Page 56 of Dark Embers

I take the passports and flip them open. My stomach drops as their names hit me. A breath hisses through my teeth as I snap the covers shut and slam them onto the desk.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter. “What the fuck dotheywant with Tara Craft?” Surely they couldn’t know about the affair?

“They won’t say,” Gunner replies, his tone low and tight. “But they keep asking to speak with Carla Craft.”

I glance at Sabrina, who is standing beside me. Her fingers are clenched, eyes locked on mine. She’s pale, but steady.

“Who are they?” she asks quietly, pointing to the passports.

I pick them up and hand her the passports. She flips one open, brows knitting together. “Who are they?” she repeats, looking up at me.

I take the passports and shove them in a drawer then reach for her hand. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Gunner steps in my path. “They said Carla Craft. Not her daughter. And the dungeon isn’t really the place for a lady.”

“It’s okay Gunner,” Sabrina assures me. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

“And, Carla’s off sipping cocktails with my aunt somewhere in the goddamn Bahamas,” I snap. “Sabrina is the next best thing.”

Gunner studies me for a beat. Then he gives a short nod stepping aside for Sabrina and me to leave the room.

We head to the elevator, descend to the underground level, and pass through the heavy steel door that leads to the dungeon. The air is cooler here, stale with the scent of disinfectant and iron. Along the corridor, security monitors show every hallway and entrance, the feeds flickering in full color. I lead Sabrina past them, toward the old interrogation wing.

“How do you want to play this?” Gunner asks from behind us.

“Bring both of them into the big room,” I tell him, gripping Sabrina’s hand. “But the older of the two first. The one with the scar on his face.”

The hallway ahead is stark, long, and eerily quiet. Metal doors line each side, small square windows offering glimpses into darkness. The overhead fluorescents hum, casting a pale yellow light over the polished concrete.

Sabrina slows, her fingers tightening around mine.

“Which room was Leigh in?” she asks, her voice soft, wary. “The one where she was shot?”

I stop and face her. “My aunt had it destroyed. It leads to the fire exit now. She was here too. She saw what Viktor and Leigh’s mother did. What my uncle—what my father—allowed to happen. She didn’t want any trace of that sickness left.”

Sabrina nods, but the color drains from her face. “You should’ve burned this whole place.”

I squeeze her hand. “This dungeon keeps more than secrets, malenkaya. We don’t just use it for torture. We interrogate thieves, harassers, people who think they can get away with hurting my people.”

“To scare them shitless,” she mutters.

“Exactly.”

We enter the large interrogation room. The walls are bare. No chains, no hooks—just a long steel table bolted to the floor and four reinforced chairs, two with restraints, two without. I pull one of the plain chairs out for Sabrina.

She eyes the metal restraint chairs. “Are those designed for high voltage shocks or just aesthetic?”

I chuckle. “You think so highly of us.”

She shrugs. “If the boot fits.”

I don’t answer because the door swings open again and Gunner strides in, dragging one of the twins with him.

The bastard smirks as soon as he sees me. Then his gaze shifts, settling on Sabrina. He flicks his tongue across his lower lip, eyes moving over her in a way that makes my blood boil.

“I asked for Carla Craft,” he spits in Russian. “Not the slutty daughter. She’s of no use to us. Unless...”

His meaning is clear. I’m across the room in two strides, my hand fisting the front of his shirt as I slam him against the wall and my other hand wraps around his thick neck. Gunner backs off, giving me space.

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