Page 97 of My Best Friend Is Broken
It’s brave. Incredibly, impossibly brave.
All I can do is sit in silence, hands clenched in my lap, desperately trying not to fall apart completely. Trying not to think about Wayne and prison and all the times I was powerless and afraid. Trying not to spiral into the kind of panic that will make me useless when we might need to run or fight or think our way out of this.
The drive feels endless and far too short all at once. When we finally pull to a stop, I peer out the window and see we are indeed in some kind of industrial area. Warehouses and abandoned buildings, the sort of place where screams would go unnoticed.
But we’re led into a basement flat under a small disused office block, rather than a warehouse, which is somehowboth better and worse. It’s dingy, yes, all peeling wallpaper, water stains on the ceiling, furniture that’s seen better decades. But it’s also clearly lived in, with the detritus of human habitation scattered around. Takeaway containers, a jacket thrown over a chair, a television remote on the coffee table.
Someone lives here. Or lived here recently. Which means this is probably a safe house, a place the Russians use when they need to lie low or conduct business away from prying eyes.
Two of the men gesture us toward a sagging sofa. We sit, and one of the Russians positions himself in front of the door, arms crossed, glowering at us like we might spontaneously combust if he looks away.
The other three disappear through another door, their voices carrying in rapid Russian that I can’t understand. I hear what sounds like arguing, or maybe just heated discussion. Either way, it doesn’t sound good.
Molly takes my hand, his fingers threading through mine with gentle pressure. At first, I think he’s being kind, offering comfort in a terrifying situation.
Then I feel how much he’s shaking.
It’s subtle. He’s doing a remarkable job of hiding it, but his hand is trembling in mine, his breathing slightly too fast despite the calm expression on his face. He’s not as composed as he seems. He’s just very, very good at pretending.
The realization ignites something in me. Something I thought prison had beaten out of me entirely. My old protective instinct, the need to look after people, to be the one who keeps others safe.
Molly has been so brave, so strong, cracking jokes and maintaining his composure for both our sakes. The least I can do is be strong for him too.
I squeeze his hand back, trying to channel some reassurance, some promise that we’re going to get through this together. And as I sit there, the panic that’s been threatening to overwhelm me starts to crystalize into something else.
Determination.
I’m going to get us both out of here. I don’t know how yet, don’t have a plan or resources or anything beyond sheer stubborn will. But I survived five years in Brixton. I survived Wayne and everything else that hellhole threw at me. I can survive this.
We can survive this.
Besides, Nicky is going to be coming for me.
The door opens, and the three Russians who left return with a fourth man. This one is different. Older, better dressed, carrying himself with an air of authority that the others lack. His expensive suit is perfectly tailored, his shoes polished to a mirror shine, and when he walks into the room, the other men straighten up like soldiers in the presence of a general.
This is their boss. Their version of a capo or deputato. The pakhan, or whatever the proper Russian term is. The man who makes decisions and gives orders and holds their lives in his hands.
His eyes sweep over me and then land on Molly. They widen, and the color drains from his face.
“That’s Molly Ajello,” he says, his voice sharp with something that might be horror.
For a brief moment, I’m confused. Molly and Dario aren’t married. Molly has said several times that he is impatiently waiting for Dario to ‘get on with it’. But at the moment, Molly isn’t officially an Ajello.
Then, as I look at the hard faces of the men holding us captive, I realize that in this world, pieces of paper mean jack shit.
“You’ve taken Molly Ajello?”
“Yes, boss,” one of the kidnappers confirms, sounding uncertain now.
“What the fuck have you done?” The boss’s voice rises, genuine panic bleeding through his controlled exterior.
The Russians look at each other, confusion and dawning fear on their faces. One of them, the brick wall who first showed us his gun, speaks up defensively. “Wives and children are out of bounds, but boy toys aren’t. We thought…”
The boss’s hand moves faster than I can track, connecting with the speaker’s face in a slap that echoes through the small room. The big man staggers backward, hand flying to his reddening cheek.
“Boy toys?” The boss’s voice is dangerously quiet now. “You think Dario Ajello considers Molly a toy? You think the man who killed his own brother to make Molly his, is going to shrug this off because you made a technical distinction?”
The silence that follows is deafening.
