Page 14 of The Bratva's Hostage Bride

I hang up, and I sip my now cold coffee.

I get up, go to where my clutch is, and take it back to the coffee table in the living room. I start to empty it, and I find Luka’s card.

Luka Milov, followed by his number.

He seemed like he wanted to go out sometime, didn’t he? This morning feels like a blur. I set the card aside and grab the rest of the contents from my bag, packing it away before I head into my studio, where my laptop is set up. I have to finish researching this case so I can record the podcast, or I won’t be able to post it in time tomorrow. And I still have to edit.

I can feel the pressure from all sides and get a little excited. I thrive under pressure. I have recorded most of the show already, but I came across a little detail in my research that I needed more information on. That’s what I’ll do today. There was a book referenced on another show that I can go pick up, and then once my research is done, I can record the last little bit and schedule it to post.

I go to my room and start applying my makeup. I go for a light look but hide the dark circles under my eyes—no need to look hungover.

I grab a hair tie and pull the curls into a high pony. I feel tired, so once I have the book I need and I’m back home, I think I’ll take a nap before I work.

I fill my travel mug with coffee and set it down. I scoop Kitty up, and I cuddle her. “Who’s the best cat ever?” I coo before kissing her. “Mommy will be home soon, and we can nap together on the sofa.”

She meows at me. I’m sure everyone thinks I’m going to be a crazy cat lady for the rest of my life, and you know what? I wouldn’t mind.

I grab my normal wallet and pocket it before I grab my keys. “See you later,” I call.

I walk down the hallway past two men that I greet quietly. They nod to me. They must be neighbors. I take the stairs two at a time and emerge onto the street.

There’s a dark sedan parked in front of the building with tinted windows, and the trunk is open. I suddenly feel both my arms grabbed, and I’m dragged to the trunk and thrown in. The door is shut, and I scream for help, kicking at the door. I’m panicking. I hate closed-off spaces.

I continue to kick, and then I start feeling around for the emergency latch that will open the trunk, but I can’t find one. I try to feel for the light to kick that out so I can wave to driver’s behind the vehicle, but the trunk is solid.

Every bump we hit hurts my back and head, and I turn over and roll onto all fours. I’m crouching, but I’m not lying down. Maybe when they open, I can launch myself up and out and run for it.

When we hit another bump hard, I bang my head and back on the top of the trunk and collapse down. So much for that idea. I continue to scream, hoping someone in the street will hear me.

I can hear muffled voices coming from the front of the car, and I start begging them to let me go. They’ve got the wrong person, and I don’t want any trouble.

I don’t know how long we drive for, and the motion is starting to make me sick because I can’t tell direction, and I feel dizzy. When the vehicle slowly rolls to a stop, I feel like I’m going to hurl.

As soon as they open the trunk, I lean over the edge and let it rip. The men step away, shouting at each other in a foreign language I don’t recognize.

They grab me and drag me out of the trunk. “If you think this is going to stop us, you are really mistaken.” The man holding my right arm whispers the words in my ear.

“Please, I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m just a girl from Ohio who makes podcasts.” I whimper, letting my legs go lame underneath me. They each grab me under the arm and drag me toward a door. From what I can see, we’re in a garage, and I quickly get my feet under me when I realize they’re going to drag me up some stairs. “I can walk. I can walk. I’ll walk.”

They stop, and the guy to the right, the one who is clearly in charge, takes out a gun.

“If you try to run, I will shoot you. Do you understand?” he asks.

I swallow hard and nod. “No running. Got it.”

His friend leads the way, and I follow, with the gunman bringing up the rear. We walk into a kitchen where women are busy cooking. The men greet them, and I finally place his accent.

He’s Armenian.

Why would an Armenian family want anything to do with me? I haven’t done any podcasts on Armenian serial killers or rapists. I mean, that’s the only reason I can think people would want to take me. I literally don’t do anything other than podcasts and makeup, and somehow, I doubt this is someone trying to hire me for an event.

We pause in the kitchen while they speak, and I hug myself. The women don’t pay any attention to me, but I have to try.

“Please. They’ve kidnapped me. Please, can you call the cops and help me? He has a gun.”

The women look at me momentarily, then return to their cooking. The little hope that was building up crashes to the floor. They clearly don’t care what these men do with me. That scares me even more. People without a conscience are the most dangerous sociopaths of all.

The man laughs and nudges me to follow his friend. “You’ll find no allies here. This is the lion’s den, and the Capone wants to see you.”

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