Page 4 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
Ravyn was the definition of gorgeous. The twenty-one-year-old was blessed with fine curves, long honey-blonde hair always styled to perfection, and a pair of charming blue eyes.
Her clothes were always on point, and today, she was dressed in a pair of designer jeans and a lacy top under a leather jacket.
While she watched TV, I scrolled through my camera, eyes squinting at the lit laptop screen. Some of the shots were throwaways, bad lighting, crooked angles, and so on. However, a few stood out. Like the busker and the crowd, the boy with the angelic smile, and….
My eyes settled on the warehouse shot—clean, sharp, and mysterious.
“I like that one,” Ravyn said from behind me, where she sat with her legs on the coffee table. “It’s giving this…Mafia mystery…thingy.”
I turned back to face her. “Really?”
“Yeah.” She glanced at me. “You should totally post it.” She went back to watching TV.
“Hmm.” I clicked the photo, fingers rattling across the keyboard in a bid to make a few tweaks here and there.
It took me a while to edit the photo, and although most of the suited men were hidden in the shadows, one stood out. This man’s face was partially illuminated by the neon lights, just enough to keep the frame intact and add character to the image.
I uploaded the other photos on my blog, but hesitated for a moment before posting this one. The second I hit the upload button and the image went live, I felt a shiver run down my spine.
“You okay?” Ravyn asked, noticing the twitch in my movement.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
I captioned the photo, Urban Ghosts.
A few likes and comments about the grit and mystery of the shot trickled in shortly after. I responded to the comments, closed my laptop, and turned toward my guest.
“You hungry?”
Her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Thought you’d never ask.”
“Silly goose,” I teased, rising to my feet and heading to the kitchen to fix us something to eat.
Chapter 2 – Val
“Please,” he begged me, his voice weak and barely audible as he hung there with arms stretched up high. “I’ll pay back every dime…. Just show mercy.”
The chains from the rafters above that bound his wrists rattled as he shifted softly. He struggled to gain balance, his bloodied toes scraping the floor, enough to keep him from swaying. But not enough to steady him.
His skin was marred with fresh wounds, blood dripping from his torn flesh, his breath coming ragged. His eyes were shut, red and swollen from all the heavy punches that had almost blinded him completely. His head was slumped, chin resting on his chest.
Blood dripped from his nose and cracked lips, and his neck was dampened with sweat. His whole body trembled, chest rising and falling with painful breaths. His ribs were visible beneath his skin: cracked, broken, dislocated.
“It hurts so badly,” he added, straining to speak. “Make it stop.”
I cut into my steak with slow, deliberate strokes as I quietly chewed, unaffected by his pleas and suffering. I was seated at a table a few paces in front of him, enjoying my meal while my men tortured him. In the background, soft jazz filled the air, blending seamlessly with his screams.
Music to my ears.
A half-empty glass of wine sat on the table, and at my signal, one of my men stepped forward. He lifted the bottle of wine that towered over my plate, opened it, and refilled my glass.
“Thank you, Sergei,” I said without looking at him.
He nodded, taking a step back.
The hanging man kept groaning, too weak to scream, as two of my best men beat the living daylights out of him.
I reached for my glass, lifted it to my lips, and took a sip, savoring the delicious flavor that exploded on my tongue. “Hmm.” I shut my eyes, basking in the taste of the fine wine and the melody of the background music.
