I flag down a taxi, sliding into the back seat with relief so acute it makes me dizzy.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
“The nearest police station.”
He nods, pulls into traffic. I sink back against the seat, trying to slow my breathing, trying to think past the panic.
The police. I’ll go to the police, tell them everything. About the Volkovs, about Dimitri, about being held against my will. They’ll protect me. They have to protect me.
The thought feels flimsy even as I construct it. Dimitri owns half this city, has connections that run deeper than I can trace. What are the police going to do against that kind of power?
I have to try.
I watch the city slide past the window, trying to orient myself. We should be heading toward Midtown, toward the precinct I looked up once for a story that never materialized.
We’re not.
The streets look unfamiliar. Industrial buildings, empty lots, the kind of area that’s deserted at night.
Just like where the Volkovs cornered me.
“Where are we going?” My voice comes out higher than intended.
“Scenic route,” the driver says. “Traffic’s bad on the main roads.”
It’s past midnight. There is no traffic.
Fear crystallizes sharp and cold. “Let me out.”
“Can’t stop here, miss.”
“I said let me out!”
“Just a few more minutes.”
I grab for the door handle. The child safety is engaged.
This is happening again. The Volkovs found me again, or Dimitri orchestrated this, or I’m about to die in the back of a taxi while the driver calmly navigates toward my execution.
I scream. Pound on the windows. Try to kick out the glass.
The driver doesn’t react. Just keeps driving with mechanical precision.
Then the scenery changes. We’re climbing now, winding up roads I recognize with sinking dread.
We’ve looped back around to the penthouse.
The taxi pulls us into the parking lot, past security that waves us in, into the underground garage I left twenty minutes ago.
Understanding crashes over me like ice water.
This was allowed. All of it. The unlocked door, the unmonitored elevator, the taxi that just happened to be waiting.
Dimitri let me run, knowing I’d be brought right back.
The car stops. My door opens, and Dimitri stands there, expression unreadable.
“Finished?” he asks.
