The second night,I couldn't sleep.
I’m technically more comfortable than I was the night before—I have pajama shorts and a tank top to sleep in, I’ve showered, and two more meals were brought to me. The same young woman brought me a fresh turkey sandwich with salt and vinegar chips and more water for lunch, and then baked Thai chili salmon, a green salad, and a glass of white wine that tastedveryexpensive for dinner. I asked for books or something to occupy my time, but nothing was brought to me, which meantthe rest of the day was spent sitting, pacing, and trying not to spiral.
Now, I can’t make myself fall asleep. I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the mansion settling around me. There are footsteps in the hallway outside my door, doors opening and closing. Male voices speaking Russian, sometimes sounding conversational, other times more tense.
Around two in the morning, I hear voices outside my door, speaking English this time. It’s hard to make out the conversation exactly, but I hear snippets.
“—can’t believe he shot Privyet?—”
“—can’t you? His father would have.”
“—about damn time he started acting more like his father. Can’t hold the organization if he doesn’t have respect.”
“—Petrov's name means nothing if he won’t back it up?—”
I wonder who they’re talking about. Andrei? He’s clearly the one in charge, but these men sound restless, like they’re questioning him. Like they’re upset about the shooting… or maybe think it was a long time coming? I can’t be sure. I hear the namePetrovagain when they switch to Russian, spat with a sound that comes very close to contempt, I think.
There are footsteps at one point, and the talking ceases. I hear Andrei’s voice, speaking Russian, low and cold, and my muscles tense instantly, my heart rate picking up. His voice is sharp and harsh, but the sound of the foreign syllables on his tongue is sexy in a way that none of the other conversations were. There’s a growl to his voice that feels as if it vibrates into my bones.
My thighs squeeze together involuntarily, and my eyes widen. I stare up at the ceiling, trying not to listen and mentally cursing myself. I amnotgoing to start fantasizing about my captor.
But it would help if he didn’t lookandsound like walking sin.
It sounds like there’s a guard change. More muttering, later. I finally drift off around five a.m., and when I wake a few hours later, it’s quiet again.
The next day passes equally as boring as the first, but my tension is rapidly escalating as the deadline nears. Another young woman in the same uniform brings me my meals, but I have a hard time doing more than just picking at it. I shower again, change clothes, and try not to think, but my mind feels more and more preoccupied with every passing hour.
Late in the evening, after dinner, I hear voices at the end of the hall. They switch between Russian and English, the tone that of a barely contained argument.
I bite my lip. Trying to listen in more might be a bad idea, but I’m curious. I’m horribly bored, locked in this room. And maybe I’ll hear something that I can use, if this all goes wrong.
Andrei’s men made it sound like knowing things was more likely to get me killed. But I can’t stop myself.
I go to the door, and lean against it, trying to catch anything I can understand.
I hear fragments. I think I hear someone sayterritory. Then something that might besouthorborder. A phrase repeated twice that sounds urgent. One man's voice rises, angry and insistent, before another cuts him off sharply, the tone brooking no argument. Then silence again, followed by footsteps moving away. Then, from a bit further, I hear Andrei.
"I don't care what Volkov thinks. The territory stays ours. Tell him if he pushes harder, he'll regret it."
A pause. Then, lower but no less intense: "No. We handle it my way."
Another pause, longer this time. I can feel the tension in the silence. "I said no."
There are footsteps, and a door closing somewhere down the hall. Then more silence.
I sit by the window in the dark, watching shadows move across the grounds below. Cars arrive and leave at odd hours as the guards change. It feels like there’s something else going on… maybe something to do with whoever was supposed to be kidnapped instead of me? I don’t have enough to go off of, but it feels like Andrei doesn’t have as tight a hold on things as maybe he’d like. I think of the gunshots I heard, the bodies on the ground. I’ve had a sick sense in my stomach that those men might have been the ones who failed to get the right person, and got me instead. I try not to think about it too much, because then I feel guilty… like it’s my fault somehow they grabbed me instead of whoever was supposed to be brought here.
But I wonder if it has anything to do with a power struggle. Andrei sounded like he was arguing with someone about his decisions. A boss with all the power doesn’t need to argue, does he?
I don’t know how all this works, but I can’t stop turning it over in my head. I should be focused on my own situation, but I'm curious. I can't help it. What kind of man is Andrei? What kind of organization is this? And what's happening that has everyone so on edge?
The next morning, I hear it again. This time it's closer—right outside my door, close enough that I can make out individual words.
"...resources stretched too thin..." a voice says in heavily accented English. "He's not ready for this kind of pressure..."
"Quiet," another voice hisses. "She might hear."
“She’s asleep at this hour.”
