I should’ve known she was saving up for what she thinks is her next chance to alert someone to her current predicament.
My head fucking hurts. I’m sick and tired of the screeching, and I still have to review the week’s tribute reports to get a non-compliance list ready for the enforcers by morning, all while trying to find the son of a bitch who stole from us by questioning his sister.
Something about Alina Kent tells me this night is about to get a lot more complicated than tracking down her brother.
3
Alina
The SUV bumpedalong for half an hour before it came to a complete stop in what looks like a parking garage outside the back windows. The whole time, the men in the front speak to each other in words I don’t understand over my screams.
One thing I’m certain of is that the guy in the suit, the one whose nose I busted, is the leader. The others treat him like he’s in charge. In charge of what, I’m not entirely sure yet.
Being silent in the confined space feels like giving up, but my raw throat needs a break before I lose my voice entirely. I’m not done by any means.
As soon as the hatch opens, I pray that other people may be nearby and start shouting for help.
I only get one word out before fingers wrap around my jaw, shutting me up.
“Quiet,” the man in the suit says. With one single word, he makes it clear that it’s not a request.
My pulse jumps against his fingers while he studies my face as if to ensure his message was received. When satisfied, he says, “You’re Alina Kent.”
It’s not a question, but a statement.
I give him a terse nod, cooperating only because I want an explanation.
“If you hadn’t run, you would not have been restrained, and we could’ve had a simple conversation in a more pleasant location. Now we’re here where nobody will hear you scream.”
“Who the hell are you?” I ask. My voice, thankfully, sounds like it belongs to someone braver than a weak, five-foot nothing, hundred-pound woman.
“Dominik Morozov.”
That doesn’t tell me anything.
“Whoare you?” I ask again, wanting to know more than what to call him because I have a bad feeling about all of this.
“I’m the underboss to the Morozov Bratva,” he answers.
Bratva.
Even the cops won’t say that word above a whisper.
The Russian mafia is the city’s most powerful criminal organization. I’ve also heard rumors, stories about the Morozov mob boss, a man who makes the rest of the Bratva seem civilized in comparison.
“Wh-why did you show up where I work? What do you want with me?” I ask him, my voice shaking against my will.
He ignores me and gives the other two men orders in their language. They haul me out of the SUV—one grabbing my shoulders, the other my legs—and carry me toward a door tucked in the corner of the garage.
The room inside is grim. There’s a metal chair with stains around it that don’t look like grease, and tools hanging from the walls. The concrete is cold under my pant legs when I’m lowered down. It’s colder than even the fear crawling up my spine.
The heavy door closes, sealing me inside with the men that I just injured. I try to shove those concerns aside and steel my spine. Is this going to be some sort of payback for hurting them? Now they plan to hurt me? I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Anger is easier to handle than fear.
“You wanted a conversation, then fucking talk!” I shout, forcing my voice to hold steady even though my knees are shaking. But Dominik isn’t there. Only the two injured thugs.
“What the hell is going on? Where did he go?”
Neither of them answers me. They don’t say a word, but they at least keep their distance, like they’re waiting for their boss to return.
