Page 15 of Last Hand

Rebecca steps fully inside now. “You need to see this. It’s about the shipment. Police are raiding the warehouses and have pulled up the ships at the docks.”

That stops him.

He stares at her for a long beat.

Then slowly releases me, letting my body fall back to the stone floor. He nods to his goon, who stops filming. “Edit and send it. That’s good enough for now,” he tells the man, who nods and walks out.

He turns to Rebecca. “Watch her.” His gaze flicks to me briefly. “Clean her up.”

“Will do,” she says quietly.

He turns to leave when she speaks. “Am I allowed to take her up to shower and eat?” she asks, and I peer up at them, though my vision is cloudy on one side with my eye swelling shut.

“Keep Igor with you,” he tells her, only to step closer to her. I cringe, knowing how heavy-handed he can be with my mother, and I don’t fancy witnessing that again. Instead, he cups her face with his huge hand, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. “You can’t keep her. She is not your friend or your pet. Don’t get attached to this one.” His words confuse me, and my mother drops her gaze and nods slowly.

The door shuts behind him.

Rebecca stares at the door for a second and rushes to my side the second he’s gone. I peer up at the camera in the corner. “It doesn’t pick up audio.”

I don’t look at her. I don’t move.

My face throbs. My finger aches. My pride is bloodied and bruised.

She kneels beside me, her movements slow, as she examines my face.

I let her.

“You should have let him take the finger,” I mutter bitterly. “Would’ve been fitting.”

“No,” she says quietly. “That would’ve made it harder to hold the gun when the time comes.”

I freeze.

My eyes flick to hers, searching her expression.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

Rebecca presses a shaking hand to my cheek, and I don’t pull away. Not this time. Her touch is gentle and firm at the same time. Like she’s done this before, helped someone survive worse. It makes me think back to Mikhail telling her, “She isn’t your friend or pet. Don’t get attached to this one.” I’m suddenly curious about what he meant by that.

“Can you stand?” she asks.

I nod, barely. She pulls me to my feet, wrapping one of my arms around her shoulders. I lean into her only because I have to, not because I want to.

When the door opens, Igor is waiting in the hallway.

He’s tall. Built like a wall of cinder blocks. Dark buzz-cut hair. Narrow, cruel eyes that look like they’ve never blinked at anything soft. His arms are thick and covered in faded prison tattoos—Russian symbols I don’t understand, though instinctively distrust.

He says nothing. Just glares at me like I’m not even a person. His hand never leaves the holster on his belt as he follows us up the stairs.

Rebecca keeps her pace slow and steady, murmuring to Igor in Russian from time to time. I don’t understand the words, butI hear the tone. Calm. Almost soothing, like she is trying to stop a rabid animal from pouncing.

Whatever she says, it keeps him from interfering.

When we reach the top of the stairs, she leads me into a large guest room. Clean. Luxurious. The air smells like lavender and soap, and it almost knocks the breath out of me after weeks in the dark.

The bathroom is tiled in marble and lit with soft, warm lights. She helps me inside, and I flinch away when she reaches for my shirt.

“Don’t,” I snap, my voice sharper than I meant. “I can do it.”

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