Page 16 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

“No shit.”

I walk toward Yuri’s body and crouch beside him. “Look at me,” I say, voice low but cutting.

His eyelids flutter, lashes crusted with sweat. He doesn’t respond.

I slap him. Not hard, just enough to jolt him, and his eyes snap open.

“Still in there?” I murmur, watching the panic spark briefly in the dullness of his gaze.

He tries to speak. Nothing comes out but a croaked breath.

“You’re not dying yet,” I say, voice level. “Not until I know every name. Every deal. Every fuckup you sold us out for.”

A tear slips down the side of his face.

I reach into my coat and pull out the knife I always carry—thin, surgical, not for combat but for statements.

I press the flat of the blade against his cheek.

“Do you know how many of my men are dead because of you?” I ask, letting the metal kiss his skin, letting him feel the chill. “They died not knowing why their safe houses weren’t safe anymore. Not knowing how the Italians got our drop points. They died with bullets in their throats while you were whispering into someone else’s phone.”

His breathing quickens. Blood bubbles at the edge of his mouth.

“Now you’re going to stay alive,” I whisper. “You’re going to bleed for me. Not out. Not yet. Not until every name falls from your mouth like a confession.”

I pull the blade away and wipe it on the mattress, then stand.

Boris watches me with the kind of silence that comes from long years of knowing how far I’ll go. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.

“He’s not going to last much longer,” he says.

“He will.” I glance toward the window. “When the doctor gets here, she’ll patch him up enough to talk.”

“What about afterward?”

I look at him. “That entirely depends on Yuri here.”

There’s a beat of silence, filled only by Yuri’s ragged breath and the wind groaning against the house.

Then—headlights cut through the woods. They flash once across the window, high and clean, bouncing off tree trunks and the battered siding of the farmhouse.

Boris straightens. “That’s them.”

I nod once.

He’s out the door in seconds, boots heavy against the porch. I follow slower, the cigarette now burned down to the filter. I flick it into the grass as the car doors open.

Two of my men step out. Neither meets my eyes. I already know why.

The back door of the SUV swings open.

She’s crumpled on the back seat. Curled inward like her body tried to protect itself from what was coming. Still dressed in her coat, hair a tangled halo against the upholstery. Her face is slack, unconscious.

I stare down at her for a long moment. The doctor.The one Boris found.

Not one of ours. Not trained, not vetted. Just stolen.

“Alive?” I ask without looking away.

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