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I take better stock of my surroundings. I’m lying in a big bed. The pillow smells of him, Yan. That deliciously airy, sensual scent. The sheets are silky and the blanket soft. High-thread Egyptian cotton. From the weight of the comforter resting on top of the blanket, it’s the goose feather variety. He has luxurious taste.

Sitting up, I lift the covers and peek underneath. I’m still wearing Yan’s shirt and nothing else. I throw the heavy comforter aside and swing my legs from the bed. The hardwood floor is warm. Under-floor heating. It seems like an excessive luxury. It’s only late summer.

I pad to the window and push away the curtain. We’re on the third floor. The ornate bars in front of the window prevent me from climbing through. The street below is quiet, and the building on the opposite side looks similar to this one. It’s a white block with square windows. They all have differently colored curtains.

Apartments. It’s a residential area.

I go back to inspecting the room. There’s a dresser and a closet. I feel the drawers. They’re locked. A door off to the side gives access to a bathroom. Like the room, it’s small, but the accessories are fancy. The shower is fitted with a high-tech nozzle. I shut the door, turn the lock, and open the tap. While the water runs warm, I pull off the shirt. It’s smelly. Wrinkling my nose, I dump it in the laundry basket.

Getting under the spray of water is like heaven. I make quick work of cleaning myself, using the forest-scented shower gel and shampoo. Grabbing a towel from the rack, I wrap it around my body. The fabric is warm. It must be a heating rack. I don’t need a brush for my short hair. My fingers work well enough.

I regard my face in the mirror. There are faint bruises in shades of yellow. They’ll be gone in a couple of days. My lip is healing well, too.

A new toothbrush still in its plastic wrapping lies on the basin. I use it to brush my teeth and look around for clothes, but there’s nothing.

The pill must be kicking in. The headache is almost gone and I feel more like a human being than I’ve felt during the past four days. It gives me hope. I’m alive. I have another shot at escaping.

Tiptoeing to the closed door, I put my ear against it. Male voices come from the other side, talking in Russian.

“We need to lure Dimitrov out of his fortress and away from his guards,” Yan says. “The order was clear. No other casualties.”

Ilya’s louder voice booms through the space. “Why can’t we just pop him in public?”

“The risks are too high,” a voice I don’t recognize says. “He’s always surrounded by his bodyguards.”

Ilya again. “What about when he’s at the casinos?”

“Same,” Yan replies. “We’ll never get a clear shot.”

“I say we use the fact that he’s an art collector,” the unfamiliar voice says. “We can fake an invitation to an event.”

“He’s too clever,” Yan says. “His personal buyers will check the authenticity of any event. Besides, his art dealings are shady. They mostly happen secretly behind closed doors.”

If they’re talking about who I think, they’re referring to Casmir Dimitrov, a powerful Balkan crime group leader who runs a chain of casinos as a guise for drug smuggling. He also collects stolen art. These criminals open businesses in the Czech Republic to gain residency, and then use the well-developed road and air infrastructure to transport their drugs. If Yan and his friends are planning a hit on Casmir, they’ve got a hell of a job on their hands. The man is the best-guarded criminal in Prague.

“Shouldn’t your waitress be up by now?” the stranger asks.

I lean away from the door as a chair scrapes over the floor.

Before one of them can come looking for me and discover me eavesdropping, I grip the handle and open the door. Barging in on them looks less suspicious.

Ilya and a man who looks vaguely familiar sit at a table in the corner of an open-plan kitchen-lounge. Yan is on his feet. The men pause at my entrance, three sets of eyes trailing over me.

“Well, hello, little waitress,” the stranger says. “Right on time.” There’s nothing friendly about his dark eyes. If anything, they’re malicious. His thick black beard is neatly trimmed, and his shoulder-length hair is tied into a ponytail. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, and is sporting a Glock and some impressive knives in his gun and knife holsters.

Another dangerous man. Handsome, in a vicious sort of way, but very dangerous.

Yan clenches his jaw. “Go back to the room, Mina.”

“I don’t have clothes to wear,” I say in Russian.

Yan narrows his eyes. “Which part of go to the room didn’t you understand? Do you need me to say it in Hungarian?”

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