Page 27 of Dangerous Beginnings

Barefoot, I step out, the icy black tiles beneath my feet sending shivers racing up my spine. The hallway stretches long and foreboding, illuminated only by faint golden sconces. Doors line either side like gaping mouths leading to unknown depths. It feels endless, a labyrinth built to disorient and swallow. Each step echoes faintly, a sound I hate but can’t avoid.

I turn a corner, my heart hammering in my chest, and spotan open door ahead. A faint glow spills out, beckoning and threatening all at once. Slowly, I approach, pressing my body to the wall and craning my neck to peer inside. Empty. A flickering lamp casts dim light over a shadowed office.

My feet hesitate before stepping inside. The air here is different—thicker, heavier, as though the room holds secrets it doesn’t want me to find. I feel for a light switch, my fingers brushing against the cool metal. The room illuminates in a soft, golden glow, revealing walls of dark gray and sleek, modern furniture. An imposing desk dominates the center, its surface cluttered with papers and files. Nearby, a leather chair sits in front of a bank of monitors.

Curiosity, reckless and desperate, drives me closer. My fingers graze the cold metal of the keyboard as I turn on the screens. The image flickers to life, and my blood runs cold. The cell.My cell.The screen shows the barren concrete room where I’ve been held, now empty but suffocatingly familiar. A chill washes over me as realization sinks in. He watched me. Every second.

Swallowing hard, I glance at the desk, its surface strewn with papers, most stamped with the Bratva insignia. The Cyrillic text means little to me, but one word stands out like a dagger to the gut.

Bratva.

Russian mafia.

Panic blooms in my chest as I rifle through the papers with shaking hands. File after file, written in Russian, incomprehensible and frustrating. Then, buried beneath the stack, a white folder marked in bold red letters: English. I snatch it up, flipping through its pages with frantic desperation. The details are sparse, but the truth is unmistakable.

I step back, the folder slipping from my fingers. My breathing quickens, the walls closing in. My eyes dart around the room for something—anything—to use. I spot a photograph on the desk,framed in gold. A young girl with red hair stares back at me, her features delicate and strikingly similar to his.His sister.A knot forms in my stomach. He possibly told me the truth, at least about her.

The sound of my breathing is deafening as I turn back to the desk. The computer beckons, a gateway to the outside world. But the screen is locked, demanding a password. My fingers hover over the keys, hopeless. I don’t know his name. I don’t know anything. I slam my fist lightly against the desk, frustration bubbling over.

“Fuck,” I hiss through gritted teeth, my voice barely audible but sharp in the silence.

I try to steady my breath, clutching the edge of my sweater with white-knuckled hands. My mind races, screaming at me to think of something,anything. But my thoughts spiral uselessly. My chest feels tight. I’m wasting time, and I know it.

Then, footsteps.

The sound is slow, deliberate, echoing down the hallway like a countdown to my demise. My heart feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest. I glance around the room, weighing my options. Hide? No. It’s pointless. He’ll know I’m here. My legs feel like lead as I lower myself into the leather chair, the material creaking under my weight. I sink back, wishing it could swallow me whole.

The door swings open, and the first thing I see is the polished toe of his boot. My throat tightens as he steps inside, the air growing heavier with every inch of his towering frame. He’s carrying two plates, the scent of warm food wafting through the room and making my stomach twist with hunger.

He sets the plates on the desk without a word, his movements calm but charged with unspoken tension. My eyes follow him as he retrieves a wooden chair from the corner, dragging it to the other side of the desk. I make a move to stand, to take the chairbefore he does, but he beats me to it, lowering himself with a quiet finality.

“Sit.”

The command is soft, but it carries an unyielding weight. My body reacts before my mind catches up, sinking back into the chair like a scolded child. I feel small on his side of the desk, out of place and exposed.

He slides one of the plates toward me, along with a fork. I hesitate, then pick it up with trembling fingers. The first bite of pasta hits my tongue and all pretense of restraint crumbles. I eat ravenously, shoveling the food into my mouth as though it’s my last meal.

I can feel his gaze, sharp and unrelenting, but I don’t dare meet it. When I finish my plate, he slides his half-eaten one toward me without a word.

“Thank you,” I mumble, my voice barely audible as I devour the second plate.

His next words freeze me mid-bite.

“What exactly was your plan with the razor blade in your bra, Isabella?”

My stomach drops, and I choke, swallowing the lump of food with difficulty. My hands instinctively move to my chest, but I stop myself, realizing it’s useless. Slowly, I retrieve the blade, placing it into his outstretched hand without meeting his gaze. I feel his fingers brush the edge of the blade, their grip deliberate and unyielding.

He slips the blade into his pocket, there goes my self-defense.

The moment I finish eating, I place the fork on the edge of the plate with deliberate slowness. The metal makes a sharp clink that echoes unnaturally loud in the room. My hand trembles slightly as I pull it back into my lap, I don’t want to look at him.

God, I don’t want to, but I can feel his eyes burning into me, heavy and inescapable. It’s like gravity. The more I try to avoidhis gaze, the more I feel it—pulling, demanding. But I can’t bring myself to meet it. Not yet.

He’s seated across from me, but his presence looms like a shadow over the entire room. Tall, far too tall, with shoulders that seem to stretch the fabric of his perfectly tailored black suit. The suit feels like a costume for a predator. Like a wolf dressed as a man, playing some civilized game before it pounces. His fingers, large and inked, rest casually on the armrests of his chair, tapping with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

I swallow hard, my throat dries as dust, the back of my neck prickling with unease. There’s no sound except for the tapping of his fingers. He hasn’t spoken yet, and every second that passes without a word feels like a noose tightening around my throat. I want to disappear. I want to run. But the leather beneath me creaks as I shift, reminding me how trapped I am.

I don’t dare to speak. My throat is parched, my words locked behind a wall of fear. I feel small, like a child caught red-handed with stolen candy—except the stakes here are far deadlier. The truth is suffocating, pressing down on my chest like a weight I can’t lift.

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