What has he done? What the hell has my father damned me to?
“Let’s go,” he says impatiently.
What has he roped me into? He was supposed to pull one of his usual tricks. He could’ve taken the money and told him—he could have told Yuri there were rules. He could’ve…
This man kills people. He is dangerous in a way my father has never been. In ways he never could be. There are reasons my father had been afraid. One would be an idiot not to be. A soon-to-be dead idiot, if Hernandez’s state is anything to go by.
“Come,” Yuri’s order slices through my horror.
I rise to my feet because I don’t know what else to do. Because my legs move before my brain catches up, despite the way my knees knock together. Because every survival instinct I have is screaming that I need to do exactly what this man says, or I’ll end up like Hernandez.
It’s almost enough to make me appreciate Dad’s insanity. At least he is the devil I know, right? I know him. I know his moods, his patterns, his breaking points. I’ve spent a lifetime learning them. This man, though? Yuri is a different monster entirely. He could do anything. He has every weapon at his disposal, and no one to stand in his way.
He could be a serial killer who specifically preys on young, helpless women for all I know!
I’m not fooled by the gentlemanly way he guides me to a car, stereotypically enormous, shiny, and black. The way he opens the passenger door and offers me a hand to help me up and into his vehicle.
When he shuts the door behind me, it is the sound of my fate being sealed.
I can’t help but think death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a woman.
Chapter 3 - Iosif
She appears to be in a near-catatonic state. It’s convenient, given that she at least keeps moving where directed. She didn’t say a word the whole drive here. She doesn’t say one now, either.
It’s a good thing that Janella Driscoll’s face may as well have subtitles.
In the car, she wore her panic over my texting the entire drive. Even if she was smart enough to aim her displeased frown at the windshield. Now, she wears her fear plain as day while the elevator doors open directly into the penthouse. I watch it transform to astonishment in real time.
It’s been a while since I’ve brought a woman home. I almost forgot the way it must look to someone unaccustomed to the glamor. I try to view the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Boston’s financial district through her eyes. The city lights spread out like a sea of neon fireflies, and their novelty has lost its luster for me. That same novelty blows her away.
Her eyes go wide as saucers, a matching companion to the stunned part of her mouth. Her fear gives way to disbelief. There is an innocence to her that I’m a little baffled by. Her father is who he is—and my intel’s already told me it’s far worse than I initially thought. There’s no mother in the picture either. She’s hardly sheltered.
So, what other explanation is there?
“This way,” I tell her, and lead her through the apartment.
The space is entirely open-plan by design. A living room flows into a dining area. There’s the kitchen, decked out in sleek, state-of-the-art appliances I never touch—with the exception ofthe coffeemaker—since I either eat out or have food brought in. It’s all very impressive. And all totally wasted on me. I walk her past all of it, leading her down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.
“That’s my office,” I point out the door on the left. “My bedroom is the door at the end of the hall.”
Of course, that isn’t the door I walk her through. She sticks to me like a shadow, her eyes darting all over the place. Understandably, she looks overwhelmed. I open the door to the guest room and nudge her inside when she loiters in the doorway.
“Sit,” I instruct, staring at her until she sinks down on the edge of the bed. Her hands are in tightly bundled fists. She sets both of them in her lap, resolutely looking at the floor.
I shrug off my jacket, pulling my phone out before I toss the jacket on top of the desk in the corner. Hitting a number on speed dial, I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I roll up my sleeves. It barely rings twice before he answers.
“Bring me the first-aid kit,” I say and hang up.
It takes three minutes for Ivan to arrive with a white box in hand. Unsurprisingly, Janella recoils as soon as he walks through the door. Jesus Christ, he isn’t the fucking Loch Ness Monster. Still, every muscle in her body goes visibly rigid. She looks exactly like a feral kitten trapped in a corner.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
“You’ll have to get used to having men around,” I inform her candidly as Ivan sets the kit down on the nightstand and exits. “At least this one isn’t throwing shit at you.”
I’m not sure this woman won’t have a stroke if I sit on the bed beside her. One can only guess what she imagines is aboutto happen here. I grab the chair slotted beneath the desk instead and drag it over. I pluck the kit from where Ivan set it and take a seat in front of her.
I ignore the full-body flinch when I grab her elbow to get a closer look at her wound. Her gash is almost the width of the axe that made it. It isn’t too deep, but deep enough to need stitches. It’s stopped bleeding for now, but it looks raw and inflamed. Definitely needs to be disinfected.
