The Bratva's Baby (Wicked Doms 1)

When we’ve landed, the men get to their feet. Kazimir says nothing but points his index finger at me, a silent command to stay seated. What was I supposed to do, help him carry the luggage? I shrug and sit, observing every detail I can.

I don’t know what to do. What to think. I haven’t fully processed where I am or where we’re going.

I need to take in every detail I can. I’ll never be able to orchestrate an escape if I don’t note everything. It isn’t until I watch Kazimir’s men get our bags from beneath the bottom of the plane that grief strikes me. I have none of my belongings. Though I didn’t own much, there were things I’d come to love. My journal that I wrote in. My bag of crochet hooks and soft, pretty yarn. The books that were my companions. I have nothing but the clothing on my back. A sad sort of longing makes my belly ache. I look away from them. I can’t watch them take their things off any longer. I sit and wait for Kazimir.

Outside the tiny window, a sea of men come swarming to the aircraft. Kazimir shakes hands with one of them, and for a moment, I watch in awe. The man he’s shaking hands with is a politician. I can’t remember his name or what his rank is, but the men here are high-ranking officials. If I could speak to one of them… if I could just give a clue…

Kazimir comes back to me, bends, and unfastens my belt.

“I can do that myself,” I tell him.

He ignores my protests and helps me out of my seat.

“You will meet my friends and companions now,” he says. “Behave yourself. Don’t do anything stupid, or my threat to punish you will become a reality when we arrive at our home.”

Our home.

Is this supposed to look like a domestic arrangement?

“Fine.”

His hand tightens on the back of my neck. “Yes, sir,” he corrects.

A strange thrill of reluctant curiosity zings through me. I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.”

Without responding, he leads me off the plane, and I see the men who are waiting for us to leave. The politician, a tall man with white hair and a gray suit, watches us exit. I need to tell him what happened. I need him to save me. If I go with these men now, I know I’ll never escape. America… my home…will be but a distant memory.

“Prime Minister,” Kazimir says. “Meet my girl Sadie.” I’m curious why he speaks in English. Does he want me to understand this conversation?

I nod to him.

“Welcome to Russia,” the man says. “You look tired. Go with Kaz, and he will see to your getting some rest. We will meet again.”

I open my mouth to tell him that I’m not here of my own accord. That I was kidnapped. To act on behalf of my safety and contact the American government.

“Thank you,” I say. I try to rile up the nerve to defend myself, but the words stick in my throat. Kazimir leads me past the man and toward a waiting car several yards ahead of the aircraft. “Good job,” he said. “The others usually try to tell him they were kidnapped and ask him to take them home. As if somehow a politician isn’t corrupt. Isn’t on my payroll. It’s a futile attempt, and they always have to bear the consequences of their actions when we return home. You did well.”

I blink. “I see.”

So this man knows who Kazimir is. And I’m not the first woman Kazimir’s abducted.

There really is no one I can trust.

On his instruction, I fold myself into the back-passenger seat of the car that awaits us.

The ride is longer than I expect, and it takes us two more hours before we finally pull into a large estate. Exhaustion suffuses my limbs. Several buildings loom in front of us, frosted with ice, patches of snow along the pathways leading to the main house.

It feels like a dream or a nightmare. It’s so surreal. I’m tired and hungry and scared, but trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

The place he’s taken me to is gated all around with thick metal gates, as if this is some sort of sanctuary or fortress with armed guards at every entrance and exit. My stomach falls. This will not be a place that’s easy to escape. And what goes on within these walls that they need to be so heavily guarded? My stomach twists with fear. I don’t like this. Not at all.

“Who are you?” I ask Kazimir when we get out of the car and he leads me to a side entrance to the house.

“My name is Kazimir Romanov,” he responds. “I’m brigadier of my brothers, the Bratva. I answer to Dimitri, our leader. He’s like a father to me. He’s the one we go immediately to now.”