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“Contracts? What kinds of contracts?”
One-Eye shoots him a warning glare. “Don’t tell her anything.”
But it’s too late. All I need is a bit of information to get the ball rolling, and now that he’s given me what I want, there’s no stopping me. “Oh, so he’s like your front man. I understand. My Uncle Dima has a very similar role.”
“Stop talking,” One-Eye hisses. “Or I’ll put duct tape over your mouth.”
“What’syourcodename?” I ask the big guy.
“Fists,” he answers, puffing his chest out with pride.
I nod knowingly. “That makes perfect sense. A fitting name for an enforcer.”
One-Eye gives Fists a hard shove. “Stop talking to her, idiot. She’s trying to manipulate you.”
“By asking for my name?”
“The Antonovs are tricky fucks. Don’t let her get in your head.”
And just like that, they both clam up and I’m right back to where I started. I’m not too concerned, though. It’s clear I’m already under their skin, and that’s where I plan on burrowing in deep and taking a nice long nap until they’rewishingthey could get rid of me. Right now, it’s a matter of killing time and gathering what little information I can gain. I’ve been studying them both closely, just like Dad trained me to do with all my enemies.
One-Eye has a clear preference for his right-hand side, which makes sense given his massive blind spot. I spot nicotine stains on his fingers. A smoker. He hasn’t left to take a smoke break in a while, and I can see him getting a bit jittery. He’s grown progressively more agitated over the past few hours, which only adds to my theory. I wonder if I can use this to my advantage somehow.
Fists has an obvious advantage in size and strength, but he isn’t very clever. At least, not as clever as me. I’d be a fool to try and take the man head-on in a fight, but my small size and speed could prove useful if I come up against him. He’s easier to talk to, easier to goad into a response. If I want answers, it’s probably best I try to get them through him.
Before I can get another word out, however, a familiarly deep voice reaches my ear. I can hear footsteps descending the stairs. Given the coolness of the air and relative dark ambiance, this confirms my suspicions that they have me locked up underground somewhere.
The Boss enters a few seconds later, a phone in hand. “She’s right here,” he says to whoever’s on the other end of the line. He approaches and holds the device up to my ear, bringing along with him that wondrous scent of spice. “Talk,” he orders bluntly.
He’s close enough that I could probably bite his thumb clean off, but I decide against it. For now.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Sandra, are you alright?” Dad asks me hurriedly.
A sigh of relief escapes me. “I’m fine,” I answer in fluent English—my mother’s tongue—hoping these bastards won’t be able to listen in on my call. “In a little bit of a pickle, but not too bad overall.”
“Have they harmed you?”
“No. They’ve just been mean mugging me this whole time. Nothing to worry about. Who are these guys, Dad? Old friends?”
“I think they’re an up-and-coming Bratva,” Dad answers honestly. “You haven’t overhead any names, have you?”
“No, they’ve been pretty careful about that.”
“I figured as much.”
“What do they want from us?”
“The one in charge asked me to retire.”
I struggle to keep a straight face. “Seriously?”
“They want me to transfer all our assets and territory to them. Once I’ve done so, they’ll return you to me.”
“Please say you didn’t agree to any of it.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to give him what he wants.”
