I close my eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. I tell myself:You made a mistake. You got yourself here. Now you have to live with it.
The thought doesn’t calm me—it sharpens the fear—but at least it’s honest. I’ve disappointed him. I’ve disappointed myself. And now, I have no choice but to face the consequences.
After what feels like hours—maybe minutes, maybe forever—the car jerks to a stop. My head snaps forward, heart slamming against my ribs. For a split second, there’s silence. Then the door is yanked open, sunlight cutting through the dim interior like a blade.
“Get out,” one of them barks.
A rough hand clamps around my arm and drags me out before I can move on my own. My legs buckle when my feet hit the ground, knees stinging against gravel. The air hits me—salt, metal, diesel. I blink hard, trying to see past the glare.
We’re at a dock.
The kind that smells like rust and rot, where the sea crashes against thick concrete pilings, and the cries of distant gulls mix with the thrum of idling engines. Shadows of cranesloom overhead, and beyond them, ships float like dark beasts waiting to devour.
My breath trembles. The men don’t slow down. They keep dragging me forward, boots crunching on the gravel, gloved hands bruising my skin. I twist, trying to look behind me—nothing but a stretch of water and gray sky.
The fear returns, heavier this time, coiling around my throat.
I don’t ask where we are. I don’t scream anymore. I just take it all in—the shimmer of oil on the water, the sound of the wind slapping through the rigging, the faint outline of a warehouse ahead with its door half open.
That’s where they’re taking me.
And as they drag me inside, my heart slams from the cruel, sinking realization that this place, this smell, this cold—the Greeks have me now.
They shove me into a metal chair, and one of them slams my wrists down on the arms, rough rope biting already as he ties tight knots. The other rips a strip of cloth from his jacket and gags me, the fabric rasping against my teeth. My hands tremble where they’re bound; the ropes are coarse, the knots practiced. I taste salt and fear.
The man with the phone steps back, pockets his lighter, and dials. He holds the device to his ear, then speaks rapidly in Greek—fast, clipped, all business.
“Christos, we have her. Tell him to bring the ledgers, or she dies.”
The man listens, nods once, then laughs, the sound ugly and small. He hangs up and looks at me as if I were an object he owns. The gag muffles a sound that could be a sob or a curse. My throat tightens. The dock smells of oil and salt and something old and mean, and the rope at my wrists is the only thing keeping me from lunging at them.
Guilt curls under my ribs—hot and useless—because I’d disobeyed the orders to stay put. Now those small, stupid choices sit between me and whatever comes next. The man spits tobacco into the gravel and laughs again.
I force myself to breathe—slow, steady. Panic is a luxury, one I can’t afford. Lev’s voice rings somewhere in the back of my head. I know they want fear. I won’t give them that.
I try to speak, but the gag bites into the corners of my mouth every time I try. My words come out muffled—frantic bursts of sound swallowed by the thick fabric. I shake my head, trying to form anything that sounds like a sentence, but it’s useless.
They ignore me. One leans against a crate, lighting a cigarette, while the other scrolls on his phone, speaking rapid Greek I can barely catch. Every few words I recognize—ledger, money, Petropoulos. My stomach twists.
I try to speak again—louder this time. The taller one glances at me, irritation flashing in his eyes.
“What?” he snaps. “You want to talk?”
I nod, the gag damp against my lips.
He curses under his breath, pushes off the crate, and strides over. His hands smell like tobacco and sweat as he jerks the gag down. The sudden rush of air stings my throat.
“Go ahead,” he says, voice sharp. “Let’s hear what the princess has to say.”
I lick my dry lips, forcing the tremor out of my voice. “You don’t have to do this,” I start, keeping my tone low, steady. “Whoever sent you—he’s not going to pay you enough to survive what comes next.”
He laughs, harsh and humorless. “You think you’re scary because you married a Rusnak? We will eat you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”
I straighten in the chair, ignoring the burn of the ropes on my wrists, and tilt my chin. “You know, if you’re going to kidnap someone,” I say, my tone sharp enough to cut through their smug silence, “you could at least learn to tie proper knots. I’ve met fishermen who’d laugh at this.”
“You talk too much.”
“Or maybe you’re just not used to women who do,” I counter, my pulse a steady drum under my words. Every second I keep them talking is a second to observe—to learn. “You’re Petropoulos muscle, right? Not his men, though. You don’t have the look. You’re too jumpy.”
