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“Tie her to the chair,” he snaps, pointing at a wooden chair that isn’t part of the building. It’s too new. Too clean.

The man holding me drags me to the chair and pulls a roll of duct tape from somewhere, then starts to wrap it around my wrists and ankles, locking me tightly in place.

The other man watches me with cold eyes. His expression is one of boredom, and all I can do is glare back at him, trying to make him think I’m not afraid, even though I’m dying inside.

Nestor will come.

As soon as he realizes I’m gone, he will come find me.

I keep repeating this reassurance over and over again.

I sit in that chair for an eternity. Hours that feel like a lifetime.

Every part of my body is aching because I can’t move. The tape is cutting into my skin, and the wood of the chair is hard against my body.

I’m exhausted from the constant sense of alertness. Too scared to rest my eyes. Too scared to drop my guard.

I hear movement outside, and the men in the room stand straighter, alert.

“What did you do to her?” a familiar voice snaps, footsteps echoing along the dusty, old wooden floor.

“Nothing, boss, you said not to hurt her till you got here.”

Miron.

Of course, it’s Miron.

Nestor’s anger over me chasing Miron is fresh in my mind. This is exactly what he didn’t want.

This is what he was afraid of.

Miron walks around the room and stops in front of me, staring down at me with his arms folded across his chest. He says nothing, the corners of his mouth turned down as though he finds me disgusting.

“I can see why he chose you,” he mutters, contradicting the expression on his face. “Beautiful.”

I swallow, tilt my chin up, and glare at him in defiance.

“What do you want from me, Miron?” I say with as much confidence as I can muster.

He ignores my question, turning to his men. “Were you followed?”

“If we were followed, they would’ve come in and saved her by now. We’ve been waiting for you for hours.”

“Do I look like a give a fuck how long you had to wait for me?” Miron growls angrily.

The men look unhappy about being spoken to like that.

My job, the only thing I can do, is to buy time. Nestor will suspect Miron right away. He hates the man. He will find me.

Miron’s phone rings. He huffs, answering it.

“What?” he snaps.

There is a moment of silence. “Deal with it. I’m busy now.”

He slides it back into his pocket and turns to face me again.

“I am sorry about your father’s death, Miron. You were wrong, though. It wasn’t Nestor,” I speak as calmly as possible.