Page 12 of Sheltering Hollis

Dimitri glanced at me, his eyes steady and unreadable, his jaw ticking. “Bogotá. We’re in Bogotá, Colombia.”

My heart sank further. I was thousands of miles away from home, from Olive. The thought of my little girl, alone and scared, fueled my determination to find a way out of this nightmare. I had to get back to her, no matter what it took.

“Wow, ok.” I tried not to panic.

The streets of Bogotá blurred past us, a chaotic blend of colors, sounds, and smells. The air was thick with the scent of grilled meats and tropical flowers, a sensory overload that made my head spin.

I looked over at the man next to me. “What will you do with me?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw tightening as he stared out the window for a moment. “What do you think I’ll do with you?”

“Jesus, fuck,” the man said from the front seat. “Why did you take one of them? This is just going to complicate shit.” He ran his hands through his black hair, tearing at it while he looked at me, frustrated. “Your brother isn’t going to be pleased.

Dimitri’s face morphed into anger, and he fired off rapidly in a language I didn’t understand to the other man. Russian maybe? They had said Bratva in the warehouse. Weren’t they like the mafia? Great. I looked at the floor.

“That’s Luka. He’s an asshole.” Dimitri glared at the man in the passenger seat as if he could incinerate him in the seat. “Don’t worry about him. He apologizes for his poor manners.”

“Okay,” I managed, keeping my hands together in my lap. If anything, Luka seemed oddly upset. I tried to puzzle it out. “Are you from the US?” I asked, trying to think through a plan. If I were in another country, how would I get home? I had no money or passport, not that I ever had a passport. I’d never been anywhere before. Tears threatened to spill over. Dimitri sounded Russian, which would be bad if he were from Russia and not the US. What if he wasn’t going back to the US? What if I were stuck? I tried to breathe.

I’m okay. I’m okay.

“Luka and I are from the States. We will return there very shortly, and I promise to take you when I go. Look at me,” he ordered.

Hardening my resolve, I pivoted towards him and forced myself to meet his eyes. I thought of Olive alone back home and forced myself to ask another question. “Where do you live?”

Dimitri’s jaw clenched. “It’s complicated. You are trouble — I do not doubt it.” He raised one hand to touch my chin with a tattooed finger. “I will settle this business with this man, and then we will return to the States.” He moved his hand, and I immediately pulled my body back against the seat, far away from his presence. He eyed me carefully and grudgingly said, “I live in Arizona, malysh.”

The tension in the car was palpable, and a silent understanding passed between us. I felt a glimmer of hope for the first time in days: I would get back to Olive. This man was going to help me.

The streets of Bogotá were bustling with activity, a stark contrast to the grim interior of the warehouse. Vendors lined the sidewalks, their colorful stalls a riot of fruits, flowers, and handmade goods. People moved everywhere, and the city was alive with energy and noise, but I didn’t like it. The city moved on outside the window, and my whole world had altered without my permission.

I finally broke the silence, my voice sharper than I intended. “So, what now? Are you just another trafficker, moving me from one prison to the next?” I didn’t think so, but I wanted him to say it.

He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “No. I’m not a fucking trafficker.” He was insulted, his brow furrowed, and his eyes darkened.

“Then what are you?”

He took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on me. “I am Bratva.”

Well, that wasn’t good at all. I read about them in my novels, but this wasn’t a romance. The Bratva. The Russian mob. My heart sank, and I fought to keep my composure. “So, you’re saying ... You’re the bad guy?”

He glanced at me again, his eyes hardening. “Yes, malysh. I’m the bad guy, just a different kind. But I didn’t have to take you out of there. I could have left you with Rodriguez. I didn’t.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” I shot back. “I don’t even know you. For all I know, you’re just using me.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond immediately. We drove in silence for a few more minutes, the chaotic streets of Bogotá flashing past us.

Finally, he spoke, his voice softer. “Make no mistake that we all use each other. You’re using me, and I’m using you. But I need you to understand that I’m not your enemy. I’ll help you.”

“Help,” I repeated, skepticism dripping from my voice. “What’s in it for you?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Information,” he shrugged. “I could only take one of you.” That sounded like a lie, even to me. “You volunteered, malysh. You might know things that could be valuable to me. And in return, I can offer you protection. A way home.”

I studied his profile as he spoke, trying to gauge his sincerity. There was something in his eyes, a glimmer of determination mixed with something else—maybe a hint of humanity, but that could be just a facade. He sat like he owned the world, an arm across the back of the seat, legs spread. Confident of his place.

“Fine,” I said finally, my voice weary. “I want proof that you’re not just another monster.”

He nodded, his expression serious. “Fair enough. I’ll do what I can to earn your trust.”

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