“How?” I demand. “I don’t know anything. I work in catering. I live in a one-bedroom apartment with a leaky shower.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he says. “Leverage isn’t about what you have. It’s about who you are.”
My chest tightens.
“I’m no one at all,” I argue. “And considering that my father works on your docks, I don’t imagine he’s all that important in the grand scheme of your organization. I didn’t agree to be anyone’s leverage.”
“I know.” He nods. “Which is why I’m protecting you. The unfortunate truth is, anyone in my organization can get caught up in the madness. That’s another occupational hazard. I’m just sorry you were unaware.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It’s all I have to offer.” He shrugs, turning away from me to look out his window.
The car turns, the motion smooth and controlled. Streetlights flash past the windows in rhythmic bursts. I try to focus on them, grounding myself in something external.
“This is insane,” I mutter.
“I can see how you would think that,” he answers, still turned away from me.
I lean back against the seat, closing my eyes for a moment. The car hums beneath us, steady and unhurried. I try to imagine my apartment, my bed, my quiet, normal life. It feels like a different universe.
“I just wanted to go home tonight,” I say softly. “I wanted to take off that stupid dress and wash my face and pretend none of this happened.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, not softening his posture at all.
“You keep saying that,” I murmur. “But I don’t think you really are.”
He doesn’t respond.
The silence stretches again, filled only by the sound of the road and my own uneven breathing. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past.
I don’t know where we’re going or how long this will last. All I know is that my life cracked open tonight, and nothing is ever going to go back to the way it was.
An insidious fear rises up from inside of me, consuming every other thought and emotion until it’s all that’s left. My hands are shaking and I try to hold them together to stop the motion.
It’s embarrassing, how out of control my body feels. It’s another betrayal in a night full of them. I press my lips together, trying to calm my chattering teeth.
Andrei turns to me and notices immediately. “Are you cold?” he asks.
I shake my head, the movement stiff. “No.”
The car is almost too warm. My skin feels flushed, oversensitive, like every nerve ending has been rubbed raw. He doesn’t argue with me, but he doesn’t look convinced either. He studies me in an assessing way, like he’s cataloging information instead of reacting emotionally.
Tears blur my vision before I realize they’re coming. I blink hard, annoyed with myself.
“This is stupid,” I mutter. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he says calmly.
I have no response to that. Instead, I drag the sleeve of the sweatshirt over my hand and wipe at my face, frustrated by themess of emotions I can’t seem to contain. Everything feels too big to contain in my body.
“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” I admit quietly. “I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why I’m trusting you.”
“You don’t have to trust me,” Andrei says after a beat. “In fact, it’s probably better for your safety to keep up some healthy skepticism. But it’s in your best interest right now to let me help you.”
He shifts slightly, turning more toward me. The movement brings him closer, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact is small, almost accidental, but my body reacts like it’s anything but.
My breath stutters. I hate how aware I am of him, of his body heat and his steady, calming presence. I hate that some part of me feels safer because he’s here, even after everything.
