Page 13 of The Bratva's Hostage

Every second seemed to stretch into an eternity, and while I was sure I had been alone for less than an hour, it felt like a full day had passed. I shifted uncomfortably and winced at the pain that blossomed around my wrists. These damn cuffs.

I looked around the room and a glint near my foot caught my eye. I almost laughed. I’d been too preoccupied to notice it before. There was a pen on the ground, and somehow, the Russians hadn't noticed it either. Just my luck.

I stretched my foot forward and the cuffs bit into my skinned wrists. I ignored the pain and tried again. Nothing. I licked my lips and looked at the door. I pulled the chair forward, and it scraped loudly on the concrete floor.

I winced and held my breath, waiting for the guards to come running into the room. Thankfully, nothing happened, and I exhaled a breath of relief. I stretched my foot again and this time, I barely touched the pen. I pulled it towards me, glancing at the door as I did so.

When the pen was in front of me, I stepped on it and leaned back in my seat. My wrists stung and I could tell they were raw. I had more problems. How the fuck do I get the pen from the floor into my hands?

Without hesitating, I rocked the chair sideways. I crashed loudly onto the ground and the impact shook every bone in my body. I watched the door, my heart slamming into my ribcage. No one came, but how long did I have until someone walked in?

I dropped all concerns about subtlety and dragged myself on the wet, dirty ground until I reached the pen and fumbled it in my hands before finding a secure grip.

It was years since I’d last had to do this at training, and I was rusty. It took some time for me to pick the lock, and every second my heart hammered with the fear of discovery. The pain in my wrists grew unbearable, sweat mixing with the blood and stinging like a thousand needles.

I hissed out in relief when the click sounded. I took a minute to catch my breath before getting to my feet. I checked the cuts on my wrists. They didn’t look nearly as bad as they hurt. I could deal with that later.

I righted the chair and tiptoed to the solid metal door. My heart sank when I got there. There was no handle on the inside, and no way to open the door. It was shut solid.

I pressed my head to the cold door. I could hear a voice on the other end. Whoever it was, he was probably on the phone. His Russian was quick and his voice hard. I needed to draw him into the room, but how?

A light bulb lit up in my head and I tiptoed back to my seat. I crossed my arms behind my back and took a deep breath. “Hey!” I yelled, “Who’s there? Hey!”

The heavy bolt sounded, and the door groaned open. A massive man with a burly neck peeked into the room, frowning. He was one of the men who was in the room with Maksim two hours ago.

He walked slowly in, leaving the door slightly open behind him—to my relief. ‘You stop shouting now. Vy ponimayete [you understand]? Zatknis [shut up], shlyukha [bitch].” He spat the last word at me, and I smiled innocently at him. He was wise enough to stand a few feet away from me.

“Call me a bitch all you want, but I’m thirsty,” I said, acting like I was dizzy and dehydrated. “You’ve had me here for hours.”

“Net. No water for you.” His English was heavily accented and had a drawl to it. He was probably just local muscle, brought in from Russia a few years ago. If anything, this farm boy was the best thing I could have asked for.

“You better have a damn good excuse for your Pakhan when he comes and finds the daughter of Don Armando passed out here,” I said in a threatening voice. “I’ll make sure he knows exactly who is responsible.” I coughed violently, selling the plot.

His eyes watched me carefully, and I could tell the poor man was wondering what game I was playing. With a defeated look on his face, he said, “Fine. I get water. You stop the shouting or else…” The glare he gave me was enough to curdle the blood in my veins.

I nodded and he turned to leave. He’d barely taken three steps before I shot out of the chair, quick as an arrow, and jumped on his broad back. He made a startled cry and tried to raise his hands, but he moved too slowly.

I had my right arm around his neck, and locked it with my left, squeezing his windpipe. He staggered and tried to yell, but only a pathetic, croaking sound escaped his throat.

The giant of a man fell on his knees as the pressure intensified, and he batted at my arms weakly. In one final attempt, he reached back and yanked a fistful of my hair. I cried out in pain but kept my arms locked around his neck, I didn’t have any doubts that he would kill me if he had the chance.

The struggling ended and I let him collapse to the floor, seconds before I caused him any permanent damage. I checked for a pulse and felt it weakly in his massive neck. Thanks, papa, for all those defense lessons.

Satisfied, I edged to the door and peeped out of the crack. The hallway was dimly lit and deserted, with a low ceiling. I took a deep breath, grateful for a change from the smell of fat and blood that had been assaulting me for hours.

I waited a whole minute, my heart racing, and when no one walked by, I slid soundlessly into the hallway and shut the door behind me, securing the bolt. I needed time to get out of the building, and an unlocked door would only let them know I had escaped.

I was in a basement of some sort, and I had no idea which way was up. A cool draught of air blew against my face from the left, and I judged the stairway to be in that direction.

My sneakers squished in a puddle as I made my way slowly along the edge of the wall. I saw a staircase around a bend to my right, and a wooden door stood at the top of the stairs.

It looked like the only way out, but I didn’t have a clue what awaited me on the other side of that door. I didn’t have the luxury of waiting around to find out. I scampered down the narrow corridor and up the stone steps. With a deep breath, I eased the door open and peered into the room.

The door opened into a massive corridor, only this one was better decorated. The walls were white, and paintings lined one wall. A plush rug covered the floor, leading to a bend at the end of the hallway. I was in a mansion… the Wolkov mansion. The Belly of the Beast.

My heart sank. My chances of escaping were next to impossible. The mansion was as heavily guarded as my father’s estate, and almost as massive. Voices came from around the corner, rousing me from my immobility.

I rushed in the other direction and found a narrow staircase around the corner. The voices got closer, and I raced up the stairs. My heart beat faster, the deeper I went into the building, and I was certain I would run into someone the next moment.

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