Page 33 of Stolen Empire

He releases my hand and walks to the desk, pulling out his phone from one of the drawers.

He makes a call in low, hushed tones and I hear him ordering a car to come around to the back for him.

When he hangs up, he turns back to me and this time, his expression is softer.

It's the first time I've seen him look anything but hostile.

"You're coming with me," he says.

"Where?"

"My home."

He opens a drawer and pulls out a gun, checking the chamber before tucking it into the waistband of his pants.

"Don't make me use this," he says, then he grabs his wallet and slides it into his pocket.

I nod, too tired to argue, and I follow him out of the office.

The car is waiting in the yard, a black sedan with tinted windows, and Dimitri opens the back door, gesturing for me to get in.

I slide into the seat, and he sits beside me, the gun resting on his lap.

The driver doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge us, and the car pulls away from the track.

I press my face against the window, watching the buildings blur past, and I think about jumping out.

The door isn't locked.

I could open it, throw myself onto the street, and run.

But the gun is there, a constant reminder of what will happen if I try.

The drive takes twenty minutes, and when we pull up to a building on the edge of the city, Dimitri gets out and motions for me to follow.

The apartment is on the third floor, plain and utilitarian, with white walls and sparse furnishings.

He closes the door behind us and locks it, pocketing the key.

Somehow, for a man in his position, I assumed his apartment would be different—maybe messier, or maybe more luxurious.

It appears either he is a very rudimentary man or he doesn’t spend much time here at all.

"Shower," he says, pointing down the hallway.

"There are towels in the cabinet. When you're done, come to the kitchen."

I don't argue.

I walk down the hallway and find the bathroom, small and clean, with a narrow shower stall and a sink.

I strip off my filthy clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and I position myself under the water.

It's hot, almost too hot, and I let it burn away the grime and the stench and the fear.

I scrub my skin until it's raw, and I wash my hair twice, trying to get rid of the grease and the dirt.

When I'm done, I wrap myself in a towel and step out.