In which Lucya is so pissed off. I think we can understand this.
Lucya…
My father would be so ashamed of me.
That’s the thing that breaks me and I start crying in earnest, giving up on my Russian stoicism. I didn’t do a thing to save Inessa and me. It could not have been easier to kidnap us.
I’m glad he turned off the light. I don’t want the camera to show me crying, I don’t want that skull-faced son of a bitch to know he destroyed me.
The masked man had pulled me out of the van and away from Inessa, even though I kicked and screamed, trying to reach for her as the van drove away. He dragged me through a warehouse or a basement, it was hard to tell. It was pitch black and the only thing I had was the echoes of our footsteps on concrete. He must have eyes like a bat because he never turned on a light.
I dug in my heels and started fighting again when he opened the door to this room. A single metal chair was bolted to the floor in the middle of the room.
Over a drain.
This room meant I would never see the light of day again. There’s some heavy-looking hooks hanging from the ceiling and a very large bench, like you’d find in a garage or a repair shop. After I caught a glimpse of a series of hammers and drills, I closed my eyes.
It’s cold in whatever corner of hell he’s dragged me to, but maybe that’s part of the fun for this monster.
What about Inessa? Is she okay? I haven’t done anything wrong; there’s nothing they can punish her for from my actions.
Who am I kidding? These are Bratva men. They could be doing anything.
I sit, shivering, and trying to figure out which of the Six Families took us.
When the door opens again and the light goes on, I close my eyes, turning my face away. It’s painfully bright, searing through my eyelids.
“Keep your eyes closed.”
His voice is right next to my ear, just a dark whisper. A bag slides over my head and he tugs it down. I rub my wrists when he unlocks my handcuffs from the chair and I stumble a bit as he pulls me to my feet.
“Do not struggle. Remember, you’re responsible for your sister’s safety,” he warns, his voice muffled by the bag
I hate him so much.
“I wouldn’t do anything,” I manage between numb lips, yelping a bit when he swings me up in his arms. “Where are you taking me? Did my uncle do what you wanted?”
“Hush.”
He carries me for a while, back up the stairs and then I hear an elevator opening. His jacket’s cold, he must have just come in from the outside, and the feel of it against my shoulder is making my shivering worse.
“Relax.”
“I can’t,” I say between chattering teeth, “I’m cold.”
He holds me a little tighter, stepping back out of the elevator. I’m straining to get any clues on where we are, but this damn bag blocks my sense of smell, blinds me, and muffles my hearing.
When he finally puts me down, it’s on a bed. Panicked, I scoot backward, pushing away from him.
“Keep the bag on until you hear the door shut, do you understand?”
“Y- yes.”
“Khoroshaya devochka, good girl.”
Why is that so familiar?
I finally hear the door shut and rip off the bag in time to hear the lock click into place. Squinting, I try to take in the room. It’s large, with a comfortable bed, a couple of wingback chairs, and a table piled high with books. There are big windows, but my heart sinks when I realize they’re covered in metal shutters.
Rubbing my hands on my wrinkled work pants, I wander around the room, finding two more doors. One leads to a bathroom, it’s simple and utilitarian, but it’s clean and there are fresh blue towels and a shower. The other door opens up into a closet. My heart sinks as I view the tidy rows of clothes; dresses, skirts, pants, and coats. The built-in bureau is filled with workout gear and comfy lounging clothes. This isn’t a good sign. These are all new and in my size. Is my captor planning on keeping me here for a while?
I pull open the top drawer to see stacks of expensive-looking lingerie. Tentatively lifting out one bodysuit, I grimace. It’s black, sheer, and looks like it would ride up my ass the minute I put it on. My blood runs cold. Is that skull-faced bastard expecting to see me in this stuff?
Slamming the drawer shut, I try to ignore the implications of the piles of silk and lace.
Cameras. He certainly knew how to put them in and dismantle them. Are there cameras in the room? Is he looking at me right now?
Exhausted, I sit on the bed and bury my face in my hands. I don’t know where Inessa is. I can’t believe that Uncle Rurik will lift a finger to help us. I don’t know what happens next.
When the door opens, I bolt upright, sleepily trying to focus. He’s still wearing his skull balaclava and he drops a tray of food on the table next to the doorway. “You didn’t find the clothes?” he rumbles.
“I’m not wearing that shitty lingerie for you,” I snap. His hugely wide chest moves, like he’s chuckling. God, all of him is gigantic. His head almost brushes the top of the doorway and unless that black tactical suit has a lot of padding, he’s heavily muscled.
“The least of my concerns,” he says, turning to go. “Eat. Clean up.”
