Page 23 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
First of all, why in heaven’s name was she still crying? And second, why did the masked man not shoot her? Not that I wished he had or anything—just curious. He walked away. Why?
But in my case, he didn’t only point his gun at me; he almost pulled the fuckin’ trigger.
Maybe it was a different assassin from the one in the maid’s room.
For sure, that was my voice of fear; I was positive.
The voice continued,Maybe the guy she met had a conscience, and that’s why he walked away, leaving her alive.
There’s that. And then there’s also the fact that she might not have been the target. Wren was,said another voice.
I got out of bed, wiping a palm over my face. Could I really have been the target? But why? Who’d want me dead? I was just a prisoner here, nothing more.
Given that my jailer was most probably a Mafia boss, the attack from last night could be tied to one of his many enemies. I mean, the man must’ve pissed off a lot of folks in his line of work. Maybe one of them got fed up and decided to take him out.
I refused to accept that I was targeted last night because it was easier to believe that one of my jailer’s enemies had come for him. Not me. If I were shot, I would’ve been collateral damage. It made more sense that way.
My fingers combed through my hair as I paced back and forth, trying to steady my uneven breaths. I couldn’t stop wondering how I got myself into such a mess, getting entangled with a man who attracted death and chaos like steel to a magnet.
That man saved your life, though,I was reminded.
True. He had. If it weren’t for him, that assassin would’ve shot me in cold blood. His heroic action now begged the question: Was he really my enemy? Was he the one that I should be worrying about?
I heaved a sigh, rubbed my eyes, and then headed out. By now, the whole house had already been cleaned up—the blood, the bodies—except for the bullet holes in the walls. Those were still there. I walked down the hallway, wondering where my jailer’s master bedroom was. I figured he’d be in there resting.
Last I checked, he was bleeding on his arm when he came barging in to save me last night. Not that his safety mattered to me. I just felt the need to at least thank him for his intervention.
A maid who’d just rounded a corner bumped into me by accident.
“Oh, my God!” she yelped, her palm flying to her chest, her eyes slamming shut.
The poor girl must still be traumatized by the attack; the terror simmering in her gaze said it all. She must have thought she’d collided with another armed assailant.
“Hey.” I gripped her shoulders, feeling her tremble beneath my hands. “It’s just me. It’s just me, okay?” My voice was sharp and clear enough to cut through her fear.
She stopped shaking, opened one eye, and the moment she realized who was holding her, she let her guard down. “Oh, Miss Wren.” A deep sigh of relief left her lips. “I’m sorry, I panicked,” she said, her voice thick with her Russian accent.
“It’s alright.” I straightened, watching her avoid my gaze—not out of spite, but rather, respect.
Strange. I was just a prisoner and no more important than she was. Why the reverence I saw in her behavior: bowed head, lowered eyes, hands clasped in front of her like I was the lady of the house? It unsettled me how she stood there, cold and submissive, like I had the power to decide whether she lived or died.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
With her chin still resting on her chest, she answered, her voice barely above a whisper, “Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am? That wasn’t spooky at all.
I wasn’t her mistress; hell, I wasn’t even free myself.
“Your boss, where is he?” I added, ignoring her weird behavior.
“In his study.”
I had no idea where that was. And as though she read my mind, the maid pointed me in the right direction.
“Second door on your left,” she said.
“Alright. Thank you.”
