“We tried?—”
There’s another sharp curse, and the second man stops talking. My arms are firmly taken and placed on the arms of the chair, and for one wild, desperate second, I think about fighting. About ripping off the hood and running. But before I can even tense my muscles to try, something that feels like some kindof padded restraint is being wrapped around my chest and my forearms, binding me to the chair. They’re still tight, but not biting into me or cutting anything off.
Then the hood comes off.
I blink against the sudden light, my eyes watering and adjusting. For a moment, I can't process what I'm seeing because it's so far from what I expected.
I'm in an office.
Not just an office. A beautiful office. Floor-to-ceiling windows show a view of perfectly manicured grass as far as I can see. The desk in front of me is massive, made of dark wood that gleams. There's a closed laptop sitting next to a monitor, and a leather chair behind it and in front of it. There’s a fireplace to my right. The door is behind me, I think. There are bookshelves filled with books and a bar cart with crystal glasses and top-shelf liquor. Everything is expensive and tasteful, reeking of power.
The smell hits me fully now that the hood is gone. Expensive cologne, something woody and complex with notes of bergamot and cedar. The leather of the furniture is buttery soft and well-maintained. There’s a faint ghost of cigar smoke in the air. This is someone's private office. Someone very wealthy and very powerful.
The three men who brought me here are standing nearby. Now that I can see them, they're not what I expected. There are no ski masks, no obvious weapons. They're wearing suits—nice ones that are well-tailored, the kind my father wears to important meetings. They look like bodyguards or corporate security. Professional and cold.
One of them meets my eyes for a brief second. There's something there—not quite guilt, but close. Discomfort, maybe. Then he looks away. He looks young, so I think he must be the nervous one I heard in the van.
"What do you want?" My voice comes out steadier than I expected, and I'm grateful for that. I won't give them the satisfaction of my fear. Not if I can help it. "If this is about money, my father will pay. Whatever you're asking, he'll pay it."
None of them responds. They're not even looking at me now. They're waiting.For what? Or who?
The silence stretches out, thick and suffocating. I try again.
"I don't know what you think I did, or what my father did, but I'm sure we can work this out. Just tell me what you want."
Still nothing.
I test the restraints. They're secure but not painful. I can move my fingers and rotate my wrists, but there's no way I'm getting free without help. I can’t move away from the back of the chair or lift my arms up at all.
The windows are behind the desk, too far to reach even if I could get out of the chair. The door is behind me, guarded by these three men who are definitely armed even if I can't see the weapons. I'm trapped.
I’m not sure how much time passes. It feels like it could be forever. The men don’t move or speak. They're just waiting, and their patience is somehow more unnerving than violence would be. I always thought kidnappings were violent affairs, but this calm, professional waiting suggests a level of organization that terrifies me.
I study the office, looking for anything that might tell me who these people are. The art on the walls is modern and expensive. The books on the shelves are in English and another language I can't read. Russian, I think.
My stomach drops. Russian.
The Bratva. The Russian mob. Could that be who kidnapped me?
But that's insane. My father doesn't have connections to organized crime. He's legitimate and boring. He’s the kind ofbusinessman who gets profiled in the Wall Street Journal, not investigated by the FBI. There's no reason the Russian mafia would have any interest in me.
Unless I'm wrong about my father. Unless there's a whole side to his business I don't know about.
Or unless this isn't about my father at all.
"Please." I hate the way my voice wavers this time, but I can't help it. The fear is leaking through despite my best efforts. "Please, just tell me what you want. I'll cooperate. I'll do whatever you need. Just tell me what this is about."
The younger man shifts slightly, and for a second I think he might answer. But then he goes still again, his eyes fixed on something past my shoulder.
We wait.
My mind keeps spinning through scenarios, each one worse than the last. They're going to ransom me, and my father will pay, and I'll go home, and this will be a terrible story I'll never tell anyone. They're going to kill me because I've seen their faces, seen this place. They're going to sell me to someone worse. They're going to use me as leverage for something I can't even imagine.
And then I hear footsteps outside. Heavy, measured footsteps, getting closer by the second.
The three men straighten immediately, their postures shifting from casual waiting to something more alert. The younger man looks more jittery and unsettled than ever. Whoever's coming, he's in charge.
My mouth goes dry. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, in every part of my body. This is it. This is the moment I find out what this is really about.
