Svetlana is quiet for a long moment. "I knew weeks ago he wanted someone else. I kept hoping he’d get over it, and not ruin my father’s plans.”
“What about your plans?”
She lets out a short bark of a laugh, and falls silent again.
Then I hear something—the sound of a door opening, then footsteps echoing down a hallway. Multiple sets of footsteps.
Svetlana and I both freeze, our eyes meeting in the darkness. Her fear is palpable, and I'm sure mine is too.
The footsteps get closer, and then lights flicker on—harsh fluorescent lights that make me squint, hurting my eyes after so long in the dark. I can see now that we're in a warehouse, just as I thought. The room is empty, except for a few scattered crates and the support beams we're tied to—and the men walking toward us.
There are five of them, all armed, all wearing tactical gear. But it's the man in the center who draws my attention. He's older than the others, late thirties or early forties, with sharp features and cold eyes. He's wearing an expensive suit, and he moves with the confidence of someone who's used to being in control.
"Ladies," he says, his accent thick but his English clear. "I hope you're comfortable."
Svetlana spits at him. "Fuck you."
My eyes widen, and I adjust my initial impression of her. But the man in the expensive suit just laughs. “I suppose you don’t know better,devochka. Ilya must not have cared enough to teach you manners.” He looks at me. “And I already know what kind of manners you have,suka. You killed one of my men.”
So this is Sergei. The man who orchestrated all of this, who killed Ilya's men and took us. I study him, trying to see what makes him dangerous, what makes him think he can go up against someone like Ilya.
He grinds the toe of his shoe into the stain of spittle. “Ilya would be disappointed that his fiancee has such poor manners.”
So he doesn’t know. Interesting.
“He’d spit on you too if she knew what you were doing,” she hisses. “He’ll do worse. If not for me, then for her.” She glances at me, and I feel my chest tighten, suddenly feeling a kinshipwith this woman. She’s fierce, that’s for sure, not the shallow bitch I thought she was at first. I suppose I can’t blame her initial reaction to me, given what she walked in on. And it seems like there’s more to the story of her engagement to Ilya than I know—or, possibly, than he knows, too.
Sergei turns to me, his cold eyes assessing. "And you must be Mara Winslow. The woman he’s so obsessed with that he came into my territory without so much as a by-your-leave." He walks closer, and I force myself not to shrink back. "I have to admit, I don't see it. You're pretty enough, but what is it about you that made Ilya Sorokov lose his mind?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" He tilts his head. "Then why did he trespass on my territory? Why did he pull resources to watch you? Why did he become so distracted that he left himself vulnerable?"
I shrug, refusing to be cowed. "You'd have to ask him."
"Oh, I will. Soon." Sergei smiles, the expression terrifying in its coldness. "That's the beauty of this plan, you see. I’m going to break him before I finish him off, and then I’ll take what’s his. I’ve been wanting to expand into Boston, anyway.”
"He won't negotiate with you," I hiss. "He’ll just kill you outright. If you’re lucky, it’ll be quick.”
"Everyone negotiates when the stakes are high enough." Sergei's smile widens. "And I'm going to give him a choice that will destroy him no matter what he picks."
He gestures to his men, and they move to stand behind us. I feel hands on my shoulders, rough and impersonal, and I have to fight the urge to struggle.
"Here's what's going to happen," Sergei says, his voice conversational, like he's discussing the weather. "I'm going to contact Ilya. I'm going to tell him I have both of you—both his fiancée and his current obsession. And I'm going to make him choose."
"Choose what?" Svetlana asks, her voice shaking. I can see how pale her face is, as if all the blood has drained out of it.
"Which one of you lives." Sergei lets that sink in, watching our faces. "He can save one of you. Just one. The other dies, publicly and painfully, recorded to be sent to every member of every Bratva on the Eastern border who needs to be reminded that no one is invincible. Even Ilya Sorokov can be broken. A lesson, to remind them that I am not forgiving when it comes to an insult that suggests I would allow anotherpakhaninto my territory without permission. He should have come to me petitioning to be allowed here. Instead he strolled in without even the bother of a message.”
My stomach drops. This isn't just about territory or power. This is about humiliation, about destroying Ilya in the most personal way possible.
“And if he refuses to choose?” I ask, somehow forcing my voice steady.
Sergei’s smile is vicious. “Then I’ll torture you both until I figure out which one he cares about more, and continue to torture that one until he breaks.” Sergei crouches in front of me now, his face inches from mine. "Everyone has a weakness, Miss Winslow. Everyone has something they can't bear to lose. I’m going to find out which one of you Ilya cares for more."
"You're wrong,” I bluff. “He doesn’t care that much about anyone.” I don’t tell him that Svetlana’s engagement was broken. For all I know, he’ll think she’s worthless then, kill her, and go all in on me.
I have to figure out a way to get us out of this.
