"Wouldn't he?"
She glares at me, her chin tipping up in that defiance I’m beginning to recognize, that unfaltering belief in the goodness of the world around her. "You don't know him."
"I know men like him." I pick up my glass again and finish the vodka. "Men who see everything as transaction, who calculate risk and reward. Who sacrifice pieces to win the game."
"He's my father."
"And you're his daughter. But you're also clearly a means to an end." I set the glass down. "How much time does he spend with you? How often does he call? How many times has he chosen business over you?"
Her silence is answer enough.
"He loves me.” She swallows hard. “He’s always taken care of me. Given me everything I wanted, always seen that I was comfortable…”
"Maybe." I shrug. "But he loves power more. Loves winning more. And right now, you're more valuable to him as a captive than as a daughter."
"Stop." Her voice cracks slightly. "Just stop."
I should let her process this on her own. Should walk away and let her come to terms with what her father is. I would, if I was a better man.
But I can't.
Because I have a choice to make, and it needs to be made before I walk out that door, before I risk seeing any of my men, who all know that the clock has run out on Liesl Baumann’s life.
Whether I’m going to kill her, as I should… or save her, and risk everything.
7
LIESL
Ican’t process any of this. None of it makes sense.
My father isn’t paying. He isn’t coming to get me. He’s making moves with some other family instead, plotting against Andrei, using me…
I want to clap my hands over my ears, my eyes, block all of this out. This isn’t my life. Itisn’t. I’m just a girl who lives in New York City, who has a nice apartment, who works as a buyer for brands, who has a decently large Instagram following and likes yoga and Pilates and juice dates with friends. I like happy hour and rom-coms and I hate horror movies. Sometimes I go running in Central Park. I talk to my dad once a week unless he’s really busy, and I see him at holidays, and he loves me.
He loves me.
Andrei taps his fingers against the edge of his glass impatiently, as if I’m taking too long to come to terms with this. As if I’m not handling my world shattering around me as well as he would like.
It pisses me off.
I’ve always been positive. Optimistic. Hopeful. Maybe naive, but I’d rather that than be jaded. He’s chipping away at that, too,and that makes me angrier. This man shouldn’t get to change anything about me. He shouldn’t get to alter my worldview.
All because of a fucking mistake.
“How do you know any of this?” I spit out. “Just because my father hasn’t called yet? Whatproofdo you have?—”
Andrei interrupts, before I can say anything else.
"The man I interrogated tonight," he says quietly. "He was one of Volkov's. He confirmed everything—the meetings, the resources your father has promised to provide, the beginning of Volkov’s plans.”
I can feel myself shaking my head in small, quick movements, like a tic. Like I can shake this all off and refuse to accept it.
“They discussed security. Which of my men might be convinced to switch sides,” Andrei continues. "Your father was assured that my organization is weak. That I can be brought down, if only Volkov had more money, more guns, more men. All things your father can help him acquire with money. The money he could use to simply ransomyou, and be done with this.” Andrei gives a small, humorless laugh. “The greed of man knows no end.”
“You would know,” I spit out. “What is all of this—” I motion to encapsulate the mansion and estate around us, ‘if not greed?”
Andrei’s mouth tightens. “It is generations of hard work. Something you would know nothing about.”
