He stiffens. Just a fraction, but I catch it.
The other one grunts something in Greek—something that sounds like a warning. “We work for the Karras faction. Xander Karras—Petropoulos’s cousin. He runs that wing. We’re not afraid of anybody! Not even a Rusnak.”
Xander Karras. I file the name away. It might be useful.
I’m about to throw another jab when the door creaks open, and a familiar silhouette steps in. My heart stutters before my mind catches up. Viktor Markovic. The same man I saw at the reception weeks ago. Calm, composed, his presence immediately filling the room.
Up close, I can tell he’s very good-looking. His hair is a warm sandy brown, combed back from his face. He’s dressed in cargo pants and a loose yellow beach shirt, like he’s going out for brunch.
He stops a few feet away, hands relaxed at his sides, a faint smile playing across his lips. “Sasha,” he says smoothly, his English heavily accented but precise. “I must say…that dress at your reception—it suited you perfectly. You carried it with…elegance.”
His words are polite, almost unnervingly so, but every instinct in me tightens. I want to shrink back, to measure mywords, but the gag, the ropes, the helplessness—I can’t do more than stare, while putting up a very brave front.
Viktor tilts his head slightly, watching me with those calculating eyes, like he’s seeing more than just my fear. “I wanted to tell you…before all of this,” he says lightly, “that you left quite an impression that night.”
I ignore his words and ask instead, “Do you work for Christos?”
Viktor raises an eyebrow and crouches slightly to meet my eye level.
“You think I work for Christos?” he says, his accent thick, deliberate. “No, no, Sasha. I workwithhim. We both want the same things—the ledgers, the money…. You understand, don’t you?”
He lets the words hang in the air, and I feel a chill. Every syllable is a reminder of how precarious my position is.
I glance at the ropes, the gag, the men around me, and force myself to swallow the rising panic.
Viktor leans back, folding his hands, calm as if discussing the weather. “Christos wants his part; I want mine. And somehow”—he tilts his head with that unnerving charm—“you are the key to both.”
“You…you’re using me,” I manage, voice shaking, though the fire in me won’t die. “Both of you.”
Viktor’s smile only widens, polite, deadly. “Not using, Sasha. Guiding. We need what is owed, and you…you hold the path to it.”
I force words past the rawness in my throat. “I—I don’t know where they are. I swear. I can’t help you.” The truth tastes like metal in my mouth, but at least it’s the truth.
Viktor’s polite smile doesn’t falter. “Ah,” he says, tilting his head, “then perhaps we’ll need to be a bit…persuasive.”
Before he can move closer, one of the men’s phones buzzes. He checks it, swears under his breath, and barks something in Greek. “Christos just texted. He’s on his way. Let’s move her—now.”
Viktor steps back, keeping that calm, controlled demeanor, as the men hustle around me. They yank the ropes from my wrists; the gag is still loose, so I suck in a lungful of cold, salty air. My body shakes, but I force it steady.
Reflexively, my hands find the chain on my wrist. I slip my bracelet off, letting it fall onto the ground. It clatters once, then slides toward a support beam. Maybe Lev will see it. Maybe it’ll tell him where to start.
One of the men shoves me toward the open door. Viktor watches from the shadows, his eyes cold but unreadable. “We’ll wait for Christos,” he says smoothly. “Then we’ll get the answers we need.”
I’m shoved inside. The air is thick, metallic, smelling of oil and dust. My wrists sting where the rope burned, but I rub them and force my breath steady. Fear coils in my chest, sharp and insistent, but beneath it, a sliver of resolve blooms. I don’t know where the ledgers are, but I can survive. I can be smart. I can be a signal, a clue, a challenge.
If Lev finds my bracelet, if he pieces it together, maybe this place will become the point where he finally closes the net. Until then, I keep my head up. They want fear? I’ll give them calm. They want control? I’ll give them resistance. I will not make it easy.
Once we’re outside, a man appears. I notice the others stand at attention when he shows. He moves with ease, confidence radiating from him, and for a split second, I almost think he might be on my side.
“Hello, Sasha,” he says sweetly. “I’m Christos.”
Yeah. He’s the enemy. He can’t fool me.
“Did the others take proper care of you?” he asks, his tone disturbingly casual.
I glance at him, jaw tight. “I don’t care. Just let me go. I don’t have your ledgers.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s cold, sharp, and deliberate. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he says, stepping closer. “Let’s see if you share her talent…for betrayal.”
