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Quietly, he hoped.
He would take their guns too. Then he would run, although he had no idea what was on the other side of the steel door to the cavernous room that was his cell. He knew only that the walls were old concrete, that the place smelled of damp and mold and stale air.
He forced himself to focus, straining to turn the screw again, groaning as the zip ties dug deeper into his bleeding wrists.
He was surprised they’d kept him alive this long. Vadim Ivanov could surely have taken his territory by force. After all, how much resistance would his men pose for a man like Vadim? And how difficult would it be to overtake all the revenue streams that were part and parcel of the bratva, especially with Ivan’s help?
He didn’t understand any of it: Ivan’s betrayal, Vadim’s sudden appearance in Chicago, or the delay in killing him.
And it didn’t matter. All that mattered was escape. All that mattered was getting back to Kira, delivering on the promise he’d made to protect her and their baby.
He felt the shadow of dark thoughts that plagued him when he was at his weakest.
What if they’d already hurt her?
What if she was dead?
He pushed them away before they could swim to the surface. It was the way of madness. He simply refused to believe anything had happened to her. She had Alek.
And Rurik.
His men would protect her.
It was enough. It had to be.
His resolve hardened as he turned the screw again, then froze as the sound of footsteps made their way through the door.
They were coming again. Not with food — they’d brought him two cold burgers not long before — but with the instruments of his torture. He’d already lost two of his back teeth and several nails on his fingers and toes. He was almost positive his nose was broken, and they’d probably cracked a rib or two as well.
They’d sliced his thigh with a blunt knife, leaving behind a gaping wound that was almost certainly infected. He hadn’t been able to open his left eye for days (weeks?), and he expected them to start in on his fingers and toes any minute.
He carefully moved his hand away from the screw, not wanting to bump it when it was so close to coming loose.
Next time. He would remove it the next time he got the chance.
Then he would get out of here, back to the only woman who’d ever made him want to live. And if they’d hurt her, if they’d laid so much as a finger on Kira’s head, Lyon would burn down the city looking for them.
Then he would tear them apart with his bare hands.
It was a satisfying thought, and he didn’t realize he was smiling through his cracked lips until he heard one of the guards say something in Russian.
The poor bastard has lost his mind. He’s smiling.
Lyon kept smiling. He was looking forward to killing these men on his way out.
3
Kira breathed a sigh of relief when she and Alek finally stepped out of the elevator into the penthouse. Being at Lyon’s headquarters and working with the men required armor. The bratva was hardly a progressive organization. The very reason she’d agreed to marry Lyon had been to give herself a chance at retaining even some of the power her father had earned as pakhan.
Appointing her in his stead hadn’t even been an option.
They’d both understood the reality of their situation, Kira had been raised at her father’s knee, knew the inner workings of the bratva better than almost any man who might take it over, but to keep the Baranov name from dying, she’d needed a husband.
Stepping into Lyon’s shoes even temporarily required a leap of faith on the part of the men — and unwavering strength in herself. She didn’t allow herself to hesitate while in their company, didn’t allow herself to doubt, but the further along she got in her pregnancy, the more tired she seemed to become. Coming home was like divesting herself of heavy armor after a long day on the battlefield.
“Goodnight,” Alek said as she took off her coat.
“Stay,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “It smells like Annie has something cooking in the kitchen.”
