Page 18 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

A grin pulls at my lips. Vera’s compassion is rare in my world, but I’ve seen how effective it can be. “Then do what you must. Just remember where your loyalty lies.”

“With you, Mr. Sharov,” she says firmly. “Always.”

“Good,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “That’s all for now.”

“Of course. I’ll check on her shortly.”

I hang up, my thoughts shifting back to the girl. Vera’s natural warmth might be exactly what’s needed. She’ll soften the edges, make the girl feel like she has an ally in this house. That’s fine—so long as Vera remembers that kindness is a tool, no different from fear or control.

The door creaks open, and Andrei steps in, his expression unreadable. “She’s been moved,” he says, leaning casually against the frame. “Upstairs. One of the bedrooms like you asked.”

“And?” I prompt.

“She hasn’t woken up yet,” he continues. “Still out cold. Vera’s keeping an eye on her now.”

I nod, my focus narrowing. “Good. Let her rest for now.”

Andrei tilts his head, studying me with a sly grin. “You’re putting a lot of effort into this girl, Boss. What makes her so interesting?”

I glance at him, my smirk faint but sharp. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

Andrei chuckles, shaking his head as he pushes off the doorframe. “Well, I’ll leave you to your scheming.”

He leaves, the door clicking shut behind him, and I lean back in my chair.

The pieces are in place. Now, I wait to see how she moves.

Chapter Seven - Hannah

The first thing I notice when I wake is the softness beneath me. My eyes flutter open, my vision blurry as I take in the ornate ceiling above—a chandelier hanging in the center, its crystals catching the soft morning light.

This isn’t my apartment.

I sit up abruptly, my heart racing. The room is luxurious, decorated in warm tones with heavy velvet curtains draped over tall windows. The bed I’m lying in is massive, its headboard carved with intricate designs.

Panic surges as the memories come rushing back. Kris. The basement. The gunshot that still echoes in my mind.

Him.

Makar Sharov.

The image of him standing over Kris’s trembling body, calm and detached as he pulled the trigger, sends a shiver down my spine. I had heard about men like him, but seeing it—seeing him—was something else entirely.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet touching the plush rug. My body feels heavy, sluggish, and my head pounds faintly. The last thing I remember is calling the police, the pressure at the back of my neck, and then—nothing.

Where am I now?

I move cautiously, glancing around the room. There’s a wardrobe in the corner, a polished vanity table, and a door slightly ajar that leads to what I assume is an en suite bathroom. Everything looks expensive, pristine.

I need to get out of here.

The door creaks softly as I push it open, stepping into a long hallway lined with artwork and elegant sconces. The house—or mansion, judging by the opulence—is silent, but the quiet hum of distant activity makes my pulse quicken.

I follow the hallway, my bare feet making no sound against the hardwood floor. At the end of the corridor, a grand staircase spirals downward into what looks like a sprawling foyer.

I descend the stairs quickly, my heart pounding as I glance around for an exit. The massive front door looms ahead, but when I try the handle, it doesn’t budge. Locked.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, glancing around desperately. My eyes catch on a telephone sitting on a small table by the wall.

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