“Dima,” he said, that lone word holding all his rage. “You took my daughter. Fine. You want leverage, you have it. Name exactly what you want to fulfill your little revenge fantasy, andI’ll see if I can make it happen. But you keep her intact. She still has value.”
I thought of the unspoken parts he’d left out. Zoya would be used for marriage, alliances, and securing bloodlines.
“She’s not disposable.” He didn’t plead. There wasn’t any fatherly anguish. He spoke as if I’d taken something that held materialistic value, something he’d use and barter. Not cherish as his own flesh and blood.
Just the same transactional chill I knew he’d always used when he looked at her. I didn’t respond right away, just leaned back in my chair behind my desk and stared at Zoya. She sat on her cot, knees bent to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. My coat was draped over her shoulders like a brand, and it did something to me… made my blood run hot.
Always the same position, like a scared bird afraid of her own shadow.
She may look small and vulnerable, but I knew she had a spine made of steel. Her gaze glittered with something feral. I had to give her credit. Zoya didn’t blink when she heard how her father talked about her. She didn’t flinch or act hurt. She simply… waited. This woman could be very dangerous, like a blade being slowly drawn from its sheath.
I let Andrey’s words crawl into the room like smoke. “You want to bargain?” I said, voice deadly and even. “Then let her hear how much she’s worth to you.”
Andrey exhaled. It was a short, impatient sound. “Zoya. Whatever he showed you, whatever poison he fed you… it’s business. Ugly business, yes, but necessary. I kept you separate from it. I kept you protected. You were never meant to see anything from that side of my work. That was for your own good.”
Zoya’s breath hitched. The sound was small and broken, seeming to echo in the cold room. She pressed her foreheadhard against her drawn-up knees, shoulders curling inward as if she could fold herself small enough to disappear. She didn’t speak. Didn’t lash out. She simply trembled, the quiet shake of someone who had spent her life learning how to survive silence.
“Enough,” I cut in. The single word sliced through the air like a blade. I rose from behind the desk and crossed to her in three slow, deliberate steps. When I crouched, my shadow swallowed her completely. I caught her chin between my thumb and forefinger. It was a firm but careful touch, one I ensured wouldn’t bruise.
I tilted her face until those wide, frightened blue eyes met mine. Her pulse hammered wildly at the base of her throat.
“Tell him,” I murmured, my voice pitched low and rough, meant for her ears alone. “Tell him what happens if he delays.”
She stared at me, lips parted, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. Tears finally spilled over. They were silent, hot tracks that slid down her cheeks. She swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet, and when I moved back and gave her space, she cleared her throat and stared at the phone still on the desk.
“He… he’s going to hurt me, Papa,” her voice was barely above a whisper, cracking on every other word. The confession fractured as she looked at me, and I gave her a slow nod. “One piece at a time. Every week he’ll take a part of me away until you give him what he wants.” She licked her lips and exhaled again. “You know what he wants.”
Andrey inhaled sharply on the other end of the line. “You won’t,” he said, the words flat and certain. “She’s your leverage. You damage her and this ends because she’s no fucking good to me.”
I smiled. Although he couldn’t see me, I made sure it was slow, cold, and the type of smile that always came right before I spilled blood. “Test that theory. Twenty-four hours. First encrypted list to the address I sent. If I find out you did anythingother than that, the first piece of your daughter arrives in a velvet box tied with a ribbon.”
Zoya’s breath shuddered out of her in a broken exhale. I wondered if she thought I’d truly do what I said. Every other occasion but this, I had no conscience. I did what needed to be done. But as I stared at her and thought about taking little pieces off her body, I knew I wouldn’t so much as pluck a hair from her head.
Andrey’s voice returned, stripped raw, but not with worry or concern, with marrow-deep anger. “I’ll send it. But when I find you, Dima… there won’t be enough left to identify.”
I ended the call, and the silence crashed in. It was thick, heavy, and scented with the sharp metallic edge of fear. I was back in front of her before I realized I’d moved and reached out to smooth my thumb along her cheek, brushing away the wet track of a tear from her cheek.
She stayed curled on the cot, small and innocent, staring at me as though the world had tilted and she couldn’t find level ground anymore. I watched her for a moment longer. Zoya was scared. It was bone-deep fear, one she’d been sheltered from in the worst way. She’d been wrapped in luxury while the truth rotted underneath.
But all was broken open now by things she’d never been allowed to face. And yet… my gut whispered something quieter. She truly, genuinely, wanted her father gone. Not just for the women he’d destroyed but also for herself. For the cage he dressed up as protection.
I didn’t trust her fully. Not yet. But I trusted my gut that she wasn’t a threat. This time, I reached for the handcuffs and unlocked one wrist, then the other. The metal clinked softly as it fell away, leaving angry red marks circling her skin like cruel bracelets. She stared at her freed hands as though they belonged to someone else.
“Come on,” I said quietly and stood, holding out my hand for her. But Zoya didn’t take what I offered right away. She looked at me as if it were a trick, but after a few seconds, she slowly unfolded herself from the cot, still not taking my hand.
Her legs were unsteady beneath her, and I adjusted my coat on her shoulders without thinking. She flinched at the brief contact of my fingers but didn’t pull away. I led her out of the cold office, through a narrow, dimly lit corridor, then down a heavy steel staircase that most people would never find unless they already knew where to look. The kind of staircase that doesn’t appear on any blueprint. Two flights down and past the first sublevel with its meat hooks and drain grates. And deeper still to the room I’d had renovated two years ago after a critical hit left me bleeding for three days in a place that smelled like rust and death.
I’d paid cash to a crew who asked no questions, men who knew how to pour concrete, run ventilation, and keep their mouths shut. I told them one thing only: make it livable. Nothing more.
It was buried deep underground, far below street noise and any hope of natural light reaching it. Made of thick concrete walls that were double-insulated and soundproofed to where a scream twenty feet away would never reach the surface. I had the door installed with reinforced steel and had a manual bolt installed on the inside. Created with a separate ventilation system, independent power and water feed.
But it had an actual bed and clean sheets, a working bathroom with a shower, and a small kitchenette that was stocked with enough food and water for a year. Everything here was essential and had a purpose. It was a safe house, a tomb. A place to disappear when the city wanted you dead.
Until tonight.
I guided her inside and closed the heavy steel door behind us with a dull, final thud. This time, I slid the manual bolt home from the inside. Three thick inches of reinforced steel locking us in together. The sound echoed once then died against the concrete. No one would hear it.
Zoya stood frozen in the center of the small room, arms wrapped so tightly around herself that her knuckles turned white. Her eyes darted first to the bolted door, then to the bathroom and kitchenette, and finally to the dim, amber lamp that barely pushed back the shadows. She looked as if she expected the floor to open and swallow her whole.
