But, of course, she never came.
Maybe she’s dead.
Maybe he killed her.
“He will want me dead,” Adrian agrees like he’s content with this knowledge.
A cold chill runs across my skin. “Are you asking for ransom?”
Adrian hesitates. “Yes.”
More cold prickles shoot down my spine. There’s something more to this. “What is the ransom?” My words come out as barely more than a whisper.
He stares at me like he’s not sure about his choice. “Five million.”
“Five million?” I sound shrill. “Is that all? You know he has at least a hundred million, right?” I know because I heard him bragging to a woman about it once.
“He has to bring the money himself.” There’s something terribly sinister about the way Adrian says the words, and I suddenly realize what this is: a trap.
And I’m the bait.
I glance at the plate of food and lift my chin at him. He takes the hint and feeds me a bite. I’m instantly starving. I chew quickly, swallow and gesture with my eyes again. He feeds me one bite after the next until I’ve finished half the eggs and two pieces of toast. I eye a third piece. “Is that yours?”
“You can have it. You’re not going to puke again, are you?”
“No. I feel better.” I eat half of the third piece of toast and then quit, turning my face away from him. He cleans the plate of what’s left.
I’ve had time to digest the information while I ate. “Are you in law enforcement?”
He scoffs.
“Didn’t think so. So… this is personal?”
He gives a single nod. “It’s personal.”
“He killed someone you love.”
“Nyet.”
“No?” I’m surprised. I thought for sure that would be it. Why else would someone have a personal vendetta against a man?
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“You don’t want to know.” Adrian gets up.
My body reacts to his loss with panic. “Wait. Come back.”
He stops and turns but doesn’t sit down again. “What is it?”
“You want to hurt my dad? I’m in.”
He goes still, his face an inscrutable mask. “That’s good,” he says after a beat, but I get the feeling he doesn’t believe me. Of course, he doesn’t. It could easily be a ploy. I mean, maybe it is a ploy on my part. I just want to get out of these horrible zip ties. I want to have a hot shower and change my clothes. But I’m not exactly loyal to my dad. I hate him in that angry, unloved teenager way. The one where part of me still desperately wants his love and approval, and the rest of me hates him because I know I’ll never get it.
I stare at Adrian’s strong muscled back when he walks away, taking the empty plate to the kitchen. He washes it and puts it in the drying rack.
“Is Adrian your real name?” I call to his back.
“Da. Adrian Turgenev,” he tells me, like it’s important. It also implies that he’s not afraid of anyone finding out his identity–not my father. Not the authorities.
So, either he thinks it won’t matter, or he doesn’t care. Maybe because he doesn’t plan on letting me live.
“Are you going to kill me?” I blurt.
“No.” He’s doing grumpy bear again. “I told you. I–”
“--won’t hurt me if I do what I’m told.”
“Precisely this.” He nods.
This time I believe him. Things are coming into focus. Some of my worst fears have been allayed. He’s not a psychopath who plans to torture me and keep me in a cage as his personal slave. God! Why does that thought sort of turn me on? Maybe Delaney’s right. There is something sick in me that requires healing. He’s not going to sell me at a slave auction. He doesn’t plan to kill me for his revenge on my father.
Adrian’s phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket. “Nadia.” He turns his back to me, speaking in Russian. His voice is soft. Coaxing.
I go cold.
For some reason, this unpleasant shock rivals waking up with a gag in my mouth.
Adrian has a woman.
4
Adrian
“How are you?” I ask my younger sister in our mother tongue. I try to talk to her every day or two. The whole time I’ve been gone, I’ve battled guilt over leaving her there alone. She’s come a long way in the year since she’s been free, but she still has bouts of debilitating paranoia and depression brought on by her PTSD. She suffers from agoraphobia–fear of leaving the house. She’s getting counseling, but I’m still so afraid she’ll relapse.
“I’m fine." She gives a groggy laugh. "I just woke up. It’s six a.m. here. You texted me to call when I woke up.”
“Right, sorry. Have you left the building since we last talked?”
“No, but I’m going out tonight.”
Right. It’s Thursday, which means Story’s band is playing.
Nadia’s not entirely alone in America. We live in the Kremlin. Not the real Kremlin, but the lakeshore Chicago high rise owned by Ravil, my bratva pakhan. The neighbors call the building the Kremlin because only Russians live there. Unless you count Ravil’s lawyer wife–the one who got me off on the arson charges after I burned down Poval’s sofa factory which was really a sex trafficking front.