I'm tired, but I know it's the adrenaline and cortisol thrumming through my veins. It feels like I've been lying here for hours, too, trying to wrap my mind around why those men would take me off the street and why that shitty food vendor would run off instead of trying to help me. What is this world coming to, and what importance could I have to a businessman in his limo?
Whoever Ana Veche is must be important to them for them to think I'm her. I'm sure this is just a mistake and when they realize I'm not her and I don't know who she is, they'll let me go. But it's still terrifying. I have no clue where I am or who they are, and I just want to go home to my boring life.
A knock at the door makes me flinch, and my whole body goes rigid as I turn to watch the knob turn.
"Miss?" a woman asks, and her voice is soft and hesitant. "I'm coming in."
The latch clicks and the door swings open to reveal an older woman with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun. She carries a tray in her hands, where steam rises from a bowl of something, and her brown eyes are kind as she steps into the room and pushes the door closed behind her with her hip.
"I've brought you food," she says, setting the tray on the small table beside the bed. "You should eat. Keep your strength up."
I push myself upright and look at the woman as hope blooms in my chest. She's not one of them. She's a maid, maybe a housekeeper, someone who works here but isn't part of whatever this is. Maybe she can help me.
"Thank you," I mumble softly and smile at her. "Thank you for the food."
The woman nods at me and looks down at my bound hands, clicking her tongue as she scowls. It's the first indication in this entire fucked up mess that someone other than me realizes this is wrong.
"Please," I say, reaching out to touch her arm. "Please, you have to help me. I don't know why I'm here. I haven't done anything wrong. Can you help me get out? Is there a phone I can use, or a door that's unlocked, or?—"
"I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head, pulling her arm gently from my grip. "There's nothing I can do to help you. I could take the?—"
"But you could?—"
"I can't," she says firmly. "I'm sorry, Miss. I truly am. But there's nothing I can do." Then she sighs hard and reaches into her pocket where she produces a letter opener. She gestures, and I reach my hands out to her. If I just hit her hard, I could run out that door and get away, but my conscience would never let me do that. She isn't the one who took me, and I don't want to hurt an old lady.
So I sit there and let her work the letter opener until the zip ties snap and my hands are free. I rub my wrists, smiling at her sadly as she backs away. I feel the hope drain out of me as quickly as it came. She's not going to help me. She can't or she won't. I'm trapped here, and no one is coming to save me because the rest of the world thinks I got on a plane tonight to fly out of the country for two weeks.
"Is there anything you need?" the woman asks gently, and her eyes narrow in concern. She cares even if she can't do anything about it. I wonder if she's a prisoner too. "Anything I can bring you?"
My head drops and I shiver slightly. This skirt and blouse are too thin for the weather. I'd really like a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, or at the very least a pair of socks to keep my feet warm. I don't suppose my captors even want to treat me like a human, though.
"Clothes," I say. "What am I supposed to wear?"
The woman nods. "I'll speak with Mr. Gravitch about it and I'll see what I can do."
"What's your name?" I ask.
She offers me a small, sad smile. "My name is Rosa. I'll come back when I can."
There isn't much more I can say to her. If she's not going to help me get out of here, she's not an ally. So I'm back to feeling completely alone again, except now I have food, at least.
I pick up the spoon and try to eat, but my stomach's a knot of anxiety and fear and the soup tastes too bland. I manage a few bites, enough to keep my body from shutting down entirely, and then I push the bowl away and sit on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands.
It feels like every cell in my body is drained of all energy. I've lost a shoe, my head throbs with an impending migraine, and my feet are freezing after that jaunt through the snow. And I feel gross and sweaty and dirty.
I've heard the name Gravitch before, but I didn't know that's whose car I was thrown into. If Mr. Gravitch is one of the men who took me, and this is his home, and that was his housekeeper, then it's trouble. My mind starts to spin stories that are more terrifying than being dragged off the street.
Gravitch is a name everyone in this city knows. It's no wonder they were in a limo wearing expensive suits. The Bratva rakes in millions of dollars off the backs of people they've extorted or manipulated. So if they're Bratva, this Ana Veche character must be some sort of enemy of theirs.
I need to be smart about this.
My first instinct is to scream and fight and throw myself at the door until someone lets me out, but that's not going to work. These men aren't going to be moved by hysteria. When I freaked out in the car, they just tied me up and gagged me. They’re heartless thugs who don't care who I am or how innocent I am.
This is too much for me. I feel like I'm on emotional overload, and I have to jolt my nervous system back into order or I'm going to give myself another panic attack. I pace for a while, but the pacing only gets me more worked up, so I stalk toward the bathroom and start stripping out of my clothes. A hot shower always helps me relax when I'm tense, and I know that's just what I need to help me calm down so I can think straight.
The water heats up almost instantly, and after looking at the bruise on my arm from where that bastard grabbed me, I step in and adjust the temperature until it's just hot enough to pinken my skin.
Then I stand under the hot water and let it wash away the panic until I can think clearly again. It won't change my situation, but it might help me calm down enough to figure out what to do next.
