by Bella King
“Come with me,” he says, placing a hand on my back and holding my arm with his other hand. He walks with me like this to the airplane exit. “Watch your step,” he says as the door opens.
I reach a foot out cautiously, trying my best not to tumble down the steps and break my neck. There seem to be so many scenarios for me to die and very few in which I survive this nightmare. My slippers clang against the metal stairs as I walk down them.
Rurik’s hands never leave me as I descend. His grip is surprisingly comforting while my eyes are covered. There are power and certainty in his hands, something that’s rare to find in a man. My father was the same way, but he was a much better man than Rurik is.
“Last step,” Rurik says.
I slow my descent, testing the final step and then the concrete before continuing forward. This must be a private airstrip. There is no other way that Rurik could get away with leading a woman with a bag over her head across it otherwise.
“A little to the left, and we’ll get to the car in a moment,” Rurik says.
Even with the black bag over my head, the sunlight is able to fall through to my eyes. It must be very bright outside. California sounds about right for this type of weather. It’s hot, which means we’re probably closer to the south end of the state. I’m trying to piece together as much information as I can get. If Rurik doesn’t want me to know where I am, then I’m going to make an effort to figure it out.
The sun is hot on my back as we walk. The airplane was considerably cooler than the outdoors, and I’m starting to sweat under the silk robe that I have on. This fabric breathes worse than I can breathe right now. It’s not meant to be worn outside.
“Stop,” Rurik commands, tugging on my arm.
I obey him, but only because I don’t want to run into anything.
“Let me get the door for you,” he says, and I hear the click of the door handle as he opens it.
A gust of cold air hits me, a stark contrast to the heat coming off the runway. Rurik gently guides me into the car, then closes the door with a dull thud. I get a chill as the door on the other side of me opens, and Rurik slips in.
Rurik says something in Russian, and the car starts to move. We’re on our way.
Chapter Six
My cheeks are flushed, and my face is hot from being covered for three hours, but I have goosebumps from the AC in the car. I don’t make any requests for the driver to change it, however, because I don’t want to talk anymore. I think it’s best to stay silent until I know more about what’s going on.
When we arrive at our final location, Rurik waits until we are inside of the building to remove the bag from my head.
I blink in the bright indoor lighting. My eyes have to adjust from being in the dark for so long. I rub them with my bound hands and look around at where we are. I’m surprised to see that we’re standing in a kitchen to what looks to be a very ritzy house. It looks like something out of a magazine.
I take a deep breath in, the first pleasant one I’m able to take after three hours.
“Here,” Rurik says, pulling a knife from his suit pocket and flicking it open. “Let’s get you more comfortable.” He slices through the cords around my wrists like they were butter, and they fall to the tiled floor.
I rub my wrists and continue looking around. There is a large window next to the sink where I can see out into the yard. It’s a beautiful place and reminds me a lot of the house that I used to live in with my father. He had a lot of money because he was an accountant, so we lived in a nice place.
Rurik clasps his hands together. “Do you like it?”
I recognize a hint of hopefulness in his voice, as though he’s genuinely concerned that I might not like it. I don’t know what to answer, so I smile at him. “It’s nice.”
“Good,” he says, theatrically waving a hand over the room. “It’s yours.”
“What?” I ask, shaking my head. “What are you talking about?”
“This house,” he says, placing his hand on the marble island counter in the center of the kitchen, “Belongs to you now.”
“What was wrong with my old one?” I ask.
“You had a pest problem,” he replies, taking his hand off the counter. “This place is clean, as far as I know.”
“I thought you said you were with the mafia,” I say, crossing my arms. “Why don’t you tell me the truth and cut the bullshit?”
He chuckles. “I suppose it’s about time for that, but I’d like you to be prepared for it. You should take a bath, get changed, and I’ll meet you for a glass of wine and a chat later on.”
“Why not now?” I ask.
He sighs. “Do I have to tell you everything twice, Violet?” He points to the doorway. “Your room is upstairs and on the right. There’s a private bathroom attached. I have also had clothes in your size brought up, which you will find in the dresser and closet across from the bed.”
“I told you that I don’t like you calling me Violet,” I say.
“Tough,” he replies. “That’s your name.”
“No,” I say, glaring at him. “It’s not.”
“One more time, Violet. If you keep causing issues, I’m going to bag you up and keep you in the basement so that I don’t have to listen to you whining all the time,” he says, clenching his jaw.
“Fine,” I say, giving up on him. I doubt Rurik is ever going to listen to me anyway. “My room is upstairs?”
“Correct, but don’t try anything silly. I have ordered my guards to shoot first and ask questions later. If you’re going to go outside, stick to the backyard.”
Seriously? This is getting crazier by the minute. Why on earth would he stick me in an expensive house with armed guards surrounding it? I can’t imagine how expensive this is. There must be a point to all of this, but I don’t see it yet.
I don’t want to anger Rurik again, so I slip out of the kitchen and dash up the stairs. I’m thankful that I can finally get some time to myself to process everything that has happened so far. God knows I need it.
