The vulnerability of it threatens to shatter what remains of my composure. I cannot even curl in on myself, cannot cover the parts of me that have never been seen by anyone except Drake. The chair holds me splayed open, defenseless, every inch of me on display for whoever put me here.
Shame burns through my veins, hot and corrosive. But beneath the shame, something harder takes root. Something that refuses to crumble.
They want me broken. They want me humiliated and compliant and ready to accept whatever comes next.
I will not give them the satisfaction.
"Mom. Gemma." I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will. "Look at me. Are you hurt? Did they touch you?"
"No." Gemma shakes her head frantically. "They just tied us up and left us here. They said we had to wait. That someone was coming."
My mother's face crumples with a guilt I do not understand. "This is my fault. All of it. If your father had never taken that money, if I had been stronger after he died, if I had found a way to help instead of falling apart..."
My heart falls to the cold floor. Victor told her. Or someone did. My dark secret is out and seeing the crushing fear on my mom’s face is exactly what I wanted to avoid.
"Mom, stop." My words are even despite the raging agony storming through me right now. “It’s okay. This is not on you.” My words come out sharper than I intend, but I need her present. I need her focused. "This is not your fault. None of this is your fault."
"But the debt. I had no idea until last night." Her voice splinters. "This Victor guy. How could your father do this? The things you've been doing to pay it off. He said you’ve been hiding this from us for years. Why?"
I look at my sister, and the confusion in her eyes confirms what my mother said.
"Gemma." My throat tightens around her name. "What did he tell you?"
"Everything." Tears stream down her face. "The debt. The payments. The man who's been threatening you. Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you go to the police? We could have helped."
“You could have died. You don’t get the police involved with these men. That is what gets you in an unmarked grave.” I shake my head fiercely. "It doesn't matter now." I force the words past the tightness in my chest. "What matters is getting out of here. We need to stay calm and watch for an opportunity."
"An opportunity?" My mother's laugh carries the edge of hysteria. "Katriana, we are tied up in a basement. Men with guns brought us here. What kind of opportunity do you think is going to present itself?"
Before I can answer, footsteps echo from somewhere beyond the pool of sickly light. Slow. Deliberate. The measured pace of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.
Victor Kedrov emerges from the shadows like a nightmare given form.
He looks exactly the same. The reading glasses perched on his nose, attached to their thin gold chain. The slightly rumpled suit. The thin gray hair combed neatly to one side.
My stomach clenches and gurgles with the vile sickness this man creates in me.
"Katriana." My name sounds obscene in his mouth, coated in a satisfaction that makes my skin crawl. "I've been waiting for this moment for a very long time."
He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell his cologne. That cloying, old-fashioned scent that reminds me of funeral flowers. It coats the back of my throat and makes my stomach turn.
"Victor." I keep my chin raised despite my nakedness, despite the vulnerability screaming through every nerve. "I see you're still too much of a coward to face someone who isn't tied to a chair."
The slap comes fast and hard, snapping my head to the side. Stars explode behind my eyes, and I taste copper where my lip split against my teeth. The pain radiates through my skull, sharp and familiar.
"Manners, Katriana." His voice remains soft, almost gentle. "We have so much to discuss. Let's try to keep things civil."
He pulls a chair from somewhere outside my field of vision and settles into it, crossing his legs with the casual elegance of a man settling in for a pleasant conversation. His pale blue eyes move over my exposed body with a clinical detachment that somehow feels worse than lust would have.
"You've caused me a great deal of trouble." He removes his glasses and polishes them on his tie, that familiar gesture that precedes violence. "Drake Moses humiliated me in my own restaurant. Broke my men. Took what was mine. And you..." He replaces the glasses and fixes me with those unblinking eyes. "You let him. You spread your legs for him like a common whore while the debt you owe me remained unpaid."
"The debt is paid." I spit the words at him, blood and defiance mingling on my tongue. "Drake gave you three hundred thousand dollars. We're done."
"We're done when I say we're done." His hand shoots out and grabs my jaw, fingers digging into the bruises that have not yet healed from our last encounter. "Money is money. It comes and goes. But respect? Pride? The reputation I've spent decades building?" He leans closer, his breath hot and foul against my face. "Those things have a different price and that cunt of yours is going to collect for me."
"Go to hell." I squeak out. It’s hard to talk when someone has your face squeezed like a vice.
"Eventually." His smile does not reach his eyes. "But first, I'm going to tell you exactly what happens next. And then I'm going to watch while hope dies in your pretty brown eyes."
