by Nicole Fox
I want to tell him I won’t trick Tati like that.
Except, I’m not tricking her.
If all goes to plan, Courtney will be home. Soon.
She’ll come back and live with us and be with us.
So, when I hang up, I go into Courtney’s room and grab her cropped sweatshirt with the hood. I’ve watched her dance in it too many times to count and it smells exactly like her—sweet vanilla and spice.
When I give it to Tati, she clutches the sweater to her chest and then slips it on. The sleeves are laughably long, but because it’s cropped, it actually hits just below her waist. She wraps her arms around herself in a hug, and I silently pray that I’ll find her. That she will come home.
If she doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do.
24
Courtney
The only thing I know is that it has been days.
Days of silence and meals slid under doors and silence. Endless silence.
No one will talk to me.
I can hear voices far in the distance and footsteps moving outside of my door, but otherwise, there is nothing.
No window, nothing to let me know how much time has passed, how many days I’ve been trapped here.
The only thing I can use to judge is the noise on the other side of the door.
For hours and hours at a time everything is silent. Is that night? I think so.
Then, the footsteps return. Voices return.
Daytime.
I count three cycles of that.
I also listen, pressing my ear to the crack in the door as hard as I can, hoping for something useful.
Half of the time the men are speaking in Italian, which tells me all I need to know about who is responsible for the murder of the guard and my kidnapping.
When they aren’t speaking Italian, much of the information is useless. Discussion about which prisoners to feed, who to beat, and the change of the guards.
But no one beats me. Not yet.
Finally, during what I guess is the second day, I hear a guard with a deep baritone voice announce that “the Pig” is here. At first, I don’t understand, thinking maybe they’re talking about lunch.
Then: “Did he come with the lights and sirens or is he here to talk?”
“To talk,” the baritone voice said. “No uniform. He needs to see all of the lieutenants.”
The police.
The Italians have infiltrated the police. It doesn’t do much to help me escape my cell, but it does explain why officers kept showing up at Dmitry’s door. If they were working for the police, they could have been there to see who I was to Dmitry, to determine whether I was worth kidnapping.
Well, if that’s the case, then they did a terrible job.
Dmitry doesn’t care about me.
He was likely days away from kicking me out of his house altogether. He’s probably relieved that I’ve been taken. Now, my father has paid his debts, and Dmitry doesn’t have to worry about keeping me around any longer. He’ll probably be thrilled to be able to finally have other women again. Although he probably had them while he was with me anyway.
I don’t want to think this is true, but I can’t stop my mind from wandering there. When there is no one to speak to and nothing to do aside from listen and think, the dark thoughts grow louder and louder until they push out the light.
Still, even if Dmitry isn’t looking for me, even if he doesn’t care …
I still do.
If I ever get out of here, I want to have useful information, something that can help him take down the Italians and get the corrupt officers ousted. I want the days spent in my cell to be more than stolen. I want them to be worthwhile.
On what I think is the third day, a fight erupts just beyond my door.
I’m sleeping on the thin mat that passes for a bed in this place, tucked into a ball on my side, when a thud against my door jolts me awake.
I sit up and stare at the door, expecting someone to walk through it any second. Instead, there is yelling.
Everything is in Italian, so I don’t understand a word.
I do, however, understand the sound of gunfire.
When the shot rings out, I drop to the floor and tip the flimsy bed onto its side and drag it to the far corner, close to the metal toilet. It won’t offer much in the way of protection if anyone shoots into my room, but it’s better than nothing.
The shot is followed by footsteps and more shouting, and then another flurry of shots.
I press my hands over my ears and make myself as small as possible, hoping to avoid any shots that might ricochet my way.
After what feels like hours but is probably only a couple minutes, the chaos quiets.
The yelling stops and the footsteps fade. Still, I stay hidden for a long time, too afraid to come out. Afraid any movement will alert them to my presence and draw unwanted attention my way.
Finally, I gather my courage and stand up. I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against the crack. As I do, the door shifts in the frame.
I look down and realize that in all of the gunfire, someone shot the lock off the door.
Fingers shaking, I reach for the handle and pull it open.
The hallway is empty, though there’s a splatter of blood on the wall across from me. I blink several times, the vision transferring onto my brain, appearing against my eyelids each time I blink, and then I look away.
I try to focus on what is important: Where am I? Who is nearby? Can I escape?
To my right is a visible dead end, so I turn left, creeping along the hallway with my back pressed to the wall.
I have nothing to defend myself with aside from my two hands. Even then, I don’t want to fight. Not while I’m pregnant.
So far, no one here has hurt me.
I slide down the wall, and I’m a few doors away from mine when I see another splash of blood. I look around and realize there is a very thin trail of it leading from my door down the hallway.
Going against all of my instincts, I follow it.
