She’s flawless, every line of her face composed, every muscle taut. Not a flicker of doubt. If she’s bluffing, it’s the best I’ve ever seen.
The silence stretches. Sweat beads at her temple, but her jaw never slackens, her gaze never drops. The tension spikes, sharp as broken glass. I want her to beg. I want her to curse. I want anything but this cold, elegant stonewall.
Finally, disgusted by my own frustration, I release her wrists with a hard shove. She stumbles back against the wall, breath ragged, but she catches herself before she falls. I turn on my heel, refusing to let her see how close she’s come to getting under my skin.
The heavy door swings shut behind me, the lock clanging home, sealing her inside. For a long moment, I stand in the hall, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight it aches. She’s not broken. Not yet.
I stalk the corridor, pulse drumming in my ears, every nerve vibrating with unshed adrenaline. I thought I’d get answers—or at least watch her crack—but all I saw was defiance sharpened to a blade.
Even now, behind that thick steel door, I can picture her pacing the concrete, replaying every second, planning her nextmove. There’s a satisfaction in it, twisted as it is. Most people break before the first real threat. Suzy digs in, shows her teeth, refuses to give me the satisfaction.
I check the monitor again. She’s rubbing her wrists, shaking out her hands, trying to work the blood back into her fingers. The camera catches the set of her jaw, the narrowed eyes fixed on the door—as if she can glare her way through. I watch her breathe, slow and steady, refusing to let fear show. If anything, she looks more dangerous now than when she first stepped out of that car.
The men upstairs are restless. They want to know if I’ll start with threats or bribery, if I’ll use charm or violence.
I ignore them all. I don’t need to explain myself, least of all to those who can’t see what I see: this isn’t just another frightened asset, and I can’t treat her like one. Suzy is a problem that needs a scalpel, not a hammer.
I turn away from the screen, rolling my sleeves back down, letting my heart slow to its old, careful rhythm. For now, I’ll let her stew in the dark. I want her to think about me, to wonder when I’ll return. The waiting will do more damage than threats ever could.
But beneath the calculation, I feel something else growing—a stubborn fascination, hungry and sharp. The game is on, and I don’t know how it ends.
I wonder if I’ve finally found someone who knows how to play this game as well as I do. It’s not fear that tightens in my chest as I walk away—it’s something perilously close to respect, and a dangerous curiosity that refuses to let go.
Chapter Five - Suzy
The dark in Leon’s basement is the kind that settles into your bones. After the heavy door slams shut and his footsteps echo up the stairs, I’m left with silence so thick it almost feels alive—coiling in the corners, pressing hard beneath my ribs.
I know who he is now. There’s no doubt in my mind, that this is Nikola Sharov’s brother.
My teeth chatter, not from fear but from the cold that seeps straight through the soles of my shoes. I cross my arms and pace, counting steps, testing the floor for loose tiles or anything that gives. Nothing does.
It’s all concrete, unyielding and damp, the kind of chill that makes your joints ache.
I close my eyes, stretching my senses for any hint of hope. A distant clang—a door shutting far above. Pipes humming in the walls. Then nothing.
I pace, careful to stay quiet, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. Each shadow looks like it might hide a secret, or maybe just a memory. The urge to panic hovers at the edge of my chest, but I lock it down, focusing instead on the steady drum of my own heart. I will not give Leon the satisfaction of falling apart.
My wrists burn from the plastic ties—tight, but not perfect. I flex my hands, twisting against the biting plastic, feeling the edges scrape my skin.
My father’s men taught me to endure worse. I grit my teeth, working slow, letting time do its part. With each twist, the plastic stretches, groans, and then—miracle—my right hand slips free. My breath stutters, but I don’t pause to celebrate.
I scan my clothes by touch, searching for anything I can use. My coat’s belt is useless, but in the seam of my sleeve I find a broken metal clasp; a souvenir from a cheap bag, sharp as hope.
Working by memory and feel, I wedge it into the lock on the door, coaxing the tumblers. It takes longer than I want, but finally, there’s a click. The sound is so faint I wonder if I imagined it.
I pause, listening—no movement, no shouts. I slip out, closing the door behind me as gently as possible. The stairs are old, every step a potential betrayal. I move slowly, distributing my weight to keep the wood from creaking.
At the top, I press my ear to the door, holding my breath. All is quiet.
The hall beyond is wide and dim, all echoing marble and pale lamplight. I move low, hugging the wall, memory and adrenaline carrying me. My father always made sure I knew the hidden routes—servants’ passages, side doors, windows nobody bothered to lock. I duck under a window, keeping out of sight, scanning for movement. Every door I pass, I listen for voices, but there’s nothing but my own breath.
At the end of a long hall, I spot a side corridor, narrow and neglected. There, framed in dusty curtains, is a window. The latch looks ancient, the paint peeling. The kind of flaw that would make any security chief lose sleep—unless they thought nobody would ever dare to use it.
Hope surges, wild and bright, making my fingers tremble. I press my palm to the cold glass, test the latch. It moves. There’s a scrape, then a yielding pop. I push the window open, cold air brushing my cheek. I don’t let myself think about what comes next. I just swing one leg up, bracing on the sill, already tasting freedom in the air.
That’s when the world goes white with pain—a hand clamps down on my arm, iron-tight, yanking me back from the window with no warning.
Leon’s grip is absolute, his fingers digging into the flesh of my arm so hard I know I’ll bruise. I twist, try to kick free, my boot connecting with the wall, then his leg, but he doesn’t even grunt.
