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The truth is, I’m in survival mode. I shut off fear a long time ago. There’s no room for it here, and I refuse to let it in. It’ll do more damage than good.
Fyodor nods toward Tommy. “Let her go.”
The pit in my stomach lightens, turning into fluttering butterflies with the anticipation of being free. I may be stuck here, held against my will, but being able to move my hands and sit comfortably in this chair is something I look forward to.
It means my play at being nice is working.
There’s a pitcher of water in the center of the table, and the second Tommy uncuffs me, I shoot out to grab it. Fyodor hands me an empty glass, and I pour myself a large filling of water.
It’s gulped down quickly. There’s even ice cubes, making the cool liquid feel amazing as it glides down my cottonmouth. I let out a satisfied gasp, and Fyodor chuckles. He pours me a second glass, holding it to my lips for me.
My chest hums with excitement.Fyodor is the weak link. All it took was a half-assed apology for kicking him in the balls? I turn to Tommy, who is glaring at Fyodor. His dark eyes set me on edge, but Fyodor’s blue ones contrast, softening when he watches me.
“Do you know Vlad?” I ask, wanting to keep him talking. Anything to lower his defenses.
He dips his chin, indicating a silent yes.
“Is he mean?” I ask. “Will he … hurt me?”
He stares at me, his silence the answer to my question.
I gulp down the rest of my water, then set the glass down. Having something in my stomach just makes me want to throw up. My mouth feels better now, but it’s not enough. I just want to get this over with.
Where is he?
The silence filling the air has me wanting to scream out or throw something. Fuck, I’ll take a sneeze or cough at this point. The nothingness makes my head spin, makes time move by too slowly, like sitting in the church pews during Sunday Mass as a child. I’d drown out the boring lectures of the priest. If there was nothing on my mind, the time felt like eternity. If I was daydreaming, it went by in the blink of an eye.
Focus.
I close my eyes, conjuring up the daydreams. As a child it was my imaginary wedding. Now, what is it? What makes me happy? The smell of cinnamon gum, the warmth of his breath against my ear while I’m curled up with a cup of tea.
My books. The demon who is broken on the inside, and ugly on the outside, who only has a soft heart for his love interest. The smell of fresh pages being turned, the crackling of the fire in my living room. The soothing fuzzy blanket against my bare thighs. His hand on my knee while he’s engrossed in his horror story. Togetherness.
My chest squeezes, and the nausea dissipates.
The image changes like the flash of a camera roll. Warm sun on my cheek, wind swirling my hair about. We’re on Georges Island, a blanket under us. Frog in my lap. He doesn’t run away, because he’s basically like a dog, and wants my constant attention.
He purrs like a motorboat, and Scotty opens up a picnic basket. It’s normal.We’re normal.There’s no Mafia threat looming over us, no bodyguard/boss’s sister dynamic holding us back. We’re just two people, happy together.
I squeeze my eyes tighter, willing the image to burn in the back of my head. This is my daydream on the wooden bench of the church. Vladimir is the priest. I will get through it.
“What’s she doing?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
“Praying, probably,” Tommy mumbles.
I snap my eyes open, the dread coming back in full force. Brown eyes glare at me. Dead, soulless. The man has brown hair, a trimmed beard. His nose is crooked, probably from a few breaks. He’s dressed in a black suit, his shoulders so bulky, it’s about to bust at the seams.
Vladimir Vasiliev.
I squirm in my seat, then clear my throat. “My head hurts.” I squint, pointing toward a window that’s shining light through. “The light.”
Vladimir’s head turns in the direction. He shows no emotion as he turns back, barking a command in Russian. Fyodor hurries to the window, closing the curtain. My body stiffens as Vlad approaches. He takes up the seat beside me and rests his elbows on the table.
“Is that better?” he asks, in a New York accent.
I nod, then pick at my nails as a distraction. He reaches his hand out, taking a strand of my hair in his fingers and twirling it. “Beautiful,” he whispers.
I force away the vomit that’s ready to climb up my throat. My head turns slightly, trying to create distance between us. I push away the scent of his overpowering cologne, conjuring up my Scotty’s instead.
