“If you let me go now, I won’t tell Sergei you’re holding me hostage. I won’t even tell him you’re stalking me because you clearly are, by the way, if you found me this easily,” she blurts out.
I pause, then let out a quiet snort. “Why would that matter?”
She blinks at me, then frowns. “Because… because you work for him? He’s already pissed enough that his daughter got involved in… whatever it is you two are involved in.”
Christ.
This girl…
To suggest thatSergei Sorokin, of all people, would ever have the balls to call the shots like that… is laughable. He is a smart man, don’t get me wrong, but he’dneverhave it in him to get his hands dirty. Not the way I have.
I shake my head slowly, more amused than I should be. “Sweetheart, Sergei works forme.”
She freezes. “What?”
I don’t give her a second to recalibrate.
I take that stunned silence and I use it, grabbing her elbow and steering her out the back door and down the alleyway, toward the black car parked just behind the dumpsters. She resists but it’s weak. Her brain is still trying to catch up to what I said, still tripping over the implications of what I’ve laid out for her to see.
“Wait—no,” she stammers, digging her heels into the pavement like it’ll make any difference.
“You’ve had your fun snooping and playing detective, but I think you’re done for the day. In any case, what was your endgame, exactly? Post a blog about it? Start a YouTube channel and expose me and my Bratva?”
“Get your hands off me!” she snaps, trying to wrench herself free.
I don’t let go.
“You think I haven’t seen your phone logs? Mysledopytpulled them the same day I delivered you back to Sergei,” I say.
Her steps falter. “What?”
“You called someone that day. A Doriene Kaisheva,” I continue. “Let me guess—mentor? Boss? A handler? You came out here to record what you could and send it back to her. Proof you got tangled up in something dangerous.”
She gasps. It’s a small sound, but it gives her away completely.
I chuckle under my breath, amused in spite of myself. “Yes. I thought so.”
She whips her head toward me, cheeks flushed, voice trembling with conviction. “I didn’t record anything. I swear!”
“Sure,” I deadpan, guiding her toward the waiting black car. When we reach the rear door, I open it. “In.”
She glares at me. “Go to hell.”
I sigh. “Fine. Be stubborn.”
I pick her up by the waist and toss her into the back seat like she’s a sack of flour that screams and shut the door before she can kick me, sealing her in and then circling to the front. From the back seat, she lets out a furious screech and yanks on the door handle a few times. When it doesn’t budge, she kicks it and sits upright, red-faced and sputtering.
As I’m getting into the driver’s seat, she yells, “You’reinsane!You can’t just throw people into the back of a car and then drive off! That’s kidnapping! I don’t belong to you! Let me out!”
I turn my head slowly, meeting her eyes in the rearview. “Well, it’s either that or I shoot you. Which option would you like to choose?”
That gets her to shut up instantly. The ride back is blissfully quiet, aside from her breathing in angry little exhales like she’s holding back a tirade with every breath.
The city is a blur through the windows. Ivy watches the road signs, landmarks, cars passing us by with a careful eye, concentrating so hard I can practically see the mental map she’s building.
She’s sharp, I’ll give her that. Unfortunately, being clever doesn’t mean you’re immune to consequences. She might memorize every turn between here and my estate, but none of it will matter. Even if she were to escape, where would she run?
There’s nowhere in this city that I don’t already have my hands wrapped around. Moscow doesn’t breathe unless I let it.