Finally, the blood turns right into a doorway, and I almost follow it inside when I realize the door is cracked open and there are voices coming from it. Immediately, I jump out of sight.
When I realize no one is charging into the hallway to apprehend me, I peek my head around the corner so I can see into the room.
There are two men standing up, facing away from me, and a third man on the floor at their feet.
Based on the blood trail leading to his body and his lack of movement, I assume he’s dead.
“He was trying to go into her room,” one of the men says. “I tried to stop him, and he shoved me.”
“So you shot him?” the second man asks, shoving the first.
“He pulled his gun first.”
They’re arguing over the dead body as though they’re debating who took the last slice of pie from the fridge. As though it’s nothing.
“No one is supposed to touch her,” the first man says. “That was the rule, and I was tasked with keeping watch over her. I had to do my job.”
The second man groans and nods. “I can’t believe we have all of this chaos over a woman.”
“His woman,” the first man says. “If we want Dmitry to respond to our commands, she can’t be harmed. Not yet, anyway.”
Not yet.
The words hang like a cloud over my head, threatening to dump rain on me at any second.
“If all of this is a ruse to lure him to the safe house, why does she have to be unharmed? Why can’t we do what we want with her and then still offer her up?”
The first man shakes his head and sighs. “Because if the first plan doesn’t work, he might want verification we haven’t hurt her. For now, we have to cover our bases. We have to protect her until Dmitry Tsezar is dead.”
My heart is lodged in my throat, and I can’t breathe.
They’re going to kill Dmitry and then me.
The instinct to run overtakes me, and I brace myself to t
ry for an escape until a door further down the hallway bangs open.
Voices grow louder, and I can hear several sets of footsteps.
Too many for me to get past on my own.
I also can’t keep standing out in the open. I now know they won’t hurt me, but there are plenty of ways to hurt someone without leaving any evidence, and I don’t want to give anyone a reason.
So, I tiptoe away from the door, avoiding the trail of blood, and then run back to my room as soon as I’m far enough away to go unheard.
The door will no longer lock, but I shut it behind me and then huddle behind the still-overturned mattress.
I have to get out of here. I have to warn Dmitry of their plan. Otherwise, they’ll kill him.
I don’t have the chance.
Over the next few hours, there are constant voices in the hallway, not allowing any opportunity for me to escape. Then, my door flies open.
“Che diavolo?” the man shouts, studying the door and then the frame. When he sees the bullet hole bending the metal, he smirks. “You’re lucky this hit the door and not you.”
I’m too afraid for a witty comeback.
This man is the first person who has walked into my room and addressed me in four days. That can’t be a good sign. It means something is about to happen.
“Are you slow?” the man asks, stalking towards me one slow, lumbering step at a time.
There is no one else with him, and I wonder if he’s supposed to be here or if he simply noticed the door unlocked and helped himself.
“Or are you afraid?” he continues. “Perhaps both?”
I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue is dry and there is cotton in the back of my throat. I cough to clear it. “Neither. I’m thirsty.”
His dark eyebrows rise in surprise, and then he smiles, showing off a silver tooth. “You are demanding. A woman in your position should not be making demands.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, batting my lashes, hoping I still remember what flirting looks like after four days of complete solitude. “I’ve never been in this position before, so you’ll have to teach me the etiquette.”
His lips part, his tongue darting out to swipe across his lower lip. “Rule number one: don’t fight.”
My heart is practically vibrating in my chest. If he doesn’t want me to fight, it must mean he’s about to do something I won’t like.
“Fight?” I ask, tilting my head to the side, letting my now-greasy brown hair fall over my shoulder. “Do women usually fight you? I can’t imagine that.”
The man has thick black hair that sticks up untameably in every direction and a soft chin. He looks more like a puppet than a real person.
He moves closer to me, his eyes perusing my dirty, dingy appearance up and down. Then, he reaches out a slow hand to touch my elbow.
Everything inside of me wants to flinch away from him and run in the other direction, but I hold my ground. I smile up at him.
“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice buttery. My hand falls on his chest and drags downward over soft flesh. “Are you taking me somewhere?”
He looks down at where my hand is touching him, and I see the idea cross his mind. His head quirks back like he’s checking the door. Then, he faces me, eyes narrowed. “Do you want me to take you somewhere?”
I shrug, mouth pulling up in a half smile. “It depends on where we’re going.”
He licks his lips and leans forward until we’re sharing the same acrid air. His nostrils flare. “Wherever you want, bella.”
I press onto my toes until our mouths are separated by only an inch. I can feel the hot exhale from his nose, and I want to whimper with disgust. “Tell me,” I purr. “What is the plan?”
He turns his head to the side, and I think he’s going to kiss me.
Then, all of a sudden, his hands are on my arms, and he’s dragging me towards the door.
The world tilts, and I lose my footing, but the man’s hold on me is tight enough that I don’t need to walk anyway. He has me tucked under his arm like a spare jacket on a chilly day.