The stairs are carpeted, but I still nearly slip as I’m running up them. These shoes don’t have much in the way of grip on the bottoms. If this is my house now, I’m not going to track dirt inside with my slippers. When I get to the top of the staircase, I take them off.
I push the door open to my new room, peeking inside like there is someone waiting to push a knife into my skull the minute I step inside. For all I know, there could be. Today has been full of surprises.
My shoulders, which are bunched up almost all the way to my ears, come down as I realize that nobody is waiting for me in the bedroom. If I’m being sold to some creep, I would expect them to be in the room to claim me. I guess I’m safe for now.
I close the door and lock it behind me, propping my back against it and sliding into a sitting position. I have to sit there for a moment just to take this all in. It’s as though I’m in a dream, but there’s no waking up from it. I’ve had crazy dreams before, and some that have felt like they were real, but this is on another level.
I count the fingers on my hand, just to be sure. I heard that you can tell if you’re dreaming by counting your fingers. If you’re awake, you’ll be able to count them, but in a dream, it’s impossible. Unfortunately, I have all ten fingers.
I breathe out of my nose in amusement at being disappointed that I can count all ten of my fingers. I’m in quite the predicament when having all my digits is a bad sign. I get up from the soft carpet and walk toward the dresser across from the large bed. That’s where Rurik said he put my new clothes.
I pull open the dark cherry wood drawer and peer inside. It’s filled with shirts, skirts, and pants, all of which look like things that I would wear. Rurik seems to know me, even though I’ve never seen the man before in my life. I suppose he wants to make me comfortable, but this only creeps me out.
I pull out a shirt and hold it up to my torso. It’s my size, although that’s what I expected. Rurik coming to my
home and taking me to California was certainly a premeditated event, but I won’t know why until I join him downstairs again. I guess that means I should clean up and get dressed.
I put the shirt back into the drawer and tiptoe around the room, checking the corners, clocks, and lights for hidden cameras. I don’t trust easy, and my father always used to say that there are more cameras than people in the world. If there are two of us in the house, I’m going to assume there are cameras as well.
I don’t find anything, but I’m wary of getting naked in the room. Rurik already had me strip naked in front of him, but I don’t want him to get the pleasure of catching a look this time. I enter the bathroom and check that for cameras as well, but again, I find nothing. Either my sleuthing skills are rusty, or there really aren’t any cameras watching my every move.
The bathroom is large enough to fit a circus, and it echoes so much that I can hear my own footsteps bouncing back to me. It makes it sound like there’s someone else in the room. The mirror stretches across two sinks, long enough to see my entire body sideways.
I lean into the mirror, then press my finger onto the glass. If it’s a one-way mirror that’s see-through on the other side, then there will be a significant gap between my finger and its reflection. Again, I don’t find anything unusual about it. It’s as though this house is completely normal.
Not only is there a shower in the bathroom, but there is also a separate bathtub that’s big enough to fit two people. A bath would be relaxing, but I opt for a shower because the fogged glass door protects me from curious eyes.
I open the door and toss my robe off as I enter, leaving it on the fuzzy white mat outside. I quickly shut the door and look around. There are already shower gels, shampoos, and conditioners lined up on a shelve carved into the wall. The walls of the shower themselves are made of a slate-gray stone.
Banana, an unusual scent, is my favorite. It’s difficult to find, but not impossible. Very few people even know that I like it, or why I like it, but there it is, sitting in front of me like this is actually my house. I’m shocked.
When I was younger, my father used to tease me for hating bananas. I think they’re sickly sweet and taste like garbage, but that’s just my opinion. He used to eat them like a damn monkey. One Christmas, he bought me a banana scented soap as a joke, and I ended up loving it. Ever since then, I use banana-scented things, even though I don’t like to eat bananas.
Did Rurik actually know my father like he had said he did? If all this information about me came from him, then this situation is a lot deeper than I imagined it to be. It would mean that Rurik wasn’t lying, and everything he has said so far might actually be true.
“What the fuck?” I mutter as I pick up the bottle of body wash and turn it over in my hand just to check if I’m seeing things wrong. No, I was right. Its banana scented.
“Rurik has some serious explaining to do,” I say to myself, twisting to the shower dial and turning the water on.
Indeed, he does, but first, I’m going to get clean. I’m sweaty and gross from the panic, and I can still taste the salt above my lips from my tears earlier today.
Chapter Seven
“You look like an angel,” Rurik says, popping a cork from a bottle of red wine in the kitchen.
“Not really,” I say, nervously adjusting the hem of the white dress that was in the closet of my room.
“No, seriously. You’re a beautiful woman now, Violet.”
My appreciation for Rurik’s soft words instantly evaporated like droplets of water on a hot sidewalk upon hearing his fake name for me again. I don’t like being called Violet. It’s insulting to my identity.
I frown at Rurik. “You need to explain what’s going on. How do you know all this stuff about me?”
“Do you like red wine?” he asks, ignoring my question.
I place my hands on my hips. “You know my clothes size, my favorite body wash, but for some reason, you can’t get my name right.”
