Petya made a sound like he’d been struck. “Don’t do that.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He said you walked into an auction because of me.” His voice cracked on the last word, then hardened fast, as if he hated himself for letting me hear it. “He said he won you. He said some man took you after, and now I owe for the debt and for what he lost.”
I closed my eyes.
“Nadia,” Petya said. “Tell me he lied.”
I couldn’t.
I said nothing, and Petya heard the answer anyway.
Petya swore in Russian. Something crashed. Glass or a cup or his fist against a wall. Another voice barked his name.
“Don’t you dare fight whoever is in that room,” I said.
“Who is he?”
“Petya—”
“Who took you?”
I looked at Vadim.
He stood very still, phone lowered at his side, eyes on my face. Not reaching. Not interrupting. Not trying to take the conversation from me even though every muscle in his body looked ready to move.
“Vadim Sorin,” I said.
Petya went silent.
Then, quieter, “Sorin.”
“Yes.”
“The man from the lounge?”
“You remember him?”
“I remember enough.” Petya’s breath shook. “I’ll kill him.”
“No, you won’t.”
“He bought you?”
“He didn’t buy me.”
“Then he took you?”
“He took me from Gennady.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the answer you need before you put your head through another wall.”
“He touched you?”
The question came out like pain.
