Page 49 of Captured By the Bratva

CATHY

The hours crawl by with a relentless, heavy silence that presses down on me, making the walls of this room feel as if they’re closing in, inch by inch.

The windows are tall but heavily barred, offering only thin strips of light that never seem to reach the far corners of the room. I pace the floor, my footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet, the echo of each step muted, as if the house itself is conspiring to keep me silent, contained.

I lose track of how long I’ve spent staring at the door, willing it to open, to let me out. When it finally creaks, it’s Anya who steps inside, bringing a tray with sweet smelling soup on top.

“Thank you, Anya,” I murmur as she sets down the soup. “I’m guessing he’s told you not to let me out.”

She smiles. “Didn’t tell me I couldn’t bring these in.” She places a stack of books on the table with my manuscript beside it.

I skim through titles, ranging from thick, heavy classics to practical guides, including, oddly enough, a book on Russian. I dive into it, desperate for an escape from the confines of this room, even if it’s only in my mind.

“You seem very tired, golubushka,” Anya says softly, breaking my focus on a passage in Russian. She watches me with her soft, knowing eyes, and I nod, rubbing a hand over my face. “You should eat.”

“It’s hard not to be tired,” I admit. “Did you know who my father was?”

She nods, her lips forming a sympathetic line. “I was under strict orders not to tell you.”

“What do you know about him? About my father, I mean?”

“A cruel man with a penchant for sleeping with his servants. Your mother was better off without him in her life, trust me.”

“But what about my inheritance? Why do I get his money?”

“Because Robert and the rest of his family died in a car bombing two years ago. That leaves his money sitting gathering dust and his executor looking for an heir. That’s you.”

“And now Ivan’s going to take my money.”

“You think he married you for your money? He is a billionaire, little dove. He has no need of your money.”

“So why not tell me about it?”

“Because he has laid a trap. He needs your ex to come here to get you. That’s why he took your phone. Doesn’t want you giving Jimmy a clue that something isn’t right.”

“Why doesn’t he ever talk to me about things?”

“He is frustrated. Ivan doesn’t like waiting, doesn’t like losing control. Now eat. Keep up your strength. Then I can teach you some Russian if you like. That way you can insult Ivan in his own language.”

33

CATHY

The days pass in a strange, muffled blur until I lose all track of them. It could be a week in here or a month. I’ve no idea anymore. The room feels heavier each day, the walls pressing in, every shadow longer and darker. I try working on my manuscript but the words won’t come.

Instead, I lose myself in the pages of Anya’s books, seeking out words, stories, anything to take my mind off the relentless silence. She starts bringing me more variety—a mix of novels, cookbooks, and an older Russian language guide.

She lingers in the doorway each time she brings a meal, her warm gaze filled with sympathy, but she doesn’t press me to talk.

Anya comes in one evening with dinner. I glance at her gratefully, taking the tray and settling back into the armchair. “Thank you,” I say quietly, appreciating her steady presence.

She gives me a soft smile. “You’re welcome, golubushka. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m in a prison,” I murmur, more to myself than to her, though she nods in sympathy. “It’s exhausting, being here like this.”

I sigh, setting my tray down and rubbing my temples. “How long have I been here, Anya? It’s hard to tell, days just blur together.”

Anya pauses, counting the days in her head. “You’ve been in this house around seven weeks now, give or take,” she says, her voice calm.

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