"Are you kidding me?" I call after him. "This is the saddest sandwich I've ever seen."
He stops and turns back. "Is food."
"It's barely food." I cross my arms. "I want real food. Delivery. Like before."
"Boss say no outside contact."
"Tell Boss I want Thai food. Or Chinese. Or literally anything that isn't this tragedy."
Pyotr studies me for a long moment, then pulls out his phone and types something. The response comes quickly.
"Boss say okay. One minute."
He disappears, returning with a burner phone. "For foodonly. No calling police. No calling anyone but food. Boss will know if you try."
I take it, and the weight of it feels significant. Dangerous. "How will he know?"
Pyotr just looks at me.
Right. Of course, he'll know. Ivan knows everything.
"Thanks." I close the door before he can see my hands shaking.
A phone. Communication with the outside world. Even restricted, it's still a lifeline.
I sit on the bed, surrounded by pornographic drawings, holding a burner phone, and trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with this.
Order food. That's the instruction. That's all I'm allowed to do.
But a delivery person would come here. Could see me. Could be someone from outside Ivan's world, and more importantly, outside his control.
Someone I could slip a note to.
My heart starts racing.
This is smart. This is the logical choice. Get a message out. Let someone know where I am. Get help.
Except.
Do I want help?
I open the delivery app, hands shaking. Thai food—my old favorite. Pad Thai, spring rolls, and mango sticky rice. The same spread I always got back when my life was normal. I place the order before I can overthink it.
Delivery is estimated to take forty-five minutes.
I have forty-five minutes to decide what I'm going to do.
I return to the sketches, but I can't concentrate. The drawings blur together—all the fantasies that felt exciting an hour ago now feel like proof of how far I've fallen. I'm drawing porn for my captor while considering calling for help.
God, I'm a mess.
I need a note.
I find a pen, tear a blank page from the back of the sketchbook, and stare at the blank paper.
What do I even write?
I scrawl, "Help. I'm being held captive in this penthouse by a Russian mobster. Please call the police immediately. My name is Lila Hayes, I work at Dave's Diner, and?—"
