Page 6

I wake up and a loud, annoyed groan falls from my lips.

So, this is what a hangover feels like.

My mouth is as dry as a desert and my head is having a steady drum beat pulsing inside it, banging up against the walls of my skull.

“Ugh,” I moan and roll over, open my eyes and blinking against the harsh light.

But in an instant it all comes back to me.

Rigor.

The way he dragged me into that building and forced me to sign a marriage contract.

The hours of interrogation he put me through when we got home.

Why the hell was he asking me those questions?

Why the hell did he bring me here?

And why the hell am I his wife?

Ignoring the headache and my desperate need for water, I toss the blankets to the side and climb out of bed. The first thing I do is run to the door and push against it.

It’s locked.

I turn to browse my prison cell.

I’m in a really nice room. I didn’t pay that much attention to the surroundings last night. I think I was in too much shock, and perhaps a little drunk from way too many tequilas.

It’s a big, modern room with a beautiful wide balcony off double sliding doors. The place is bright, white and fresh. There are even white roses on the dresser.

I remember Rigor telling me there are clothes in my size in the closet and I run over to it, curious to see if he was telling the truth and again wondering about the intense amount of preparation that went into all of this.

I pull the closet door open and sure enough it’s full of clothes, all my size and to my surprise—in my style for the most part.

Annoyance flares deeper in me.

Why me?

Why did he put so much effort into taking me?

I’m just some random girl and he clearly has my brother mixed up with someone else because the things he was saying last night—well—he’s wrong about Avraam—whoever he thinks he is.

I swallow hard, tracing my fingers over the neatly packed clothing. Expensive brands that I could never afford. All the tags still on.

My throat hurts and my headache is a constant reminder of how dehydrated I am.

Sighing heavily, I rub my hands over my face. I guess I can shower and change into clean clothes and face whatever the hell is happening with a fresh outlook.

Grabbing a pair of jeans and a plain crop top I toss them onto the bed. I find some sneakers in the closet and throw those onto the floor near the bed too.

Then I head towards the bathroom.

It’s pristine. Soft grey tiles and gold fittings. There is a gorgeous freestanding stone bath near a massive window overlooking the garden.

This place is insane. It’s more luxurious than any hotel I’ve stayed in.

The shower comes on as I press my fingers against a panel on the wall.

It’s already misting the bathroom mirror by the time I’m undressed and stepping beneath the hot water.

I lift my face up towards the spray and let it wash over me while I do my best to clear my thoughts. My long hair smells of the club we were in last night, so I shampoo it twice and then let a very silky conditioner soak on it while I scrub the rest of my body.

Al the while I’m thinking. Plotting. Planning.

I obviously have to get out of here.

I don’t know how yet, but I need to get out.

The shower helps the headache a little.

And a few glasses of water from the bathroom tap help with my dry throat. I feel better physically, but the anxiety isn’t going away.

That constant nervous undercurrent of fear is flowing thick in my veins. I’m trying to push it down, to stay clear-headed, but I’m struggling.

I braid my damp hair down my back and make use of the creams and other things laid out on the basin counter top.

It’s all new.

Everything in here is new and I think it was all bought for me.

Again, I wonder about how much effort went into planning all of this and that makes me even more terrified.

Rigor is going to be furious when he finds out that the clothing he stocked the cupboard with is more expensive than the amount my brother would be able to pay to in ransom.

I pace around the bedroom. Checking everything. Looking for a way out.

I’m standing near the locked sliding doors trying to pry them open when the bedroom door pushes open and I jump in fright and spin to face it.

My entire body is rigid with tension.

Rigor is standing there dressed in a black suit, looking far too good with his broad shoulders pressed against the snug, custom fit of his clothes.

He looks even more gorgeous than he did last night and that pisses me off.

I glare at him with fire shooting from my eyes.

“Good morning, Aly. Did you sleep well?” he asks, sounding cheerful and calm. How can he be acting like that after everything he did? I clench my fists.

“What do you care if I slept well or not?” I blurt out.

“I came to ask you to join me for lunch if you’re up for it,” he says, walking around the room, his eyes constantly drifting back to me. “You look good. I’m happy the clothes fit.”

I sneer, wishing I’d stayed in my own dress instead of accepting this odd form of kindness from him. The gift of clothes. A gift I don’t want.

I brush my hands nervously over the front of my jeans.

It’s easier to try to escape in jeans and sneakers than in a dress and high heels.

I want to tell him to go to hell.

I don’t want to have lunch with him. But I need to get out of this room and at least that is an opportunity to look for other ways to escape.

“So?” he says, folding his thick arms across his muscular chest. “Lunch?”

“Yes,” I snap. My stomach growls loudly and betrays the fact that I’m hungry.

He smirks. “Well, come along then. It’s ready and waiting outside on the patio. I thought it would be nice to eat under the trees today as it’s sunny out.”

I bite my lower lip. He’s making me so angry the more he speaks. Is he forgetting I’m not here by choice?

He walks out of the room and I realize he wants me to follow him.

I jog a little to catch up. We walk through the mansion, and while his eyes are forward, mine are trying to take in every detail and memorize everything.

The only thing that is quickly becoming clear to me though is just how fortified this place is. The locks on the doors aren’t even just normal key locks. There are security panels and finger print readers.

Every window has invisible bars across it. Every possible route out of here is blocked by something.

