Page 63 of Forced Bratva Prisoner

“Yes, to sort out the staff or people who don’t do as you say?”

“I don’t have torture chambers, Sasha. This is just a normal business.”

I bite my lip, annoyed that he would lie to me about that. At least my father didn’t hide who he was. He was upfront about it.

My face scrunches in anger. I wish Leon would be honest with me too.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, noticing my change in mood.

“You don’t have to lie to me. I know how these things work. I just hate being lied to.”

“Lied to about what?”

“The torture chambers,” I say, getting angrier, because now he’s pretending he doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.

“Sasha, I don’t have torture chambers.”

“Stop denying it. Where else would you torture people?” I say angrily.

“I don’t make a habit out of torturing people. It’s not part of my regular life. Sure, if someone crosses me or steals from me, or hurts my family, I will torture them, but I don’t enjoy it, and I don’t do it for fun or no reason.” He is getting angry with me.

I don’t believe him.

I know how my father works, I know how the mafia world works.

“Sasha, don’t glare at me like that.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Why would you think I’m lying to you?”

“Because I know this world. I’m not stupid. Obviously, you have torture chambers. My father had them in every single building he owned. He even had them beneath our house. Just stop treating me like I’m an idiot.”

“How about you stop comparing me to your father?” he says with a deep growl. “I am nothing like him—haven’t you noticed? How can you still be thinking I am anything like him?”

His eyes are shooting into me with force, and I feel myself shrinking back slightly.

I am comparing him to my father.

And he isn’t anything like him.

Suddenly I can’t make eye contact, feeling confused and torn between everything I’ve ever been taught, and what I can see right in front of me.

“I need space,” I say abruptly, and walk away from him. I just need a moment to clear my head. I need to think and figure things out.

I walk through to the next section of the spa and find myself face-to-face to with one of the ladies who works here.

“Mrs. Dubrov. How do you like our spa?” she asks kindly.

“It’s lovely,” I reply.

“But why do you look so upset?”

“I’m just—I don’t know.”

“Come on. I think you need to soak in one of the Jacuzzis. The hot water and massage function will have you feeling relaxed in no time at all.”

She leads me through to a private room with bamboo walls, soft lighting and gentle music playing from speakers I can’t see.

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