Page 1 of Scarlet Promise (Yegorov Bratva #4)

Chapter One

ALINA

I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.

The silent mantra runs through my head as I try to keep the tears that burn in my eyes and clog my throat at bay.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I don’t have my phone. I’m not wearing a watch today. All I’ve done is try to conserve my energy. No one answers my banging on the door or my cries and screams for help, to be let out, to get Ilya.

The water bottle sits next to the sofa. I’ve taken some sips to slake my thirst.

My stomach is too tied in knots and rocky to want anything like food. It’s feels like a hangover, but less pleasant, and that’s saying something.

But that could be because they knocked me out a second time with the old-school chloroform.

Since I woke on the sofa in a small box of a room, this one with only one door, only one way out, I’ve felt torn between wanting to cry, passing out, or screaming and banging on the locked door.

“At least,” I say, my voice a rasp, “they brought the water bottle with me.”

Or gave me another.

Maybe that’s part of their MO. Water bottle and ratty sofa in every basement prison cell.

I turn on my back. Stare up at the stained ceiling that sags in one area, where mold dots outward. So much for the view.

But sleep isn’t any better.

I’ve drifted in and out of the world’s lightest sleep. I’m not tired, but I ache and hurt inside.

And I’m so fucking scared that I don’t know what to do.

Albert drifts into my head for the millionth time. The poor little dog. All I can do is hope he’s okay.

“Keep it together,” I whisper, “and do not cry.”

Has Ilya noticed I’m gone yet? Is he even home? What if they’re holding off telling him?

No. He’ll know.

Svetlana was around somewhere. There’s someone on the staff always doing things inside. Of course, a mansion is a mansion, so if they were out back, in the laundry room, or even cleaning one of the many floors, then they might not have noticed straight away.

“There’s Albert. He’d bark. He’d?—”

I stop.

If he’s okay, he’d bark.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my heart pounding. Maybe Ilya’s working on a plan, getting ready to storm the building. Of course, he’d have to know where I am. But they took me and are keeping me alive for a reason, so maybe they told him.

He’ll come for me. If Demyan were here, he’d come for me, too.

I think of Max, my heart aching in a different way. I don’t feel guilty for thinking he wouldn’t come for me if he were alive. Max wasn’t that kind of man. He wasn’t a violent, ruthless person. He was far from the world I grew up in, which was one reason I fell for him.

But he’d do something, all right.

He’d spring into action to save me.

He would go straight to Ilya and Demyan, and he wouldn’t let up until they got me. I liked that about him, his willingness to go to those who had skills he didn’t. And he would choose Ilya.

Same with my talk at his graveside and the peace that drifted in, one I can recognize now so clearly.

I think he’d choose Ilya for me.

Like I did.

I want Ilya. I want his arms around me. I want him to save me and bring me home to Albert, to him, to life.

I want Ilya?—

From outside, I hear something. A voice. The words aren’t clear at all, and I don’t think it’s that’s close. It’s just noise in the form of a human voice.

But if I can hear it…

Whoever it is, is close enough.

I get to my feet and stumble over the floor, almost falling once from my sudden momentum.

My hands ache as I pound on the door. I kick it, too, ignoring the pain that lances up my ankles and legs, ignoring my muscles that are stiff from the abusive, repetitive movement.

“Let me out!” I shout. “Please! Help me! I’m hungry, thirsty!”

Nothing. There’s only one door. This prison-cell model doesn’t come with the world’s most disgusting toilet.

“Please, let me out! I need to pee! Please?—”

Suddenly the locks clink. A key turns, and the door opens. Before I can do anything, I’m thrown on the floor.

I stop myself from face-planting with my hands, slamming my knee into the cement, pain ricocheting through me with a nauseating crash.

Slowly, with determination, I push my aching body up, gritting my teeth as I go. I won’t let them win. I won’t.

I’m aware I should probably roll with the pain, let them see me small and weak and pathetic—more so than I am, milking it for what it’s worth—but right now, anger also lances me. I’ll be damned if I let them see me beaten down.

Not yet.

They’ve locked me up, given me one pathetic bottle of water, and knocked me out to the point I don’t know a thing.

I need something to control. The only thing I have is me.

I’m on the edge of breaking down, breaking apart, but I won’t let that happen. If I get out, I’ll dissolve into a mass of tears, but until then… I’ll get up every time they knock me down and show my defiance.

The look on the ugly man’s face is indifference. He doesn’t care.

“What? Keep making a racket, and I’ll teach you the virtue of silence.”

