the event center’s bathroom.
They were on Ellie and me in an instant, their sheer muscle mass overwhelming my attempt to call out to Cassio as one burly brute clamped a hand over my face, practically suffocating me.
Ellie’s bloodcurdling scream before they covered her mouth nearly stopped my heart. And then I was airborne as the men carted us both through the window and into the frigid air as if we weighed nothing.
The intense fear had me fighting tooth and nail for our very survival. I put every ounce of strength and energy into resisting. As if to mock my efforts, my dress snagged on the broken window, thwarting my captor better than any of my fruitless attempts.
The sound of ripping fabric echoed in my ears, mimicking my sliver of hope as it shredded when the man pulled me the rest of the way out of the building, leaving a good portion of my dress behind. After that, all I could focus on was causing as much pain as possible in the hopes that I might break free.
My eyes fall on poor Ellie as I shake the horrid recollection from my mind, coming back to the present. Ellie seems to have lost all hope as she cries silently in the seat across from me, her body limp with resignation. With our hands tied before us with our bodies firmly bound to the soft white leather of the private jet, I can’t say I blame her.
All of my attempts at escape have proven entirely useless. They even took my best weapon–my green rhinestone Louboutin stilettos–from me. And all I’ve received for my efforts is a split lip and a throbbing cheek, delivered by the giant brute whose shins I targeted on the way to the plane.
Now that the jet is in the air, I see no point in fighting. Even if I did manage to break free, I would have no way to make it back home. Not until we reach our destination. So instead, I watch and listen to the brief exchanges around me.
Though the men take their masks off as soon as we’re airborne, that does little to help me. I don’t recognize any of them in the slightest. And none of them seem familiar with me.
I know enough Russian to recognize a little of what our captors are saying, though I’m not fluent in it like Ilya. I didn’t grow up with our father speaking his native language to me. But I did spend years living with Ilya and eavesdropping on his private conversations with his men.
Not to mention Artem–my favorite of his captains who was murdered brutally in a clan war–was always willing to teach me a bit here and there. My heart twinges recalling the handsome captain who always had a smile for me. Fear quickly follows as I wonder if I might not have found myself in the same precarious situation where I might lose my head. Literally.
Not long into the flight, a mild argument seems to break out as the one who carried me to the plane reveals his bruised and bloodied shins from where I kicked him mercilessly. I would smile with pride over my accomplishment if I weren’t terrified about just what he might do to me.
“Blya pizda,” he spits, calling me a fucking cunt in Russian as he throws me a dirty look before continuing on to say they should have taken their chances and left me behind. That I’m probably not worth anything.
Several of his compatriots laugh, mocking the beast of a man for being a baby and letting a little girl get the better of him.
“No, ” one man says, his Russian issuing forth with such command he faintly reminds me of my brother. “We couldn’t be sure which is the Popov girl. We need them both until we can confirm her identity.”
He must be the man in charge. The way the other men fall silent at his word all but confirms it. But more than helping me identify the leader, his comment gives me a deeper insight into our kidnapping.
I glance sidelong at Ellie as I realize it’s entirely my fault she’s here with me. She looks enough like me–even more so tonight, after our extensive efforts to swap identities–that they couldn’t tell us apart, so they grabbed us both. But they want me.
Knowing they’re Russian makes me wonder if this might not have something to do with Ilya, and that terrifies me. Since I don’t recognize these men, they’re not Ilya’s sent to punish me because he found out I’m seeing Cassio in secret. Which means that if this has to do with my brother, I’m most likely looking at an enemy Bratva who took me to use against him.
Icy fear clogs my veins, and my brain fights to reject the possibility. The Shulaya have had peace for almost a year now. Ever since Ilya was gunned down in the street and the Marchetti family annihilated the small faction of remaining rivals that dared cross boundary lines into their territory.
So who are these people, and what do they want with me?
Learning my brother was shot and nearly killed was the single worst moment of my life, and it terrifies me to think I could be in the hands of people like that. I don’t want to die just to send my brother a message, and I certainly don’t want him to get killed because of me.
The plane falls eerily silent as we continue on toward our destiny. I wish I could say something to comfort Ellie, tied to the chair across from me. But I can’t think of anything that won’t sound like a blatant lie. And that’s the last thing she needs right now.
At least we’re in plain sight of each other, so I can see she’s unharmed. But the way she shivers tells me she’s far from okay. Come to think of it, my own skin is growing painfully cold now that I’m not struggling so violently.
We’re both dressed in sleeveless outfits with plenty of exposed skin, and our captors don’t seem the least bit concerned about finding either of us a coat. I glance down at my ruined dress, which is missing a large sliver of the skirt, making it painfully more revealing.
One man rises catlike from his seat and makes his way to the door at the back of the plane. Glass clinks, and a moment later, he returns with two bottles of wine, which he holds aloft.
“What do you say, fellas?” he asks in his native tongue. “Shall we celebrate our success with a nice drink?”
“Not the wine,” the boss commands. “That’s forher. And you know she won’t take kindly to you helping yourself to her store.”
My ear perks up at the mention of a woman. Whosheis, I have no clue, but I’m intrigued.
“There’s vodka in the fridge if you want a drink. But just one shot. I don’t want anyone drunk by the time we land.”