We walk out on the gorgeous patio area. There is a breakfast table set in the center of a vast wooden deck overlooking a natural pool that looks like a crystal clear rock pool straight out of a fairytale. It’s surrounded by weeping willows and long stretches of rich green grass and winding wooden and stone pathways.

This place is indescribably beautiful.

Rigor pulls a chair out for me and I sit down. He sits next to me. Too close for comfort.

“What do you like?” he asks, picking up a plate, “We have breakfast muesli, fruit, bacon, egg—”

“I’ll sort myself out,” I mutter.

“I’ll just put a little bit of everything on there for you then,” he says, ignoring my comment.

I roll my eyes. “No eggs,” I huff.

“You don’t like eggs?” he asks, shocked.

“I like them. Just not made like that.”

“I’ll get the chef; how do you like them done?”

“No, stop this—I don’t want other eggs. There’s enough food here to feed an army. This is ridiculous.” While I’m talking two security guards walk past the pool, heavily armed and roaming the property.

My words cut short in my throat as I stare at them. “What—“ I mutter.

“What’s wrong?” Rigor asks, following my gaze to see what I’m looking at.

“Why?” I mutter again.

He shrugs and sets a plate in front of me. No eggs. “You never can be too careful in the world I live in. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

I stare from the security guards to him. How in the world am I ever going to be able to get out of here? It’s like mission impossible. Locks, codes, armed men roaming the perimeter.

When I process the reality of the situation, I’m in—an inescapable situation—tears spike at the back of my eyes like needles. I squeeze them shut. Rigor sighs and mutters something I can’t hear.

My ears are ringing loudly as panic surges inside me.

“Aly,” he says gently. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” I huff.

“About—everything.”

I bite at my lip and pick up my fork to move the food around my plate because I have to do something with my hands.

“You eat. I’ll talk,” he says, gesturing towards my plate.

I pick up a piece of bacon and put it into my mouth.

“Living in the Bratva world, the mafia, is not like living in the world you know and understand. I was under the impression that—“ he sighs heavily. “The bottom line is that in my world, when someone wants something, they will do anything to get it. And when I say anything I really mean it. Illegal operations are a daily norm. Kidnapping, criminal activities, torture— murder —it’s all part of this world.”

My throat goes so tight I can’t swallow. Torture? Murder?

“I’m not going to hurt you, Alyona. I’m just trying to explain how things work. When people from my world want something—they take it. And the higher up you are on the food chain the more power you have—and the more ruthless you are. That means that leaders, especially, are the most ruthless of everyone.”

I turn my eyes towards him. He must be a leader then. He’s explaining to me how ruthless he needs to be to get what he wants. But it still doesn’t explain why he thinks he can get anything from my brother when he has so little.

“You can’t be a very good leader if you don’t even research your targets properly,” I snap. I’m terrified, but still determined to make him understand he has the wrong person.

“I wasn’t talking about myself, Alyona. I was talking about your brother. Avraam Abaza.”

“Huh?” I glare at him, completely dumbfounded.

“Your bother is a powerful Bratva leader. An especially ruthless one who will do whatever it takes to get what he wants.”

I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. “You think Avraam is a mafia leader?” I stammer, dropping my fork and scrunching my nose tightly. “My brother is—“

He slides a phone across the table towards me.

There is a photograph on it.

I pick it up and stare at the picture of my brother. He’s holding a gun, standing over a man who is kneeling on the ground with the barrel pointed at his head. My stomach flips with nausea.

“This is—its fake,” I whisper.

Rigor leans over my shoulder and flicks to the next image.

Avraam is looking over his shoulder, kneeling over a different man—a dead man. There is blood splashed across my brother’s cheek.

“It’s fake,” I scream.

Rigor flicks the screen again, and a video appears. Avraam is walking back and forth in front of a man who is strung up on a meat hook. He is hanging, lifeless and naked and covered in blood. Avraam is pacing up and down, toying with a blade in his hand. He turns towards the man and lifts the blade up to cut him and I throw the phone across the table.

I push back from my seat and bolt to the edge of the wooden decking, puking my lungs out onto the fresh green grass.

That video wasn’t fake.

The images weren’t fake.

Nothing was fake—but—

I feel Rigor’s hand running up my back, gently rubbing my shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I knew you wouldn’t believe me unless I showed it to you. You had to see it with your own eyes.”

He hands me a wet cloth and I wipe my face and hands.

I can’t speak. All the thoughts inside my mind can’t form in words because I can’t accept what I just saw. That cannot be real.

I push myself up to my feet again when the nausea passes. Rigor tries to help me up, but I bash his hands away. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want him to say anything.

I walk straight to the breakfast table and pick up the phone that I threw.

Tapping on the screen the video lights up again.

This time I don’t look away.

I have to see it for myself. Otherwise—there is no chance in hell that I will ever believe it.

My eyes are glued to the screen. Avraam takes his time with the knife.

The man hanging from the meat hook is barely moving though, he is weak and dying from everything that has already happened to him.

Tears are flooding over my cheeks, blurring my vision. Salting my lips.

But I keep watching.

I watch until the end of the video. The death of that stranger.

Rigor’s deep sigh behind me makes me jump.

“He killed someone close to your brother. He deserved what he got.”

“No one deserves that,” I hiss.

“That guy did. He was an enemy. He made his choice and knew the consequences when he went against your brother. That’s how it is in our world.”

“Bratva,” I whisper, gently putting the phone down on the table.

My mind is numb from shock.