Page 114 of Cruel Obsession

“This isn’t amusing anymore.”

“Control freak,” I mutter, shoving the phone into my jacket pocket. I’m not in the mood for his shit right now. I have bigger problems to deal with. I’ll reply to Arkady from the Uber when I’m safely away from my father’s neighborhood and can compose a message that won’t reveal how much his demands irritate me.

The street is quiet—unnervingly so for New York. I check the app again. Six minutes. I tap my foot against the concrete step, impatient to be moving.

“Come on, come on!” I glance at my watch again. A dog barks in the distance. Someone honks a horn.

A black van crawls past, engine purring softly, then stops at the corner. Something about it makes my skin tighten. I squint in its direction, trying to make out the occupants inside. The tinted windows reveal nothing, but instinct screams danger.

I straighten, taking a few steps away, but a second vehicle glides into place behind me, blocking my path.

What the hell?

A sinking sense of dread starts to form in the pit of my belly as I backtrack towards my father’s front door.

Three men emerge from the van. They don’t run or shout or draw attention. They move in synch, like a choreographed dance they’ve performed countless times, fanning around me as they move in my direction.

The one in front is built like a concrete block—wide shoulders straining against a black jacket, shaved head gleaming in the afternoon light. A scar runs from his left eyebrow into his hairline. Old injury. His companion to the right is leaner, younger, with stubble shadowing an angular jaw and restless eyes that dart between me and the street. The third hangs back slightly, older than the others, grey threading through dark hair slicked back from a lined face. He’s the one in charge. I can tell by the way the others glance at him, waiting.

Their faces reveal nothing—no anger, no urgency, just the mechanical focus of men completing a task.

“Can I help you?” I ask, knowing it’s a ridiculous question, but I’m fighting to cling to the possibility that this isn’t what I think it is.

They keep advancing.

It’s definitely what I think it is.

I’m about to be mugged. Or worse, snatched off the street.

Oh my God!

My pulse hammers as I back up against the door, fumbling for the handle. Locked. I’d closed it behind me, locked it as I left to get my ride.

Stupid!

“What do you want? What are you doing?” I blurt. I’m trying to buy time, even though I know it’s futile. My fingers inch towards my jacket pocket.

My phone.

I need to call—

“Don’t fight,” the older man commands in accented English. Russian, definitely Russian. “It will only make things worse.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’ve got the wrong person.” I try to sound firm, authoritative. My voice comes out tight and high.

“Oh, you’re the right person,” he chuckles.

I look from one to the other, my mind scrambling for a solution. “I don’t have any cash on me,” I say quickly. “Just my watch and my phone. Here. You can have it.” I strip off my watch, palm my phone, and stoop, putting them on the floor in front of me, then kicking them toward the guy in front.

“Good,” he says, leaning down to retrieve them. “I’ll take that.” But they keep coming.

Not a mugging.

Shit!

What do they want from me? I have a sinking feeling that I’m about to find out.

“Get away from me! The neighbors are home. They’ll call the police!” I try for defiance.