What is wrong with me? What kind of person gets turned on by this?
"I'm sorry," I say again, and I hate how small I sound. "I made a mistake. I was confused. But I'm not confused anymore."
"That doesn't change what you did." He straightens, putting distance between us again. "Pyotr will bring you meals. This room has everything you need—a bathroom and clothes in the closet. Stay here until I say otherwise."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
"That's not fair?—"
"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You want fair? Fair is you being in Dmitri's hands right now because you tried to escape. Fair is you dead in an alley. This—" he gestures at the room, at me sitting naked in his sheets, "—this is mercy."
"This is prison."
He's pulling on his jacket now, covering everything, becoming someone I don't recognize. "And you'll accept it because the alternative is unacceptable."
He heads for the door and pauses with his hand on the handle. "I need to make calls. Check our security. Figure out how badly you've compromised us."
The words sting worse than a slap. Like I'm a child who broke something valuable and doesn't understand the consequences.
"Ivan—"
"Stay in this room, Lila. I mean it." He doesn't look back, and somehow that hurts most of all. "If you try to leave, Pyotr will stop you. And this time, I won't countermand him."
The door closes behind him with a definitive click that sounds like a prison cell locking.
I sit in the ruined sheets, naked and completely alone.
What the hell have I done?
17
IVAN
The warehouse smells like rust and old blood. Appropriate, considering what might happen here.
I stand with my back to a steel support beam, Misha on my left, Pyotr on my right. The concrete under my feet is stained in places—decades of deals gone wrong, bodies dragged away, problems solved.
Neutral ground means no one owns the space, which means everyone's on edge.
Good.
Edge keeps you sharp.
Dmitri arrives on time. That's his thing—punctuality, order, the pretense of civility over the rot underneath. He has six men. I have five. But numbers don't matter when everyone knows what happens if blood gets spilled on neutral ground. The other families would tear apart whoever broke the treaty. Even Dmitri's not stupid enough to risk that.
Still, he's stupid enough to keep pushing.
He walks in like he owns the place, his men fanning out behind him. Designer suit, expensive leather shoes that clickagainst concrete. Everything about him screams ‘new money,’ desperate to look like old power. His father built their empire on prostitution and protection rackets. Now, Dmitri tries to pass luxury for legitimacy.
"Petrov." He stops ten feet away. Close enough to talk, far enough to draw if needed. That punchable smirk is already tugging at his lips. "Thank you for coming."
"You said it was urgent."
His smile widens. "It is. We need to end this."
"This?"
