"Yes. His woman.” I nearly cringe saying it. “So, unless you want him to remove important parts of your anatomy, I suggest you move."
"You think I'm stupid?"
"If you're not, you'll let me pass."
We stare at each other. The elevator is right behind him. Freedom, or at least the illusion of it, is mere feet away.
His eyes narrow, studying me with new intensity. "You say this like is true, but this make no sense." The words come out in a rumble, broken English with a heavy Russian accent.
"What doesn't make sense?"
"You." He gestures at me, still blocking the elevator. "You are..." He pauses, like he's trying to work out a puzzle. "You are prostitute?"
My cheeks burn. "What? No!"
"Then what?" His brow furrows deeper. "Boss never bring women here."
"Well, I'm here."
"Yes. This is problem." He studies me with new scrutiny. "If not prostitute, then what?"
"A prisoner!" The word comes out sharp. "A captive. Someone he won't let leave."
"Ah." Something shifts in his expression. Understanding, maybe relief. "Yes. This make sense."
"Does it? You keep prisoners here often?"
"Not here. But Boss has kept prisoners before. For questioning. For leverage." He shrugs. "You would not be first."
"Great. So I'm locked up for information?"
"No." He frowns again. " You know nothing useful. You are just waitress."
"Then why am I here?"
"This is question I ask myself." His scowl returns, but it's thoughtful now. "Boss keep other women captive before?"
"You tell me."
He shakes his head. "No. Only men. Men who owe money or betray Bratva. Never women."
"Oh." I tilt my head, studying him. "I didn't know Ivan swung that way."
Pyotr's face goes blank. "What?"
"You know. If he only keeps men around..." I trail, letting the implication hang.
"Boss does not—" He stops, jaw working. "He is not?—"
"How do you know?" I ask, cutting him off.
"I can tell."
"You can tell?" I raise an eyebrow. "That's interesting."
"Boss does not look at men. He look at you very different."
"And you're an expert on how men look at things?"
