Page 15 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“Keep her under control,” the other voice snaps, now close enough to feel like it’s inside my pounding head.

Before I can fully comprehend the situation, I’m shoved unceremoniously into the back of a car. My body hits the seat hard, and the force sends another jolt of pain through my head.

“Stop fighting,” the man growls, grabbing my arm to keep me still as I weakly thrash against him.

“Let me go,” I manage to croak, my voice barely above a whisper. My throat feels raw, like I haven’t spoken in hours.

He doesn’t respond, his grip tightening. The sharp edge of his gaze slices through me as he mutters something under his breath.

I try to fight again, my limbs trembling with effort. The leather beneath me feels suffocating, the small space of the car pressing in on all sides. My vision swims, but I catch a glimpse of the man’s face again, his lips moving as he speaks into the phone.

“She’s more trouble than I expected,” he says, his tone clipped.

My breaths come in shallow gasps, my mind spinning as I try to piece together what’s happening. Why is this happening? Who is this man?

The questions slip away as darkness closes in once more, pulling me under before I can find the answers.

Chapter Six - Makar

The basement is silent except for the faint hum of the overhead bulb that sways slightly, casting shifting shadows on the cold, gray walls. The smell of damp concrete fills the air, the floor beneath my boots hard and unforgiving. Hannah lies crumpled on the floor, her breathing shallow and uneven.

I lean against the far wall, arms crossed, watching her. She’s small, pale against the stark grayness of the room. Her dark hair spills across the floor, and for a moment, I study her features—the faint tremble of her lips, the delicate curve of her neck.

There’s something about her. Something that gnaws at the edges of my memory.

“Who are you?” I murmur, my voice low, though there’s no one here to answer.

Her stillness is unnerving. She stirs faintly, a soft whimper escaping her lips, but her eyes remain shut. The sight is almost… pitiful. Almost.

The sound of boots on the stairs pulls my attention, and I glance toward the doorway as Andrei descends, his expression as stoic as ever. He holds a slim folder in one hand, flipping through its contents as he steps into the room.

“Boss,” he says, snapping the folder shut. “Got what you asked for.”

“Good,” I reply, straightening. “What did you find?”

He glances down at her, his lip curling faintly before he meets my gaze again. “Her name’s Hannah Fox. Twenty-one. Moved here from Montana about two years ago for school. She’s studying art at one of the local universities. Works nights at the Ember House to pay the bills.”

Art. The word feels oddly fitting. She looks like she belongs in a painting—soft features, striking in a way that’s difficult to define. I push the thought aside.

“No family?” I ask.

Andrei shakes his head. “None. Parents are dead, no siblings, no close relatives. She’s completely alone.” He smirks faintly. “Lucky for us. Makes cleanup easier if we need to.”

I shoot him a look, and his smirk fades.

I step closer to her, my boots scraping faintly against the floor. Her chest rises and falls with slow, shallow breaths. “She’s no one,” I say quietly, more to myself than to him.

“No one,” Andrei echoes, his tone matter-of-fact. “She still saw too much. She called the cops. You know what that means.”

I glance back at him. “I’ll decide what happens to her.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. “Fair enough. But you know what I think.”

“Do I ever care what you think?” I reply, my tone dry.

Andrei chuckles, but there’s tension behind it. “No, but you pay me to say it anyway.”

I crouch beside her, resting one elbow on my knee. Up close, I can see the faint freckles on her nose, the dark lashes that cast shadows on her pale skin. Something about her feels… familiar.

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