Page 41 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Thirty-One

ALINA

The chloroform, or whatever the man used to knock me out, eventually wears off.

It’s not the same basement room. For one, there are no stairs. I’m assuming it’s a basement since there aren’t any windows, and there’s a dusty, slightly musty smell to it. It’s cool but not cold, and the temperature doesn’t change that much. There’s a ratty sofa and two doors.

My head throbs from where that man, Radimir, threw me. Actually, everywhere he grabbed me hurts. I think I haven’t been out long. Maybe ten minutes? Maybe a little more or a little less. I don’t know.

I cross to the big door, but it’s locked, the kind of lock that I couldn’t pick, even if I knew how. As I push on the door, I find it’s solid. Someone my size can’t break it open.

Funny how suddenly I’m calm. Maybe it’s shock. I don’t know. Or anti shock, the other side of the primal shock I was in when that vile Radimir told me Ilya knew who really killed Max.

I curse myself.

Of course it was a lie .

No way would he send someone.

I can’t stop thinking that.

No way. No way. No way.

I got so caught up in the weirdness of falling into normalcy with Ilya that Max had been on my mind, a phantom twinge of everything.

Or maybe I would have reacted that way anyway.

It’s shocking to be told something like that.

And Radimir used that to his advantage when he shoved me into the car and locked the door.

Even if I’d been in my right mind, I don’t think I could’ve escaped. Even if I’d fought him at the mansion, I have a horrible feeling I’d still be here.

It doesn’t make me feel better at all.

I cross the room to the other side, the bare bulb above barely touching the shadowy corners. The other door isn’t locked, so I open it. I try the light, but it doesn’t work. From the smell, I know what’s in here.

A filthy toilet.

As my eyes grow accustomed to the tiny dark room, I make out a sink and a grubby toilet, stained and with no seat.

I shudder and step out, closing the door. I don’t even think I’d use that tap, if it even worked, to drink from.

My heart beats hard and fast as I go to the sofa and inspect it. Nothing nasty lurks on it, so I sit, hugging my legs to my chest.

Who took me, and who was that man? Just because the two spoke Russian doesn’t mean they work for Russians. People go all places for work, and the mafia and cartels are known to recruit from everywhere.

But I don’t think this is cartel.

Santo?

There are lots of reasons why he may be behind all this, and maybe I was wrong and Ilya was right. Because Santo knew about Max. He knew how he died. He’s smart enough to use Max as either a lure to get me to come along or at least shock me enough to make me malleable.

No excuses exist for me not fighting, for not using even a shred of my self-defense lessons at the mansion. For not rushing back inside and locking the door.

I need to get out of here.

Gingerly, I get up and go to the door, pulling off my belt as I go. I may not know how to pick a lock, but what about maybe unscrewing the hinges? Would that work? And would the little tines on the belt even fit?

The answer is, after a frustrating few minutes, no.

I want to cry, but I’m not going to let myself.

Instead, I lay my ear against the door.

Maybe I’m wrong about this being a basement. Maybe this is one of those warehouses that have windowless rooms. Plenty do, right?

I press my ear harder into the wood, and I think… I think I can hear something. The swish of cars on a road? Regular, American-accented voices… They’re not near, but if I can hear them, maybe they can hear me.

With a thread of hope, I start to bang and kick on the door with everything I have. I scream for help, as loud and as long as I can.

My throat starts to hurt, and my voice cracks. Still, I scream and scream and slam on the door until it robs me of my voice.

My hands hurt, my knuckles bleed, and pain shoots up my legs. My toes are on fire in my sneakers.

Finally, I don’t have much strength left. I stagger back, almost collapsing, and cross back to the sofa.

I’m scared. I’m thirsty. I’m hurting everywhere.

I want to go home. I want Ilya.

Nausea grips me. In all honesty, I can’t tell if I’ve been gone for hours or one. Ilya may be searching for me, or he may not even know I’m gone.

And Albert?

Oh. God.

Albert.

What did Radimir say? Something like he was taken care of or he was fine or… I don’t remember, but…

I don’t remember, I’d been dazed out of it. And it wasn’t an excuse at all. I’m meant to protect Albert.

My stomach heaves, and I almost throw up.

What if that fuck killed or hurt my dog?

A sob breaks free and slices the air. I shove my bleeding knuckles against my mouth. If he did, I’ll kill him.

Svetlana was there, but sometimes she’s there, and I never hear or see her because she’s off doing something.

Same with the other staff in the house. Svetlana only has other girls in a couple of times a week, so maybe she was there, way out the back cleaning or doing the laundry, and she doesn’t know.

If the gate were left open, Albert might have chased after the car. And?—

I have to stop myself.

Albert has to be okay. He has to.

But dread fills me anyway, and I can’t help sinking into doubt and pain. The heart-destroying what-ifs.

“Oh, Albert,” I whisper, my voice rough and rasping even in a whisper, “please, please be all right.”

And Ilya… He’ll blame himself for this. I know him.

And me? What are they going to do? Use me to hurt Ilya? To go after and hurt Demyan?

I can’t…

I breathe in and hold it.

I’m a Yegorov. I’m my own bargaining chip. Powerful men will kill whoever took me. Powerful men will destroy those in the way. They’ll do what it takes to get me back .

And whoever took me won’t like what that’s going to be. Death, pain, retribution. Not just to the kidnappers, but to everyone they know.

Ilya and my brother will do that. Without even blinking.

Suddenly, I still when I hear something outside. Footsteps. Then there’s the scrape of a key. The turning of the big lock. The door screeches open.

I shrink back.

A man enters the room, big, ugly, mean.

He strides over and thrusts a bottle of water at me. I smack it away, refusing it.

He laughs. “Pick it up,” he says in a thick Russian accent. “Drink.”

“No.”

“It is not drugged.”

My mouth throbs with the need to drink, but I just look at him defiantly. He looks at me, too, then he leans down, taking my face in his hand and squeezing hard.

“Drink. Don’t drink. I don’t care.”

He lets go and kicks the bottle, sending it spinning across the room.

“Next time, I will open it and drink from it in front of you. Then I will spit in it and make you drink.”

I stare at him, then raise my chin, ignoring the newest ache to add to my list.

My voice rasps as I speak. “What do you want from me?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. But I’m a Yegorov, of the Yegorov Bratva. My brother is pakhan. I’m married to the pakhan of the Belov Bratva. My husband and brother will both do anything to get me safely back.”

The final words, the threat, dance on my tongue, but there’s something about him that tells me it’s a bad idea, so I leave it at that .

As soon as he’s gone, I’ll get that water, sip it slowly, but not while he’s here. Because being threatened doesn’t sit well.

Perhaps there’s more bratva in my veins than I thought.

The man smiles. “We’ll have no problem, then.”

He starts to turn to go, but I throw out one more question.

“Who are you?”

He doesn’t answer and keeps walking.

I stand, my questions blooming. “Where are we? When are you letting me go? Where’s my dog? Please, please let me out of this room…”

But he ignores every single word and leaves, slamming the door, and then the lock activates, the key scraping.

I stare hopelessly at the door.

“Let me out,” I say, my voice breaking. “Please. It’s for your own safety.”

But who am I kidding?

I slide down onto the sofa and hug my legs once more. In a minute, I’ll get that water. In a minute. And I’ll make it last.

I want to sob, but I refuse to let myself.

All I can do is hope Ilya finds me.

Soon.