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Hushed whispering. Female. Then, clipped deep words. Angry. Male. The arms clench, drawing me even closer. A pinch on the back of my hand. A slight pain. More words. Arguing. The language seems vaguely familiar. It’s not Spanish. Not English either. The truck was supposed to go to the Italians, but it’s not Italian I’m hearing, not even close.
“Idi na khuy, Albert!” a deep male voice snaps next to my ear.
My blood runs cold. How the hell did I end up with the Russians? My Russian is basic since I only took one semester, but I know enough to recognize the language.
I try opening my eyes again, but it’s even harder than before. Did they drug me? I’m losing consciousness again, and the last things I remember are hushed words next to my ear and a fresh woodsy scent of male cologne. I shouldn’t let myself drift while surrounded by these people, but the deep and soothing voice lulls me, and for some reason, the sound makes me feel safe. Sighing, I bury my face into the hard male chest and fall asleep in the arms of the enemy.
I move the sleeping girl so her head rests on my shoulder and rearrange the blanket I wrapped her in. Focusing on her ghostly pale face, I lean back in the recliner. There are big circles around her eyes, and a few wet, unevenly cut strands of hair plastered to her cheek over the faded, yellow bruise. She looks like someone who has gone to hell and back.
“You can’t keep her here, my boy,” Varya, Roman’s housekeeper, says. “She needs medical attention.”
“The doc will stay here tonight. You can stay as well if you want.” I look up. “She is not going anywhere.”
Varya shakes her head and turns to the doc. “How serious is the girl’s condition?”
“Dehydration. And the beginnings of pneumonia. I gave her a shot of antibiotics. Give her these pills every day till Tuesday.” He hands me a bottle of meds and nods toward the IV bag Varya is holding. “She’ll also need another bag of saline tonight.”
“Anything else?”
“She will probably be sleeping till morning. When she wakes up, give her water and something to eat, but keep the food light for the first day. In general, she’s a healthy woman, and this”—he motions toward the girl in my arms—“is recent. They probably starved her.”
My body goes still. “You mean, she didn’t have enough food?” I stare at the doctor.
“I mean she either had very little or no food at all during the last five, six days. Maybe more.”
A burning sensation spreads through my body, starting from my stomach and then outward until it engulfs me. The room around me dims and transforms into a dark basement, the only light coming from my flashlight. There are crates and pieces of broken furniture scattered around. And bodies. At least ten girls, dirty and thin, lying around. My fault. All my fault. If I got in sooner instead of following orders, I might have saved them. I check their pulse, one by one, even though I know they are all dead. Each has a big red dot at the center of their foreheads. All except the last one. A barely audible moan leaves her lips when I press my finger onto her neck. She opens her eyes to look at me, and the pulse under my finger ceases to beat.
“Sergei?” Varya’s voice reaches me, but it sounds distant.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to block the new wave of images. My left hand starts shaking. Fuck. I grind my teeth and squeeze my eyelids together with all my might.
“Shit. Varya, get away from him. Slowly,” Felix barks from somewhere on the right. “Everybody out. Now.”
One deep breath. Then another. It doesn’t help. It feels like I’m going to explode. I hear people leaving and the door closing, but the sounds are mixed with ringing in my ears. The need to destroy something, anything, overcomes me as rage keeps building and building within.
The girl in my arms stirs and moves her head to the left, burying her face in my neck. Her breath on my skin feels like butterfly wings. The flashback fades. She sighs, then coughs. I open my eyes and look down at her, searching for signs of distress, but she seems okay.
I lean back in the recliner to make her more comfortable, pull the blanket over her bony shoulder, and notice my hand has stopped shaking. Tilting my head back, I stare at the ceiling and listen to her breathing, then I try to sync my much faster breaths with hers. The girl’s body twitches, and she coughs again.
“It’s okay. You’re safe,” I whisper and tighten my arms around her.
She mumbles something I can’t decipher and places her hand on my chest, just above my heart. So small. And so damn thin. I could probably circle both of her wrists between my thumb and forefinger. I reach out and press my palm to the side of her neck, feeling the beat of her pulse under my fingers. It’s strong. She’ll pull through. The pressure that has been building inside of me slowly recedes.
Gazing at her face again, I tuck the wet strands of her hair behind her ear and regard her. Even starved nearly to death, she is beautiful. But, it’s not her beauty that attracts my attention. There is something in the lines of her face that seems familiar. I have an impeccable memory, and I am one hundred percent certain that I haven’t met her before, at least not in person. Still... I cock my head to the side, examining her black eyebrows, pert nose, and full lips. Trying to imagine how she looked before she was starved and spent three days on that truck. As if she feels my stare, she stirs, and for a fleeting second her eyes open and her unfocused dark gaze meets mine. And I remember.
Chapter 3
Something wet lands on the back of my hand and rolls down between my thumb and forefinger. Panting. Hot breath blows into my face. I open my eyes, blink, and instantly go stone-still. I try to control the rising panic as I stare past a long snout into two dark eyes that watch me with interest. As slowly as possible, I sit up and crawl to the far side of the bed until my back hits the wall, keeping the beast in my sight. I have no issues where dogs are concerned, but the thing looking at me is closer in size to a small pony than to an ordinary dog.
The animal cocks its head, then lays down on the floor and closes its eyes. A few moments later, a sound of deep snoring reaches me. I exhale and look around at my surroundings.
I’m in someone’s massive bedroom. In addition to the bed, there’s a big wooden armoire, and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase with two recliners and a standing lamp before it. A leather jacket and motorcycle helmet rest casually on one of the recliners. The room has two doors, probably a bathroom and the exit. And there’s a strange fixture—a thick wooden board with a white stripe painted horizontally. I blink several times and focus on the door next to the weird decoration. I have to get out of here.
I am pretty sure I somehow ended up with one of the Russian Bratva’s soldiers. No one else would have intercepted the drug shipment. Saying that my father wasn’t on the best of terms with the Russians would be an understatement. If anyone here finds out who I am, and that Diego is looking for me, they will probably hand me over to that bastard.
I need to leave. Now.
However, before I can try getting out of here, I need to go to the bathroom, because my bladder feels like it’s going to burst at any second. I scoot toward the edge of the bed, as far as possible from the sleeping Cerberus on the floor. The moment my feet touch the ground, the dog’s head snaps up. I wait for it to attack, but it just keeps watching me from its spot at the side of the bed. Slowly, I stand up, and my vision blurs. When the dizziness passes, I carefully head toward the door on the right, supporting myself on the armoire. My legs are shaking, and the room seems to tilt before me, but I somehow manage to get to the door and grab the handle.
