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Kate
“Okay, Kate, you come with me.” The older woman named Ilena smiles at me. Her hair is a mix of silver and shades of brunette, pulled back into a bun. Time has etched lines in her face, and her hard eyes whisper a comforting resilience. Her voice is gravelly but offers a warmth that draws me in, and my shoulders relax a bit.
She clicks her tongue and tilts her head in a motion for me to follow. I shuffle behind her, taking in this penthouse that could be described as otherworldly, especially for someone in my financial position. The elevator we rode up in was bigger than my whole studio apartment. And when I exited, I couldn’t help my awe, even amid my circumstances.
The lavish foyer features marble flooring that extends into the main living area, and I was greeted with floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of the cityscape. The penthouse is an open concept, the living area seamlessly transitioning to the exquisite kitchen. All stainless-steel appliances and an obnoxiously large island with marble countertops.
The penthouse has a contemporary aura but is oddly warm and inviting, as opposed to cold and sterile, which I had assumed would be standard in a place Luka owned. We enter a hallway, long on either side, with several rooms to the left and a couple of rooms to the right. Ilena points to the right and enters one of the rooms.
“This is the room prepared for you. The ensuite has what you need for shower.” While her English is easy to understand she still speaks with an accent. “I have strict schedule that Mr. Morozov prefers to adhere to, but if you need something ask.” She is getting ready to leave the room and now is my opportunity, desperation clawing at me.
“I can’t stay here. Luka—Mr. Morozov—has me here without consent. I need to leave.” I’m taking a risk. She seems to be fully aware of Luka’s line of work and her loyalty is shown by the pride on her face when she talks about him. A frown moves over her face.
“Pakhan is a strong leader; he takes care of his men and their families. I do not wish to deceive him,” she answers, and with that, she is out the door. The intricate polished door slams behind her.
I reach out and grip the metal handle, giving it a turn. I’m not locked in here. I turn around the room—I could fit two of my apartments in this room alone. A king-sized bed with plush linens tempts me to throw myself on top, and another door opens to a walk-in closet.
My duffel has already been placed on the floor.
That was fast.
I sit down on the floor of the closet, hook my foot around my duffel strap, and slide it to me. After I manage to locate my toiletries, I lean my head back against the wall.
I have no idea what I’m going to do. I’m not naive enough to think I could waltz right out of here. I need a plan, but I am also exhausted. Physically and mentally. My body has been on high alert for the past two days, and the tension between my shoulder blades is taut. My eyes are heavy from crying and lack of sleep.
A warm shower and bed sound luxurious right now, considering I’ve been interrogated in a concrete cell. At least he didn’t leave me there.
I close my eyes, memories flashing of Luka’s touch on my chin. A gentle featherlight touch that grazed like fire—so different from the rough, demanding man he portrays. It churns out fear and something hot in my gut. His face is stern, yet there is something there, behind the facade, behind the mask, and behind the role he plays—longing, maybe?
I shake my head—flustered and angry at this thought. I shouldn’t be thinking about what lurks beneath his face. He is a criminal. The man probably has murder on his to-do list.
Blinking red lights capture my attention; there are cameras high in the corner of the closet. I glare at it, expressing my annoyance to whoever is on the other side. I push to stand and pause, counting the other cameras in the main room. I see two. One pointed in the room from the door, and another on the opposite wall, viewing the entrance. I huff out a long breath and stalk toward the bathroom.
I smack a hand over my mouth. Beautiful floors greet me with a double sink vanity built into the wall. Long, oval mirrors hang above each sink that nearly meet the white marble countertops. The all-white shower with a pebbled shower floor has four body sprayers and two rain heads. A large soaking tub, set closest to the windows, offers a beautiful view over the city, and the Manhattan lights dance.
I’m an impostor in this room with this gorgeous bathroom. A flush heats my face as I scan the ceiling for cameras, but I’m only slightly relieved when I don’t see any obvious ones. Hopefully, none are hidden.
It takes me ten minutes to figure out how the shower works to turn it on. Peeling my several day-old clothes from my body, I step into the hot jets, moaning at the pressure. A sting on my wrists snaps me out of my enjoyment and I rub at my raw wrists. The skin is grated around them.
I sink to the shower floor, staring down at the red rings, tears pool behind my eyes as I internalize the reality of my situation. With a snap of his fingers, Luka has uprooted me from my home, my family, and my job. The burning around my eyes reaches its pinnacle, and the tears burst down my face, my shoulders pulsing with each sob. Wet, mangled hair falls in front of my face and water cascades into my mouth. Drawing my legs up, I bury my head and fracture.
* * *
I haveno idea how long I sleep. When I jolt awake, it’s still dark out, and I pat around on the nightstand for my phone before remembering it must have been taken from me. Reality comes crashing through my sleep-induced haze, and I let out a groan while sitting up.
I hope my mom is okay.
With my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I get out of bed, searching for some socks. A small lamp on the dresser illuminates a stack of envelopes—my mail I had requested. I have no idea when this was put in here, but it wasnotthere when I fell into bed. Disturbed that someone was in my room as I slept, I ignore my mail in favor of my thirst.
Padding to the door, I carefully turn the knob and poke my head out into the hallway. It’s dark, only lit by several small floor lights every two feet. I round the wall, pausing at the other wing.
Is one of these rooms his?
I make my way to the kitchen, nerves fluttering in my stomach, unable to swallow. Yanking the fridge open, I scan the shelves; fancy bottled water is lined up perfectly, and I snatch one right away. Unscrewing the top, I tip back the bottle and chug the ice-cold water while the door to the fridge eases shut.
A yelp escapes my mouth, and water splashes down the front of my sweater. Luka is standing behind the door of the fridge, arms crossed, and glaring at me. My eyes rove over his sleep-ridden face and disheveled hair. The gray sweatpants and white crewneck are the most casual I’ve ever seen him. My eyes blink as I try to reconcile this image of Luka with the well-polished Luka I’ve experienced. The coldness from the water is seeping into my clothes, and I snap out of my perusal, irritation flaring.
“What the hell? You scared me,” I snap, instantly regretting it when Luka’s shoulders stiffen and he stands straighter.
