Page 22 of Diamond Don

“Suchka,” he growls. His lip is bleeding, a crimson line running down his chin. One of the objects I sent flying his way must have damaged his scary face.

He holds me tight in his grasp, tugging my hair hard as I fight him as hard as I can. His colleague approaches me, holding a white handkerchief and aiming at my face.

Panicked, I catch the first whiffs of the recognizable scent. Chloroform.

With renewed enthusiasm powered by my terror, I kick and elbow the men as hard as possible, but it’s useless. They hold me firmly in place, not even straining themselves to subdue my efforts.

The scarred one gets closer, and fear like I have never known before boils over inside me. My chances of escape or survival are drastically reduced if they render me unconscious or take me to a separate location, and my odds of evading them seem nonexistent at the moment.

Turning my head, I bite down hard on the dark-haired man’s arm, detecting the disgusting, metallic taste of his blood. He yells in fury, yanking me away from his arm by my hair. His fist sharply connects against my temple, sending my head reeling back.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? Do it now,” he says, scolding his scarred counterpart.

Still dazed by his blow, I barely have a second to try to resist them any further before the overpowering chemical smell invades my nostrils and burns my throat as they cover my face with the chloroform-soaked cloth.

I don’t have a chance to do anything but despair as the unrelenting darkness overtakes me.

9

KAT

I wake up with a start.

Once my eyes flash open, I can’t suppress a groan. My head hurts like hell, courtesy of my abductors’ idea of a sleep aid. The sunlight coming from the windows across the room makes the pounding ache even worse, so I shut my eyes again.

The unbearable feeling in my head reminds me of the morning after A.J. and I went on a last-minute girls’ trip to Mexico. There, she decided it would be a good idea to play a game she called Margarita Pong. We had a great time, but the price paid for it the following day wasn’t worth it.

My current headache is just like that, except a thousand times worse.

Somehow, I open my eyes again. The natural light streaming from the large windows still bothers me, but I make myself bear it. I can’t afford the sweet oblivion of darkness or sleep.

The room’s air conditioner is a welcome change from the sweltering heat outside, at least.

I suppose I ought to count my small blessings. Honestly, I should feel grateful for the excruciating pain in my head because it means I’m still alive. Even better, I’m not even unconscious anymore.

I wonder how long I was out. It was early afternoon when the two burly men captured me. My current view of the windows shows the sun is just about to set, which means I was unconscious for hours.

The idea of being at the mercy of those two for so long—wholly vulnerable and under their control—makes me shiver in disgust. Right now, I don’t have the strength to let myself think about all the horrifying things they might have done to me while I was knocked out.

I know I’m lucky even to wake up at all. They could have easily killed me and disposed of my body during the multiple hours I was helpless and unconscious. I must make the best of this so-called luck, which means staying focused instead of stupidly worrying about things outside my control. I’m not safe yet. If I want to survive my present situation, then I have to concentrate on finding a way out of here—wherever that is.

I look around the room as I try to recalibrate my senses and calm my mind. While I slept, I was brought to a large chamber. It is very sparsely furnished, containing only the immense bed I have been placed on. It is a stretch to call this room a bedroom, but I guess the term is technically correct since it is a room with a bed. The large piece of furniture is covered by clean, white cotton sheets that softly graze against my skin as I move atop them.

I attempt to sit up and realize right as I do that my ankles and wrists are securely tied to the bed frame.

Not great. Definitely not ideal. Still, I won’t lose heart.

Contorting my body, I manage to shake off the sheets and uncover just enough of my extremities to glimpse at my restraints. They seem to be made of soft, brown leather. I test their strength and resilience, pulling and twisting them as much and as far as they allow me. No matter how hard I tug or how wildly I contort myself, I cannot slip out of them or break free. I stretch my arms and legs as much as possible, but the cuffs’ confinement doesn’t grant me the range of movement I need to use my fingers or mouth to pry them off my body.

With a sigh, I concede defeat for the time being. I will have to concentrate my efforts on something else since escaping my confinement on my own seems unlikely.

I turn my attention to my surroundings. The almost empty bedroom is cavernously large. The cream color of its walls makes it seem even more spacious, as do the expansive windows that face the bed from the opposite side of the chamber. I spot only one exit, a wood-paneled door to my left. There are two other doors to my right, but they were left ajar, and I can tell they lead to a bathroom and a walk-in closet. I doubt there are any accessible exits in either.

Confined to the bed, I can’t see much through the glass panels. All I have is a stunning view of the clear, cloudless sky, blanketed in the golden and orange hues of the setting sun. My limited field of vision must indicate that I am in one of the top floors of a high-rise building.

Unfortunately, I don’t see anything else of value—such as a recognizable skyline or a known landmark—so I can’t pinpoint my current location.

Nonetheless, small details around the room and my previous realization of the building and its location make it obvious that I may be in a luxurious penthouse. After all, it is an immense bedroom with Carrara marble floors and a view that has to be worth millions.

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