Page 74 of Ruthless Bratva King

They don’t respond.

My heart pounds as I’m forced through the doorway and down into a waiting SUV.

“Dmitri will come for me!” I spit, hoping the defiance in my voice will hide my fear.

The man on my left smirks, a cruel glint in his eye. “That’s the plan, you fucking idiot.”

53

ELENA

Icome around to cold air biting at my skin and the sharp, musty smell of mildew.

My head aches where they knocked me out. My wrists are raw where they’re bound together in front of me.

Disoriented, I try to piece together how I got here, but my thoughts are sluggish, jumbled.

The room is dimly lit by a single, flickering bulb swinging from the ceiling. Shadows dance across cracked, damp walls stained with streaks of rust or something worse.

The air is heavy, and every breath tastes of rot and decay.

I shiver, pulling my legs tighter against my chest. My bare feet rub against the concrete floor, and the sound echoes in the stillness, joined only by the occasional drip of water somewhere out of sight.

Rats skitter in the darkness, the faint scratches sending a chill down my spine.

I will not panic.

My breaths come shallow at first, but I force them deeper, slower. Fear threatens to overtake me, clawing at the edges ofmy control, but I shove it back. Believe in myself. That’s what he taught me.

Panicking won’t help. Staying calm will. He’ll come for me. That thought calms my breathing as I swallow down my terror.

I scan the room, noting the sagging beams overhead and the warped cracks running jaggedly along the walls. The structure is failing, subsiding under its own weight. This place isn’t just old—it’s dying.

Good.

If the building is unstable, maybe I can use that. Maybe there’s a weakness, a way out.

I trace every detail with my eyes, mentally cataloging the information. The water pooling in the far corner must be coming from above—leaking pipes, probably.

The door on the other side of the room is reinforced steel, but the rust at its hinges might buy me a chance.

I shift my wrists against the rough rope, testing the binding. Too tight to slip free, but the chair I’m tied to wobbles slightly. Cheap, flimsy. I could use that, too, if I could figure out how to tip it without breaking my neck.

The creak of the door echoes like a scream in the silence, and I sit up straighter, my heart pounding.

A thin man in his sixties steps inside, his figure outlined in the harsh light spilling from the hall.

His tailored suit looks as out of place here as a diamond necklace in a trash heap, but it suits him.

He shuts the door behind him with a deliberate click, taking his time as he adjusts his cufflinks. His movements are smooth, controlled, like he knows exactly how much space he owns and how little air he’s left me.

“Good morning, Mrs. Chekov,” he says, his voice smooth but cold, laced with a menace that coils in the pit of my stomach. “I trust the accommodations are to your liking?”

I don’t answer. My mouth is dry, my tongue heavy.

He moves closer, his polished shoes silent against the concrete floor. I tilt my chin up, forcing myself to meet his gaze. His eyes are sharp, calculating, the kind that see too much and give away nothing.

“I’m Peter Ivanov,” he says simply, as if his name should explain everything. “I trust you’ve heard of me.”

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