This happens in my books. Bratva politics. The woman who doesn't belong, who causes problems by existing. The men consider her a weakness, a liability. There’s always pressure to get rid of her.
Pyotr said Ivan doesn't bring women here. Ever. And now there's a meeting happening, and my name is being thrown around like an accusation.
I can't stay in here while they discuss my fate. What if they're trying to convince Ivan to send me away?
What if I lose him without even getting to fight for it?
I knock on the door. Softly at first, then harder.
The voices continue, unbothered.Great.
"Pyotr?" I call out, keeping my voice low.
"Stay inside." His hushed voice is close. "Not concern you."
"What's going on?"
"Bratva business. Ivan commands you stay."
I press my forehead against the door, scheming. There has to be a way. "Please. They’re talking about me. At least let me defend myself. Ivan would want?—"
"He gives order. You stay. Or late lunch today."
Oh, so now I'm being punished with meal delays? Very mature, bud.
Fuck.
I need to do act. Break the door? Right, with what, my devastating personality? These aren't the cheap hollow doors from my apartment building. This is proper rich-people architecture, solid and unyielding.
I look around the room. Bed. Nightstand. Dresser. Windows that don't open more than three inches. A closet full of clothes I didn't buy. Bathroom with?—
Bathroom. Perfect.
I go into the bathroom and start shoving tissues into the sink drain, then I turn the cold tap on full blast. Water gushes out, filling the basin. I wait until it reaches the rim, then—overflow. Water spills onto the marble floor, spreading slowly but steadily.
This is either brilliant or the stupidest thing I've ever done. Probably stupid. Definitely stupid. But I'm committed now.
I grab towels and shove them against the door frame, creating a dam that redirects the water toward the bedroom. Then I climb onto the bed and wait. The water creeps across marble, then carpet, darkening the expensive fabric as it spreads.
It takes longer than expected. Of course it does. But eventually—finally—the water reaches the bedroom door and seeps underneath into the hallway.
I hop off the bed and crouch by the door. "Pyotr? Pyotr,please, the bathroom—it's flooding. There’s water everywhere. Please, I need help!"
He’s quiet for a moment before cursing in Russian.
The door swings open, and Pyotr's face appears, furious and concerned. He sees the water spreading across the floor. "What the fuck?—"
I dart past him while he’s distracted.
"Lying woman!" He lunges, but I'm already moving, running down the hallway in bare feet, wet footprints marking my escape route. "Shouldn't be out there!"
"Watch me!"
The hallway opens into the main living area, where I skid to a stop.
Holy shit.
There are at least eight men in the dining space. All clad in expensive suits. They sit around Ivan's massive table, tumblers of whiskey and scattered papers in front of them. Their eyes track my entrance like predators sizing up prey.
