Shit.
I go through my messages. They’re all from Lev.
Where are you?
Fire at Pakhan’s brothel.
Call me.
I text back: Long night. What's going on?
Lev responds immediately: Belova’s saying something’s missing from the brothel. Something that belonged to your father.
I reply: He can buy it again.
Lev: I don’t know. He’s out of his fucking mind. Threatening to kill everyone. He’s down there right now. Something’s up.
Another message follows: Meet me in an hour.
I shower and get ready for a day of damage control. When I step into the hall, I hear movement from the other room. Nala’s awake.
I make her breakfast, assuming she probably has no idea how to use a kitchen like an adult and honestly, she’s been through enough as it is. Breakfast is the least I can do. I know I’m not making her life any easier keeping her locked up but I don’t feel guilty. I just need her to accept reality faster.
In the meantime, I don’t need to be shitty to her. What’s the point of abusing my own asset? How am I supposed to get the results I want if the girl’s miserable and suffering?
I set her food on the table and wait, watching for the moment it hits her that I didn’t open the lock to her door yet.
A minute later, the handle rattles, followed by soft knocking from inside the room. I let it go on for a bit before walking over and unlocking the door.
Me. I open the door. That’s what I need her to understand. I decide everything when it comes to her, including when she leaves that room.
Nala steps out, looking everywhere but at me. She’s wearing one of the sweatpants I got her. They fit, but they’re a bit loose on her small frame. The t-shirt on the other hand…
I can see why it fits her the way it does. I tear my gaze away, bringing it back up to her face, where her damp curly hair hangs past her cheeks, bouncing over her shoulders.
I look past her head, forcing my thoughts blank. I don’t care what she looks like.
She wraps her arms around her middle, looking at me, her dark brown eyes filled with suspicion.
"Good morning,” I greet her. No reason to be rude.
She doesn't answer.
"I made breakfast. You should eat."
She glances at the table, back at me then down at the key in my hand.
"Come." I step aside, giving her space.
She limps past me, her bandaged foot slowing her down as she sits at the table. She doesn’t touch the food.
"Eat.”
She stares at the plate, picking up her fork like it might bite her.
"What's wrong with it?" I ask, trying to be patient.
She shakes her head. "Nothing…” Her voice is hoarse, barely there. She nibbles her bottom lip, gestures at the food, then the table.
