Page 24 of The Bratva's Hostage Bride

I hold up the license again. “It’s just a piece of paper that offers you a lot of protection.”

Her face changes from disbelief to anger very quickly, and before I know it, she’s definitely overcome her initial fear of me and starts yelling.

I step back. I don’t think anyone outside my family has ever dared to yell at me, and I’m somewhat dumbfounded.

Chapter 9 - Hannah

If you had asked me what I was thinking at this very moment, I don’t think I could have formed a coherent thought. I have never been this angry in my fucking life.

How fucking dare Luka rob me of my magical wedding one day for a piece of paper that he bribed someone for. Using my stolen ID.

I stop shouting and clench my fists. “Just get out.” I finally demand. “Just go. I don’t want to even look at you.”

Luka looks at me almost like a wounded puppy, but he goes, shutting the door behind him. Shortly after that, there’s a knock, and Monty peeks in. “I just came to give you your bag.”

“Put it on the bed and get out.”

He puts my bag on the bed and pauses at the door but doesn’t say anything. He just leaves and shuts the door behind him.

I get my phone out of the bag and can’t think who to talk to first. Do I call my parents and tell them I’ve landed myself in some kind of trouble? That won’t do. My parents had me really late in life, and they’re part of the old crowd now. I don’t want to risk giving my father an actual heart attack.

I could message Meryl and tell her, but she’ll probably just call the police. Devon wouldn’t believe me. I haven’t really got friends from Vegas who I can call on yet.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I check it. It’s my Instagram. I have dozens of DM’s asking for my new podcast and when it’s going to be up.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

They put my equipment in the room opposite, so I go there and start setting it up. This podcast is going to be rough. I only have a couple of hundred followers so far, but I don’t want to lose any of them because of poor quality. Luckily, the house is as silent as a mouse.

Do I post on my social media that I’m kidnapped? I don’t know. I’m not fully sure of what I’ve gotten myself into here; it's clearly some sort of underground mob family fight of some kind. I don’t want to post something and those other men find me.

I’ll just have to record and upload the podcast, and I apologize for not being as smooth as the others.

I pull a table away from the wall and set up my sound equipment. I clamp the arm for the microphone onto the top of the mirror and let it come down to where my face is going to be. I get my soundboard set up. Luckily, I know the predetermined settings. I glance at my watch. If I sit and record straight, I can have this uploaded in time for everyone’s dinner.

I think about food, and my stomach rumbles. I refuse to go find the kitchen and give Luka the satisfaction of having me for company.

I put my headphones on and pull out the notes that I have, and I clear my voice. I should have gotten some water. Even tap water would be fine now. I take the headphones off again and go into the en-suite bathroom. There are upside glasses in there, and I take one and fill it with cold water. I sip on it on the way back to my workstation.

With my headphones back on, I hit record and began talking about Ted Bundy and his victims. You would think that it’s been so many years that everyone has covered every angle about someone like Ted Bundy, but in reality, every person’s version is unique, and I hope mine is, too.

I rattle off the facts, peppering in my own conclusions on what his psychiatric facilities were like. Why I thought he did what he did. I sip my water in between and try to keep my voice as steady as possible.

Once I’m done recording, I take my laptop and go back into the bedroom, where I sit on the bed and edit the audio. I don’t have much time, but I can put in my prerecorded introduction, my prerecorded ending, and some sound effects here and there. I also cut out as many pauses from drinking water as possible.

There’s a knock at the door, and I look up. “I’m not in the mood.”

“It’s Jonah, ma’am,” his muffled voice comes through the door.

“What is it?”

He opens the door and stands there. “Mr. Milov would like to let you know that dinner is ready.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say immediately. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be married to this madman. I don’t want to eat dinner with him. I’ll sneak out tomorrow and eat something at a diner or something.

“He’s a very patient man, ma’am. He’ll wait for you,” Jonah says.

“He’ll wait all night then. I’m not coming down. You can leave.” I turn back to my laptop and put on my headphones.

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