“Wait!” His hand stills on the doorknob. “Did my uncle respond? Is Inessa okay?”
He leaves, locking the door behind him.
I’d like to say that I’m in the same spot when he comes back, disdaining his food and his shower and his shitty lingerie, but… I was starving, and the tray held steaming cabbage soup and pelmeni – glorious dumplings filled with lamb and a little dish of pickles to go with the soup. I attacked that dinner like a starving pigeon fighting for a stale French fry, and I am not ashamed.
After a blissful shower, I found some semi-decent cotton underwear, then dressed in a pair of leggings and the biggest sweater I could find.
His head tilts, the blank face of his skull mask showing nothing, but I can feel his gaze on me. “You look better.” He takes an elaborate sniff. “You smell better.”
There’s something about his tone, even muffled by the mask, it’s familiar… Opening the laptop he has tucked under his arm, he nods at the table. “Sit down.” He places a video call and I rub my sweaty hands on my leggings.
The first screen that pops up shows Inessa. She looks scared but fine.
“Can she see me?” I ask anxiously. “Can I talk to her?”
He shakes his head, moving to stand behind me. The next screen that opens shows my uncle, sitting behind my father’s desk and looking seconds away from exploding with rage and futility. The last person on the call shows up, splitting the screen into thirds.
It’s Anatoly, Pakhan of the Turgenev Bratva.
All my hope escapes like a popped balloon. Uncle Rurik tried to screw over the Turgenevs?
We’re gonna die.
“Now that we’re all here,” Anatoly purrs, “we’ll commit to our new arrangement with the Dubrovin Bratva.”
My uncle makes a small choking sound.
“Does the Dubrovin Bratva admit to its criminal actions against another family of the Six?” Anatoly asks.
“We do,” Uncle Rurik grinds out. His face looks almost purple with fury.
“Very well,” Anatoly, on the other hand, couldn’t look happier. It’s an expression I’ve never seen on his face and it’s a little horrifying. “Moving on to recompense for the eighty lost lives and the millions of dollars of ammunition…”
Oh, sweet Mother Mary, how could my uncle be so stupid?
Inessa opens her mouth, but someone behind her tells her to be quiet.
“The Dubrovin Bratva will return the stolen arms shipments,” Anatoly leans back, steepling his fingers. “They will pay for the continued support for the families of the murdered men.”
Rurik coughs violently into a handkerchief and Anatoly pauses. Oh, he’s enjoying this. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” my uncle chokes out, “please continue.”
“Because of the seriousness of violating the agreements of the Bratva Six Families and for attacking a fellow member of group, the Dubrovin Bratva will offer the following. Control of your organization will shift to the Turgenev Bratva after Rurik Dubrovin’s passing. Inessa Andreyevna Dubrovina is to be married to my eldest son, Dmitri Anatolyevich Turgenev.”
The camera pans slightly and I see Dmitri sitting next to his father. If I’d been in that room, I knew it would be reeking with an overwhelming stench of Smug. He’s a prick and I’d learned early as a child to keep out of his way. Looking anxiously at Inessa, I see that she doesn’t seem that upset about the plan. I guess there are worse alternatives. I’m so busy checking her response that I miss part of Anatoly’s next statement.
“-will be married to my second oldest, Alexi Anatolyevich Turgenev. They will stay in Boston and manage our Bratva’s business stateside. Dmitri will be married first, next month. Inessa,” he nods graciously to her, like this is the greatest honor that could be bestowed upon her, “you will return to St. Petersburg and your mother will handle the wedding details.”
She nods rapidly, nervously. “Da, Pakhan Turgenev. Spasibo.”
“This concludes our business,” he says, ending the call as my uncle looks seconds from keeling over on his desk.
“Wait, I didn’t- what was that middle part?” I turn in my chair, to the man behind me. My neck is already hurting from looking up at him.
“Which part?”
“About Alexi and- did he say me? I’m to marry Alexi?”
He folds his arms over his colossal chest. “Yes. That was the agreement he made with your uncle to avoid burning the Dubrovin Bratva down to ash and bone.”
Married to Alexi? He hates me. Or did. Then treated me like a needy one-night stand and just disappeared. Pushing back the chair, I walk away from the table, trying to slow my heart to under a gallop.
“D- does he know?”
The man reaches up, pulling off his balaclava. “He does.”
I have never been so fucking enraged in my entire life.
Darting forward, I slap him across the face as hard as I can, putting all my weight behind it.
His head barely moves, but his mouth tightens and his blue eyes cool to a frost as he stares down at me. His blonde hair is tousled from the balaclava.
Fucking Alexi Turgenev has been the man terrorizing me for two fucking days.
“You bastard!”