There are other people inside.
Three men in dark jackets, standing still. Their backs are to me, but I know the posture. I know the tension in their shoulders. I know the air shifts when dangerous men occupy a room—they don’t blend into normal life. They warp it.
My breath stalls. I take one step back, but it’s too late. One of them turns.
I recognize him from the pictures on Riccardo’s desk.
Artyom Belov.
I take a step back. He’s the head of the local Bratva. I’d heard Valerio talking on the phone about him—something aboutmoney being funneled through hospitals. He did not sound like a good man.
But now, that not-so-good-man is looking straight at me.
His eyes are cold in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“Sorry about the confusion, Mr. Belov.” The administrator hands him a folder. “As you were. Miss, you’re going to have to come with?—”
“No. Let her stay.”
Artyom’s voice surprises me. The administrator looks troubled, even a little panicked. Not a normal face to pull on a business meeting. “E-Excuse me?”
“She’s seen us already.” He says it like it barely matters at all. “Besides, she might prove useful.”
My blood turns to ice.
Artyom opens the folder, glancing at the contents with bored disinterest. The one beside him counts thick stacks of cash on the desk.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing at first. My brain refuses to make sense of it.
Then I see the form on top of the folder. A donor list. Cardiac transplant documentation. A line item circled in blue pen.
A heart.
A heart my mother needs.
They’re buying it. They’re buying the heart meant for my mother.
I know, rationally, my mother has no more claim to that organ than anybody else in need. She’s not even on the transplant list—the hospital wouldn’t let us do that without insurance approval first.
But I’m not thinking straight. And the small part of me that still clings to reason knows this is wrong, no matter what. The Bratva is here, buying organs for the black market, while the people in here could die any seconds without them.
My pulse spikes so hard I feel dizzy. “No,” I whisper, without meaning to. “No, no, no?—”
Then his words from earlier hit.
“She’s seen us already.”
He isn’t going to let me out of this room. A realization hit me. The admin person knew it, and that’s why he tried to send me away.
It’s too late now.
I back up instinctively, but my feet hit the wall. I can’t move. My heart jumps again, uneven and fast, and this time I can’t swallow the panic down.
Artyom puts his folder away and steps closer.
Each movement is casual and unhurried, like he’s approaching something he’s already decided belongs to him. His smirk reminds me of a predator. A snake.
He reaches out, touches a strand of my hair, and tucks it behind my ear. His fingers graze my jaw, then slide to my throat, pressing lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make bile rise in my throat.
