Page 65 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
The door swings open and Sasha steps inside, face grim. “No news,” he says, cutting straight to the chase.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him, holding up my phone. “Semion just called.”
“What did he say?” he asks, his eyes alight with anger.
“He’s got her. Wants the Westside and Pier 18 in exchange.”
Sasha’s eyes go wide. “You’re not actually considering giving him that!” he shouts. “That’s more than half of our income.”
I stare at him for a long beat, the fire in my chest crystallizing into something colder and sharper.
“I’m going to let him think I am,” I say, low. “But there’s no way in hell that bastard gets away with touching my woman. He’s going to wish he never had.”
Sasha’s lips curve into a cruel, knowing grin.
“Good,” he growls. “Because I’m ready to bury him.”
27
NICOLE
My head pounds when I come to. A slow, dull ache throbs behind my eyes, spreading outward in waves that make it nearly impossible to think. I try to move, but my limbs won’t cooperate. They feel heavy, disconnected, like they belong to someone else entirely. I must be drugged.
Then I realize why: I’m restrained. The cold bite of metal digs into my wrists, and panic floods me instantly.
I snap my eyes open, desperate to figure out where the hell I am. The room is dim, lit by a single bulb hanging overhead that sways slightly, casting long, eerie shadows across the floor. Bare cement walls and floor surround me. There are no windows in this room. It’s small, musty, and drafty.
I’d know the smell of a New York basement anywhere, though I’m not exactly sure whose basement it is. All I know is that I’m alone, chained to a chair, and I have no idea how I got here.
My pulse thunders in my ears as fragments of the night claw their way back to the surface. I remember bolting from Sergei’s mansion in a panic. I was driving down a dark road, terrifiedabout my next move. Then headlights filled my mirrors, boxing me in.
My breath comes in short, ragged gasps as I look myself over. My shirt is wrinkled and dusty, one of the straps torn. My legs are scraped. My forehead stings. I lift my head and find a thick, sticky crust of dried blood at my hairline.
Who did this to me? Questions swarm, but one truth cuts through—I have to get the hell out of here. It doesn’t matter who took me; what matters is that I get free.
I yank at the chains, but they don’t budge. They’re anchored to the chair, which is bolted to the floor. I twist and pull, ignoring the bite of metal against my skin. My wrists are already raw, but I keep yanking. Panic doesn’t care that it’s futile.
“Hello?” I cry out, my voice hoarse and cracking. “Is anyone there?”
There’s no response, just the soft hum of the light above me and the rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the far corner. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through the fear, but it’s no use. I’m suffocating. The damp basement air doesn’t help.
A door creaks somewhere above me, and I jolt upright at the sound. I’m terrified of who might be coming down the stairs, but I need to act brave. They can’t know how scared I already am.
Footsteps descend the stairs, and a woman emerges in pale blue scrubs and white sneakers. Her hair is pulled into a bun, her eyes lined with exhaustion. She’s a nurse, that much is clear.
“Hi,” she says gently when she sees me watching her. “You’re awake.”
No shit,I want to say. But I bite it back. This woman might be my only chance of salvation. She walks toward me slowly, cautious and non-threatening, like someone would approach a feral animal. She sets a small white medical kit on the floor before kneeling beside me.
“Don’t be afraid,” she says, her voice low and even. “I’m just here to check on you. Can I take a look at that cut?”
My throat is sandpaper, but I manage one nod.
She opens the kit and dabs my forehead with sterile gauze, her movements practiced. It stings, but I don’t flinch.
“Where am I?” I ask, my voice trembling despite my best effort.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t tell you that.”
