Page 81 of Cinderella and the Daddy
I don’t let them see my fear.
Hehasto find me.
“Let’s just say my Bratva guy is better than yours,” Anna says with a smile. “We win. You lose. Your new boyfriend loses.”
“Jealous?” I ask sweetly. “I saw your Bratva guy. Trust me, you can keep him.”
“Careful, Cinderella, you’re talking about his nephew,” Drew chides.
My eyes go back to the older man. He looks vaguely familiar. Have I seen him before?
"Six months ago, Luka intercepted a shipment meant for my organization. Inside that container were very valuable items. Items I want returned."
The rope gives another millimeter. I can feel individual strands snapping, but there are still too many holding me. "Even ifthat were true, I wouldn't know anything about it. Luka doesn't involve me in his business."
"Perhaps not," Yuri concedes. "But he'll involve himself in yours. You see, Miss Russo, you've become quite valuable to us. Not for what you know, but for what you represent."
"Bait," Drew adds with obvious relish. "Sweet, innocent bait."
My stomach clenches with something that has nothing to do with morning sickness. "He won't fall for it. Luka's too smart."
"Is he?" Anna tilts her head, studying me like I'm an interesting insect. "Smart enough to resist when we send him pieces of you? Smart enough to think clearly when he knows his precious girlfriend is in another man’s bed?”
The casual way she says it, the matter-of-fact tone, makes it worse than screaming would have. She means it. They all mean it.
“We know he thinks you’re worth at least five million,” Yuri says. “My shipment was worth about that much. Let’s see if he’s willing to trade.”
"You're monsters," I whisper.
"We're survivors," Drew corrects. "And survival sometimes requires unpleasant choices."
And then I remember that dinner. That man had offered to buy me.
Luka shut him down.
Drew reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver lighter. With a practiced flick of his thumb, a flame springs to life, small and bright in the dim warehouse.
"Do you remember this?" he asks conversationally, holding the lighter up so I can see it clearly. "Dad gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. Said it was a family heirloom."
I remember. I also remember him using it to burn my arms when I was thirteen, holding the flame just close enough to blister my skin without leaving marks that would be too obvious. The memory makes my wrists work faster against the rope, desperation overriding caution.
Drew begins to move closer, the flame dancing hypnotically as he walks. "I always loved how you looked in firelight, Cindy. So pale and pretty. Like a little ghost."
He crouches down beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from the flame on my cheek. The gasoline fumes are a reminder of how close I am to dying a horrible death.
"Just think," he murmurs, his voice soft and intimate, like we're sharing a secret. "All it would take is one little accident. One tiny slip of my finger, and whoosh." He makes a soft sound, almost like a sigh.
The lighter moves closer, close enough that I can feel individual tongues of flame licking at my skin.
"I wonder what Luka will think when he finds what's left of you. If there's enough left to identify, that is. Gasoline burns so very hot."
I can’t breathe.
This can’t be happening.
They need me alive. I’m useless dead.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
