My pulse kicked, but I kept my breathing even. "I'm flattered."
"You shouldn't be."
"Elena Vasiliev," he said, and my name sounded different in his mouth. Familiar and dangerous. "You've made yourself a problem."
I lifted my chin, refusing to let him see how badly my heart was racing. "For whom?"
"Powerful men."
"Men who launder money through shell corporations and hide human trafficking behind real estate fronts?" I kept my voice level. "Yes, I imagine they're very displeased."
Something flickered in his expression. Not quite surprise, but something close.
"You're not begging," he observed.
"Would it help?"
"No."
I swallowed before speaking.
"Under federal statute 18 U.S.C. § 1201, kidnapping carries a minimum sentence of twenty years. Crossing state lines makes it a mandatory federal case. Interfering with an attorney actively engaged in litigation adds obstruction charges under 18 U.S.C. § 1503." I went on, keeping my voice steady. "If you've touched the contents of my briefcase, you've violated attorney-client privilege, which means anything you've seen is inadmissible, and you've committed yet another felony."
At first, he blinked silently at me.
Then, almost conversationally, he said, "You're not in a courtroom, Ms. Vasiliev."
"No," I agreed. "I'm in an unknown place, restrained and kidnapped, which adds additional charges of false imprisonment and unlawful detention. Every second you keep me here compounds your exposure."
He moved closer, circling me slowly. Predatory. Assessing. I forced myself to stand still, to not track his movement like prey watching a hunter.
"You filed a lawsuit," he said. "Very public. Very detailed. Naming specific corporations, specific transactions. You had to know what would happen."
"I'm a lawyer. Lawsuits are my job."
"Don't insult my intelligence." He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
"Right. I can’t say I’m surprised we’re having this.. conversation." I gestured with my bound wrists. "Though I would have preferred it without the zip ties."
He pulled a knife from his pocket—a sleek thing that looked perfectly balanced—and cut through the plastic in one smooth motion. The tie fell away, and I brought my hands forward, rubbing my wrists where the plastic had bitten into skin.
We stared at each other for a long moment. The air between us felt charged, crackling with tension that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second before returning to meet my gaze.
He moved away abruptly, finishing his drink in one swallow.
Then he moved to the door. He opened it, spoke quietly to someone I couldn't see, then closed it again.
"You'll be confined here," he said. "Under guard. Until I decide what to do with you."
"Protective custody or imprisonment?"
"Does it matter?"
"Legally, yes. Practically, probably not."
Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. "You reallyarea lawyer."
"Glad you noticed."
