The door closes behind her with a soft click. The lock engages.
I'm alone again.
I stare at the food, my appetite gone despite my hunger. But I force myself to eat, mechanically spooning soup into my mouth,chewing bread that tastes like sawdust. I need to keep my strength up. I need to be ready for whatever comes next.
As I eat, my mind races through everything that's happened. The church attack was coordinated, professional. Someone wanted everyone in that building dead. But who? And why?
Dimitri said he didn't know, but can I believe him? He's the Pakhan of the Morozov family, one of the most powerful men in the Bratva. He doesn't do anything without a reason. He pulled me, specifically, out of that burning church. He brought me here, to his home, and locked me in this room.
Why?
He said it was for my protection, but protection from what? From whom?
Unless he's the one I need protection from.
The thought sends ice through my veins. What if Dimitri orchestrated the whole thing? What if he wanted Sergei dead, wanted to take control of whatever alliance our marriage was supposed to create? What if I'm not a guest here, but a hostage?
I think about the gun I pulled on him, the way he disarmed me so easily. The way his body felt pressed against mine, solid and unyielding. The heat in his green eyes when he looked at me.
This is your life now, he'd said.At least for the foreseeable future.
I push the tray away, my stomach churning. I need to get out of here. I need to find Katya, make sure she's safe. I need to talk to my father, figure out what's really going on.
But I'm trapped in this beautiful prison, and the man holding the key is a monster everyone fears.
Sitting in the growing shadows, my mind spins through scenarios and possibilities, each one worse than the last.
I must doze off at some point because I wake with a start to the sound of the lock clicking and I scramble to my feet as the door opens.
Dimitri stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights. He's changed clothes. Gone is the blood-stained suit from the church and now he wears dark jeans and a black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms marked with tattoos. He looks every inch the Bratva boss he is.
He steps into the room, and I notice he's carrying a tablet. He doesn't say anything, just moves to the table and sets it down, tapping the screen to life.
"What is that?" I ask, my voice hoarse from disuse.
"Watch," he says simply, his tone giving nothing away.
I approach cautiously, keeping the table between us. The tablet screen shows a news broadcast, the volume low but audible. And there, filling the screen, is my father.
Viktor Popov sits in what I recognize as his study, his face drawn and pale. His eyes are red-rimmed, and as I watch, a tear rolls down his cheek. He's speaking in Russian, his voice breaking with emotion.
"My daughter, Alina, was taken from her own wedding," he says, his hands clasped in front of him like he's praying. "Taken by Dimitri Morozov, a man who claims to be family, who wassupposed to protect her. Instead, he murdered his own nephew—my daughter's fiancé—and kidnapped her in the chaos."
My blood runs cold.
"I'm begging you, Dimitri," my father continues, looking directly into the camera. "Please, return my daughter safely. She's innocent in all of this. Whatever grievances you have, whatever power you're trying to seize, don't make her pay for it. She's just a girl. She doesn't deserve this."
The broadcast cuts to a news anchor discussing the church attack, showing footage of the burning building, of emergency vehicles and covered bodies being carried out. The death toll scrolls across the bottom of the screen: seventeen confirmed dead, dozens injured.
Dimitri reaches over and pauses the video. The silence in the room is deafening.
I look up at him, my mind reeling. My father's performance was convincing with the tears, broken voice, and desperate plea. But I know my father. I know how he operates. And something about this feels wrong.
"Well?" Dimitri asks, his green eyes fixed on me with that same unsettling intensity. "Did you and your father orchestrate the hit?"
6
DIMITRI
