Page 145 of Captive Audience

Blondie remained at the door while the older man stood before me.

“Hello, Asha O’Connell. I am Viktor Baranov. Some people know me as the Soul Collector. Perhaps your husband has mentioned me.”

Oh God. It was him. The ghost Rook and I had been hunting. Only he’d found us before we could find him.

And the way he’d introduced himself, the fact that he’d even shown me his face, told me one thing: I wasn’t making it out alive.

Don’t show weakness.

Bullies thrived on vulnerability. If ever there was a moment to be a badass Mob wife, it was now.

I pretended to think about Baranov’s question. “Nope. Never heard of you. Oh, wait. Are you the guy who washes our cars?”

His lip curled. “Now is not the time to be cute.”

Baranov lunged for me, snatched me up by the hair, and yanked my head to the side. I cried out as my scalp burned.

Blondie lifted his phone, lens trained on us. “Ready.”

Baranov tightened his grip, making me grunt in pain. My wrists strained against the duct tape, but there was no escape.

“Rook O’Connell. I have your wife. Pretty thing, no?” Hismeaty hand clamped around my jaw and forced my face toward the camera. “This is what you get for interfering in my business.”

The cool edge of a blade met my cheek. My stomach lurched, and a whimper clawed free before I could choke it down. Baranov pressed harder, and I froze, terrified even the smallest twitch would split me open.

The knife dragged downward, slow and cruel. The carved line seared like fire. A guttural scream tore from my throat.

He slashed the other side with similar merciless precision. Tears spilled hot and fast as blood traced the curves of my jaw.

“Hmm.” Baranov admired his work, tilting my head side to side. “Maybe not so pretty now.”

I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop crying. All I could do was breathe through the pain, knowing I’d unravel piece by piece if Rook couldn’t save me fast.

“What I want is simple,” Baranov said. “I’ll trade her for you. We’re at the old power plant by the river. Come alone. Come unarmed. You have one hour. If you’re late, I’ll start removing fingers, then toes. You get the idea.”

“Don’t, Rook. Bring everyone. Kill these sons of?—”

Baranov’s hand cracked across my temple, the impact snapping my head sideways. A blinding burst of pain stole my breath. Stars exploded in my vision.

The room tilted. Voices blurred into muddled noise.

I sagged against the restraints, my head too heavy to lift. The world shrank to a ringing in my ears and the tang of copper on my tongue.

Then nothing at all.

54

ASHA

Consciousness crept back in like an unwelcome visitor. Everything hurt, but my face felt as if someone had pressed a scorching brand into both cheeks.

When I forced my eyes open, the dark room was empty. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but all my fingers and toes were still attached, so it had to have been less than an hour since the video had been filmed.

I drew in a shaky breath, pushing my mind past the pain and the utter hopelessness of the situation.

Rook would be here soon. I couldn’t let him hand himself over to Baranov. Earlier, my gangster had said he’d fight for me, but I needed him to fight forus.

I dropped my chin to my chest as a sob escaped me. Blood streaked down my neck and soaked into the velvet bodice of my once-pretty dress.