Page 94 of Stolen By The Bratva King

The last part needed no checking; he must have been practicing it. My heart breaks as the meaning becomes clear, and the pain is unbearable.

He doesn’t want to go to the orphanage. He’s asking me to find him a home.

“Oh, Desi. I don’t—I mean, I can’t?—”

The door opens, and a man’s head appears.

“Cleaner,” he says. “Just gotta wipe down the bathroom and empty the trash cans, that okay?”

I’m glad of the intrusion; I need a moment to gather my thoughts.

“Go ahead.”

The man bustles around Desi’s ensuite, and the strong, acrid scent of bleach stings my nostrils—stronger than usual, sharp enough to make my eyes water.

I hold Desi’s little hand, stroking it gently with my thumb as I try to think.

Too much is happening at once.

Where is Jess? She called me in here with a made-up emergency, and I can only think of one reason—someone made her do it, knowing I’d take the bait.

And Desi. She threw that in there, too, a last twist of the knife to make it personal, although that part was true.

This is bad. I can’t yet tell how bad, but I’m not safe here, and neither is Desi.

“‘Scuse me,” the cleaner says behind me, jolting me out of my thoughts. “Can I just?—”

His tone is different. Not polite anymore. Too casual. Alarm bubbles up inside me, but it’s too late.

He leaps on the bed and wraps an arm around my neck, choking my scream. A strong-smelling cloth is clamped over my nose and mouth, and I recognize the sweet pungency that the bleach masked.

Ether.My doctor’s brain rattles off the notes even as my consciousness fogs:

Low cost, easily obtained. High therapeutic index with minimal cardiac and respiratory depression.

My fingers claw at his wrist, nails digging in, scraping skin. It’s like trying to fight through syrup—slow, heavy, useless.

Somewhere in the hazy distance, Desi is crying and trying to fight my attacker. I see the boy fall to the ground, his head cracking against the corner of the nightstand with a sickening thud, but then he’s on his feet, his eyes desperate but fiery.

I want to tell him to run away, but I can do nothing. My limbs are sagging, my body sinking onto the bed as though gravity itself is increasing.

The man’s sneering face appears above me, his voice like an echo in a cave.

“Don’t worry, Emery. Have a sleep; things will look very different when you wake.”

Leon… I’m sorry.

49

Leon

We’re onRusalka, powering back to the dock as fast as possible, the women and children safely below decks.

We have a well-protected safehouse where they can stay tonight; tomorrow, we’ll work on a long-term solution.

I’m not worried about Emery—I doubt even Dante is stupid enough to hang around my apartment, and Felix can handle it—but after all the ugliness I’ve witnessed, her sweet voice will be a welcome respite.

I frown at my cell phone. Still no goddamn signal.

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