“Women are so fickle,” he says, laughing and shaking his head. “Keep up that behavior, whore, and Dmitry might not want you back badly enough to go through with the plan.”
I’m dragged to another room where two more Italian men join the first one in tying my hands and legs together.
When I try to speak, I’m threatened with a slap, and the men all laugh as they speak in Italian, gesturing to various parts of my bound body and making grotesque gestures.
By the time I’m carried out and loaded into a van, all I can do is hope that if Dmitry doesn’t figure out the plan in time to save me and himself, that I’ll die.
And not at the hands of these vile men.
25
Dmitry
In the last few days, I’ve barely slept. Barely eaten anything.
Every second has been spent pursuing leads, directing my men on areas to search, and trying to be there for Tati.
The longer Courtney has been gone, the more restless my niece has become, and the more she needs me to be there, to assure her that I’m not leaving, not going anywhere.
When the call comes through that my men have eyes on Courtney, and that she’s being transported in an Italian SUV to an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city, I jump.
I don’t ask questions. I don’t investigate. I go.
The car waiting for me out front is an old police transport vehicle that the Bratva had outfitted a few years ago with bullet-resistant glass between the front and back seats. Usually, it’s used to transport hostages, but I don’t think twice when I see it waiting outside for me, back door propped open.
I hop in and slam the door shut behind me, mind racing. “Go.” We take off, tires screeching.
For a moment, everything is fine. I stare out the window at the buildings racing past, trying to formulate some kind of plan.
I only grow nervous when I register that I don’t recognize the guard behind the wheel. It isn’t the person I commanded to call my men and direct them to meet me at the incineration plant.
Most of my top men are out working on the streets, so the lower recruits have been filling positions unfamiliar to them and to me.
Now, however, I want to know who he is.
I lean to my right to get a better look at the driver, and I realize with a sudden lurch in my chest that I don’t know him, either.
I pat the pocket of my jeans for my phone but it isn’t there.
I check my coat. Nothing.
Suddenly, I remember the strange guard posted in the entryway, handing me my jacket. I almost left the house without it at all, but he held it out and assisted me in slipping it on. He was rather handsy about it, but as with everything that I’m only just now paying attention to, I was too keyed up to notice. Too anxious to follow up on the lead, too desperate to find Courtney.
I was too rushed to notice that everyone around me was setting me up.
“Pull over,” I command the driver.
The car doesn’t slow, and the driver doesn’t even turn to acknowledge my voice.
I’ve been trapped.
I allowed myself to become so caught up in finding Courtney that I forewent all of my security measures. People moved in and out of the house freely, bringing me information and following up on leads. Who knows how many enemies infiltrated my ranks without me noticing? How deeply they penetrated?
“Pull the car over now,” I growl. The driver makes no move to obey my orders.
Wherever I’m being taken, there won’t be a return trip. I know that.
Courtney might actually be there waiting for me, but this situation won’t end well for either of us.
I have to get out.
I slide across the seat and try the doors, but they’re useless. As I’m sliding back to center, my foot hits something under the seat, and I remember the toolbox.
After one of our transport vehicles broke down on the road with a ho
stage inside, I outfitted all the cars with basic maintenance supplies.
Usually, the supplies aren’t kept in the back seat with the hostages, but once I push through my annoyance, I’m grateful for the fuck-up. If things go according to plan, it will save my life.
I lift the box quietly to my lap, careful not to let the tools bang around, and lift the lid.
Inside, there are jumper cables, flares, various oils and fluids, and a small tool belt wrapped up in the corner. I grab the tool belt and slip the ball peen hammer from its loop.
The glass partition is bullet resistant, but it can still break. If I can get off a few good swings in the same spot, the glass will shatter.
Even if it doesn’t give right away, the driver will have to pull over and deal with me, so that will give me a chance to fight him off. I’d rather not show up to a gunfight with a hammer, but it doesn’t appear that I have much of a choice.
I take a deep breath, lift my arm, and swing.
Just before my first blow connects, I see the driver glance back at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes widen.
“Hey!” he shouts, the car swerving as I crack the hammer across the glass.
It doesn’t shatter, but a fine web of cracks radiates out from the center of the strike. I bring my arm up and swing again, aiming for the same spot.
The glass dents, and the driver pulls over.
The car soars over the bumps in the road and along the shoulder as he slams it to a stop. I jostle forward, falling into the glass, but quickly right myself and swing again.
Third time is the charm.
The hammer smashes through the glass, and I quickly shove my other arm through the hole, pushing the glass shards into the front seat to widen it. I can feel the jagged edges break the skin through the sleeve of my jacket, but I pay it no mind. A little blood is a small price to pay for not being delivered to my enemies like a trussed-up pig roast.
The car is still rolling forward, and the driver is scrambling for what I can only assume is his weapon.
