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TASH

T he sharp knock startles me from my thoughts. I glance at my phone, noting that it’s six thirty p.m. No messages from Dmitri. Strange, he’s never early, and he always texts first.

I smooth down my silk blouse and cross to the door, my heels clicking against the hardwood. The familiar warmth of anticipation floods my chest as I reach for the handle.

The door swings open. My smile dies.

Black masks. Three men. Guns.

I slam my weight against the door, but a boot wedges into the gap. Years of self-defense training kick in—I drive my heel down hard on his foot and shove with all my strength. A curse in Russian. The door bounces back, catching me in the temple. Pain explodes behind my eyes.

They surge forward. I grab the nearest object—an antique umbrella stand—and swing it. Metal connects with flesh. A satisfying grunt.

“ Suka !” One spits through his balaclava.

Before I can swing again, they’re on me. A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, but I bite down hard through the leather. The taste of copper. Not mine.

“Feisty bitch!” The voice is muffled and thick with a Russian accent.

They wrestle me deeper into the apartment, but I don’t make it easy. I kick, twist, and slam my head back into someone’s nose. The crystal vase Dmitri gave me catches the evening light on my coffee table as I’m thrown against the wall. My head cracks against it. Stars burst in my vision.

“Not. Another. Sound.” The leader yanks my arms behind my back while I’m still dazed. The zip tie cuts deep.

The third man prowls through my space, checking rooms with military precision.

“Clear,” he calls back.

My legs barely hold me as they force me onto my couch. Blood trickles down my temple, and my silk blouse is torn at the shoulder. Just hours ago, I’d been arranging fresh peonies in that vase, wondering if Dmitri would notice. These men—Lebedev’s men?—are violating my sanctuary.

“Dmitri Ivanov’s little museum whore.” The leader’s eyes are cold through the holes in his mask. He presses his gun under my chin, tilting my face up. “You’re going to help us send him a message.”

Tears blur my vision, but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

A phone appears in front of my face, camera pointed at me. The red recording light blinks on.

“Say hello to your lover, Ms. Blackwood.”

I lift my chin despite the gun pressed against it. “Go to hell.”

The leader’s eyes narrow behind his mask. He grabs my jaw, fingers digging into my skin. “That’s not very cooperative.”

I jerk my face away from his grip. “You think you’re the first thugs to try intimidating me? Please. I grew up in Boston society—I’ve dealt with worse at debutante balls.”

The man holding the phone shifts, uncertain. Good. Let them see I’m not some easy mark.

“Careful,” the leader warns. “We can do this the easy way?—”

“Or the hard way?” I bark out a laugh. “God, do they teach you these lines in ‘Generic Thug School’ or something? Let me guess—next, you’ll tell me not to make this harder than it needs to be?”

The gun presses harder under my chin.

“You’re making a mistake,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Whatever your boss is paying you, it’s not worth what Dmitri will do when he finds out.”

“Shut up,” he snarls, but I catch the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“No, you shut up. Do you want to send him a message? Here’s one—fuck off back to whatever hole you crawled out of. And tell your boss if he wants to come at Dmitri, he should try doing it himself instead of sending his little errand boys.”

The leader’s hand cracks across my face. My cheek stings, but I turn back to him with a smirk.

“That the best you’ve got? My grandmother hit harder than that, and she was eighty with arthritis.”

The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth from his backhand. Before I can spit another retort, rough hands grab my shoulders while another attacker rips off a length of duct tape.

“You talk too much,” the leader growls, pressing the silver tape hard across my lips.

I try to jerk away, but their grip is iron. The tape muffles my protests as they haul me to my feet. My ankles wobble in my heels as they drag me toward the door.

“Not so brave now, are you?” The leader yanks my hair, forcing my head back. “By the time we’re done with you, that pretty face won’t be so perfect. We’ll send pieces of you back to Dmitri, starting with that sharp tongue of yours.”

Real fear grips my chest for the first time. This isn’t some society power play or boardroom battle. These men aren’t here to negotiate or make threats—they’re here to hurt me.

The reality of Dmitri’s world crashes over me like ice water. All those hints about his “business,” the guards, the warnings about Lebedev—they weren’t just dramatic flair. This is what he was trying to protect me from.

They drag me into the hallway, my muffled screams barely audible through the tape. My neighbor’s door stays firmly shut—either they’re not home or too scared to look.

“Your spirit is admirable,” the leader says as we reach the stairwell. “But spirits break easily when the bones start cracking. You’ll learn.”

Tears sting my eyes as we descend. Each step brings fresh terror as I realize just how unprepared I am for this level of violence. My clever words and societal manners are useless against men who deal in blood and pain.

I should have listened to Dmitri’s warnings. Should have taken the danger seriously instead of treating it like some game. I’m about to learn exactly what it means to be caught between warring criminal empires.

The van’s metal floor bites into my knees as they shove me inside. My silk blouse catches on rough edges and tears. The door slams shut with a hollow bang that echoes through my bones.

Darkness swallows me whole. The tape across my mouth makes breathing hard. Each inhale is a desperate fight for air. My bound wrists throb where the zip ties cut into my skin.

The engine roars to life. I slide across the floor as we take a sharp turn, my shoulder slamming into what feels like a metal toolbox. The impact sends shooting pain down my arm.

“Watch the corners,” one of them barks. “Don’t damage her too much yet.”

Yet.

The word makes my stomach turn.

We hit a pothole, forcing my already throbbing head against the van’s wall. Stars explode behind my eyes. I try to brace myself with my legs, but my heels keep slipping on the smooth metal floor.

The van weaves through what must be side streets because I can feel us taking frequent turns. They’re avoiding main roads, making it harder to track us. Smart. Professional.

My earlier bravado evaporates with each passing minute. These aren’t amateur thugs. They know exactly what they’re doing.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting back tears. The image of Dmitri’s face flashes through my mind, and how he looked at me this morning over coffee, soft and unguarded. Will I ever see him again? Will he find me before...

No. I can’t think about that. I have to stay clear-headed.

The van takes another turn, gentler this time. We’re moving faster now, probably heading onto a highway. The engine’s pitch changes as we accelerate.

My chest tightens. Each mile takes me further from safety, Dmitri, and any hope of rescue. The reality of my situation crashes over me like a wave.

The Russian mafia is kidnapping me. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.