Page 14 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“Clean this up,” Makar says, his tone devoid of emotion.

Andrei nods, stepping forward to motion for the other men to begin their work.

Makar turns toward the door, and for a terrifying second, I think he’s going to catch me. My breath catches, and I shrink back, my body pressed flat against the wall.

Then it happens.

A small, involuntary cry escapes my lips. It’s barely a sound, but in the oppressive quiet that follows the gunshot, it feels deafening.

The footsteps stop.

A shiver of fear ripples down my spine as I hear Andrei’s voice, sharp and alert. “Did you hear that?”

“Check the hallway,” Makar orders, his tone calm but commanding.

Panic seizes me. I turn and run, my shoes thudding against the floor as I race toward the nearest door. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.

“Someone’s here,” Andrei growls from behind me.

I don’t look back. My hands fumble with the doorknob of a storage room, and I slip inside, closing the door as quietly as I can. The space is cramped, filled with shelves of cleaning supplies and crates of liquor. The air smells of bleach and damp cardboard.

I crouch behind a stack of boxes, pulling my phone from my pocket with trembling hands. My fingers fumble as I swipe to unlock it, the screen seeming impossibly bright in the dim room.

I press the emergency service and bring the phone to my ear, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

The operator picks up after a single ring. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“I—” My voice cracks, and I force myself to speak louder. “There’s a man. At the Ember House. He just—”

Before I can finish, something cold and hard presses against the back of my neck.

My body freezes, every nerve screaming in alarm. The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the floor.

“Big mistake,” a low voice murmurs behind me, right before everything goes black.

***

My head feels like it’s full of cotton, muffling everything around me. A dull ache pulses at the back of my skull, and the sharp jostling of my body against something hard snaps me into a hazy awareness.

The smell of leather and gasoline hits my nose first. Then, the faint murmur of voices filters through the fog clouding my senses.

“She’s out cold,” a deep voice says, gruff and low.

“Good,” another voice responds, sharper. “Keep her that way until we’re back.”

My heart lurches, the words cutting through my disorientation like a blade. Where am I? What’s happening?

The jostling continues, and I become vaguely aware that I’m being carried. My limbs feel heavy, sluggish, and uncooperative as I try to move. Panic claws at my throat as I force my eyes open. The world around me is dim, the only light coming from a distant streetlamp.

A man’s face looms above me—dark hair, sharp features, and cold eyes. His expression is unreadable, but the sight of him sends a fresh wave of fear surging through me.

“Got the girl,” he says into a phone pressed to his ear, his tone calm and detached.

The girl.Me.

I try to move, my hands twitching weakly at my sides. A faint groan escapes my lips, and the man’s eyes snap down to mine.

“She’s stirring,” he mutters, annoyance flashing across his face.

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