An office. Files spread across a desk. Auction records, old photographs of paintings. He’s comparing them. Checking dates. Locations. Verifying information. Talking on the phone with someone.
I open my eyes. This, I can do.
"He's an art dealer. He’s been checking the history of paintings you’ve bought.”
“I thought so.”
I close my eyes again, thankful for the distraction. Hopefully if I give him something useful, it will take the pressure off me.
"He thinks you have stolen artwork. He’s trying to track down the real owners. He has someone helping him, but they’ve never met. I can’t see much about his contact except he has something to do with Turkey or a turkey. I don’t know.”
Grigori snatches the pen back, scratching his chin. "Turkey, hmm. Must be Turkish. My men can sniff him out. Not many of them in Moscow."
My heartbeat slows with relief, despite knowing what’s going to happen. Both men will be killed because of my gift. At this point, I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve helped to kill.
"Now do you see? This is why I keep you. Why I can never let you go. You tell me the truth. You're loyal."
Not as loyal as you think.
"Yes, sir."
He stands and I brace myself for a kick, for his belt, for his hand to slap my head sideways.
He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You're more useful than my son will ever be. Remember that."
He turns away. The door closes and I’m locked in again. I’m left on the cold floor, my heart racing while his words loop inside my head.
Be grateful.
I should be grateful for this basement. For this prison. For darkness, cold and isolation.
I laugh. The sound comes out broken and bitter. How can I be grateful for this dark void that swallowed my life? Those girls upstairs, holes waiting to be filled or not, they get to see daylight. They can leave when their shift is over. They have freedom regardless if it means doing whatever they do up there with men.
Me?
I’m his special tool. His secret weapon. Lucky me. I push myself up, lying back on the mattress. My body aches and my head throbs from the readings. Everything inside me hurts, not just my muscles. My mind. My heart. I have nothing. Absolutely nothing except my fantasies.
So, I close my eyes again, going back to the only place where I still have control. I go directly to it. Him. Roman.He’s coming down the stairs, saying those beautiful words to me. Taking me with him out of the basement.
I don’t know how long this fantasy will keep my mind from breaking, but I know that for the next six days until the Pakhan comes back, I’ll have something to cling to, keep me sane, as I lie here on the mattress.
CHAPTER 4
ROMAN
She’s two minutes late.
I'm parked half a block down from the brothel, watching the side door, waiting on Olga, the whore I’ve singled out as my way in. For two weeks, I’ve been stalking this place, narrowing down a target. She’s the one.
Olga’s an old-timer. She’s been here long enough to hear every rumor and gossip. Sneaky enough to take on clients outside the brothel. Do I have proof? No. But one look at her jittery hands and fidgety movements told me everything I needed to know. Straight-up heroin addict. She’ll suck and fuck anything with a pulse to pay for her next fix.
I watch as the side door opens. She steps out and lights a cigarette, scanning the street. I wait to see if anyone else comes out behind her. No one. When she’s halfway down the block, I get out and follow behind her.
"Olga."
She jumps then plasters on a smile, trying to look seductive. "Roman Ivanov. Looking for company?"
"Maybe.” I smile back. “Depends."