He shakes his head, pouring deep red wine into two crystal glasses on the kitchen island. “You’re the one who doesn’t know your own name, and I would have preferred to keep it that way.”
“Explain,” I demand, glaring at him.
“Let’s take a seat in the living room, shall we?” he says, lifting both glasses from the table and handing one to me.
I walk up and snatch it from his hand, wine sloshing out and missing my dress by an inch. It splatters across the tiled floor.
“That’s a hundred dollars right there,” Rurik says, looking down at the spilled wine.
“Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much money on wine,” I say, aware of how snarky I sound. I think it’s only fair with how secretive he’s being about why he has kidnapped me.
“Wine is an afterthought, darling,” he says, taking a sip from his glass. “Most of our recent costs have gone toward protecting you.”
I squint at him. “Protecting me from what?”
“Come to the living room,” he says, waving his hand and heading through the doorway. He’s so tall that he has to bend over as he goes into the next room to keep his head from hitting the doorframe.
I follow him, annoyed but still curious. I haven’t figured out this puzzle yet, and I’m dying to know the details involved in my kidnapping. There can’t possibly be a good reason for all of this.
“Sit,” Rurik says, his voice calm but firm.
I sit down on a soft white couch with my glass of wine carefully in my fist. I don’t want to spill it again and risk staining my dress or this couch. I suspect that Rurik won’t be happy if I made a mess on all this nice furniture.
Rurik sinks into the couch beside me, getting significantly closer than I would have preferred him. Our hips are inches apart. He places an arm behind me as though we were on a date and raises his glass of wine. “Cheers.”
I clink my glass with him, but keep my lips pursed in annoyance. I’m impatient to hear what he has to say. He can’t play games with me any longer.
“I think Violet Sommer is a better name than Samantha Brown,” Rurik begins, pausing to take a sip of his wine, “But your father insisted on protecting you from the mafia business. It’s dirty work, and family members tend to be the first ones to get hurt when things go south, as they often do. There’s no avoiding a killing or a ransom every once in a while.”
“My father wasn’t involved with the mafia,” I say. Just the thought of that makes me sick. My father was a gentle and caring man. He was nothing like Rurik or his goons.
“He did an excellent job of hiding that from you, and it was my job once he was killed to continue to hide it from you. I thought I could keep you hidden your whole life, but that’s clearly not the case anymore. They know about you, Violet.”
“Who is they?”
“They? The dust in the wind, the fly on the wall, the birds peering through your window early in the morning as the sun rises. They’re everywhere, and they want to get to you.”
“You’re being cryptic,” I complain.
“Am I?” he asks, looking amused. “Did your father ever mention the summer days to you, and how it was the perfect time for violets to bloom?”
I nod, trying to connect the pieces in my head. My father did like to speak about summer a lot. He loved violets as well, planting them out front by the mailbox every year. Is Rurik fucking with my mind, or is he connecting dots that I never knew were there?
“Your real name is Violet Sommer,” Rurik says, leaning in and placing his hand on my knee. “And your father was the most powerful mafia boss in the world.”
Everything in my head is moving too fast. I haven’t even had any wine, and my head is already spinning. I nervously gulp down a sip, trying to get a grip on the information that I have been given. It’s all too wild, too crazy, and too outlandish for me to believe, and yet, Rurik seems convinced that it’s true.
“You say my father was killed?” I ask, taking another large gulp and swallowing. “By whom?�
�� My voice is harsh and desperate as I speak, struggling to remain calm as a new world is unveiled to me in a living room in southern California.
“They killed him, Violet,” Rurik says, leaning back and removing his hand from my knee. “They placed three 45 caliber bullets through his head on a Thursday afternoon. It was a surprise hit. We never saw it coming.”
I search Rurik’s face for some sign of a joke, but all I can see is distress. He’s reliving the moment in his mind, and he doesn’t enjoy it. There’s sadness in his eyes, the kind you see when someone loses someone very close to them.
“My father was murdered? I was told it was a heart attack,” I say, shaking my head slowly.
“Did you ever see his body?” Rurik asks.
“No,” I answer.
They hadn’t let me. They said that I was too young and that he would have a closed casket funeral. The last time I saw my father was when he left for work the morning of his demise. He planted a kiss on my forehead and told me that he loved me. I used to roll my eyes at him, but now I wish that I could hear his voice even once more.
“Your father was a very powerful man with a lot of enemies,” Rurik continues, his eyes growing dark and moody again. “I was his righthand man. Everything I did was to assist and protect him, but I ultimately failed at that. The day that he died, I wished that I had been the one to take the bullet. Somehow, I survived that mess.”
I want to say something rude to him about taking a bullet now because I’m still annoyed that he kidnapped me, but my empathetic conscience doesn’t allow me to. I can see that Rurik is genuinely bothered by what he’s telling me.
“Mr. Sommer, your father, led the mafia with pride until the day that he died. Together, we united the Russian mafia with the U.S. to make the most powerful force that this planet has ever seen. It was glorious while it lasted,” Rurik says, his eyes lighting up with pride. “But we scaled back once I took over the administration.”