“Scared passersby will hear me?” I ask.

He laughs, showing yellow teeth. “Nobody can hear you except me. And you give me a headache.” He scans me, lingering on my breasts beneath my T-shirt. “We can pass the time another way, put your mouth to use.”

I glare. “You touch me, and my husband and brother will kill you.”

“They’d have to find you first,” he says with a sneer. “You need to piss?”

I flinch. I don’t know why. In the grand scheme of offensive words, piss doesn’t really register. But it’s something about how it falls from his mouth, the slimy intent within him.

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

He deliberately turns his back. The man’s big, muscled, armed, and nasty-looking. He’d have no qualms in hurting me.

He grabs something outside the door. I try to see past him, see where we are, a passage, a way out, anything, but all I can see is a wall.

He turns and throws something at me.

It hits me in the head before I can move, and I stumble as plastic clatters to the ground. A dirty yellow bucket.

“You need to piss, then piss.” He crosses his arms.

“I’m not using this. And I’m not doing anything with you watching.”

He shrugs. “Then you don’t need to piss. There are corners to use.”

Without waiting, he steps forward and sweeps up the bucket. He’s about to leave when someone else arrives.

Another man.

Everything goes cold within me.

I know him.

His gaze doesn’t even flick to me.

When they mentioned Melor, I figured it was a way, like mentioning Max’s real killer, to get me into their clutches.

I didn’t expect Melor to be involved.

But he is.

Nausea rolls through me.

Maybe I could fool myself into thinking he’s part of the rescue party, and he’s not looking at me so he can get the job done.

But there’s no way Ilya would send someone else.

I can try to get answers from him. So I play the game of stupid.

“Melor, thank goodness you’re here to rescue me?—”

“Quiet, bitch,” says the ugly man.

Melor glances at me.

I shut up.

Not because Mr. Ugly told me to, but because of how Melor looked at me. Like I’m nothing, a commodity, with malice and hate and greed.

And that shakes me down to my marrow.

The Melor I’m acquainted with is helpful, nice, the only friendly face among the Belov men.

Ilya thought it was Santo behind everything.

I disagreed. But never in a million years would I have thought the betrayal might come from within his own ranks.

Even if Melor dislikes Ilya, why would he try to take down the Belov Bratva?

The man’s love and respect for Ilya’s grandfather’s been clear since I first met him. So if the old man made a choice, he’d respect that. Wouldn’t he? Demyan’s men do. When Demyan took over, not even the old second said a word. He’s retired now, and he worked with Ilya on the transition of power.

So I don’t get it.

Besides, the whole will and stipulations aren’t straightforward. Hence our marriage.

The two men ignore me, speaking in urgent, hushed, rapid-fire Russian.

And I understand every word.

Melor knows I speak Russian…doesn’t he? Or does he think I’m an American-born bratva princess who doesn’t speak the mother tongue?

I don’t know, and I don’t care.

Their words are crystal clear.

Not only is Ilya calling in favors, but…

Demyan.

He’s back.

My heart leaps.

If he’s back, then Ilya has all the help he needs. Demyan and Ilya will stop at nothing. And they’re the kind of force only the arrogantly stupid mess with.

But my elation plummets.

Demyan’s back.

And I’ve been keeping so many secrets from him. He’s not a forgiving, bending man. He’s our father’s son. He’s better than our father, but there are learned behaviors, rigidity in his disposition. He may be goo when it comes to his kids and his wife, and even me, to an extent.

But he’ll see all these secrets as betrayal. Especially now that Ilya and I have crossed the line from fake to real.

He’s going to be so furious at me when he finds out the truth.

They finish talking, and Melor leaves without a backward look.

Demyan’s back. Ilya’s on the warpath and calling in favors. They’re upping security here and getting ready for anything.

This is all my fault.

“Piss in a corner. I don’t care,” the man says, stalking out after Melor.

I rush forward, but he slams the door in my face. Even as I grab the handle, the locks activate, and I’m a useless prisoner once more.

Even if I could get out, even if a miracle happened, and I either snuck past him or managed to fight him off, there’ll be others. And I don’t know where we are. If we’re somewhere I could run and get help, it’d be one thing, but I could be in the middle of nowhere, on chained-up private property.

I could be anywhere in Chicago or the suburbs.

I’m trapped.

And what if I’m not something to be ransomed?

What if I’m the trap to lure both Demyan and Ilya to their deaths?

I swallow and pray to a god I barely believe in this isn’t true.

But, somehow, I fear it is.