Behind us, three black SUVs park, and I see the silhouettes of men inside. Our men, armed and ready to support us.
Victor takes out his phone, types something, and then tucks it back into his jacket pocket.
"One more thing. I know you probably want to head right into Moscow guns blazing, but this has to be delicate. We'll have to go slow and work our way in. The Volkov's could do something drastic if they know we're coming. So, information first, then we take next steps all the way until we get her."
I nod and then, before the driver opens our door, I look at him.
"Earlier what you said. She's not an asset. She's mine. Don't call her that."
Victor leans back and stares at me, then nods. "You're right, brother. Business talk is no place for this. For her. Not for..." He stops and trails off.
"Elena. You can say her name now. She's alive, and we're getting her back."
Victor hits my leg.
"It's nice to hear you say her name again. And yes, none of us will stop until she's back here in Romania. With us. With you," he says and points at me.
"Hai. Let's go."
I turn to look at the building again.
Somewhere inside is a man who may know where Elena is. A man who could have moved her.
The grieving, broken Adrian who drank himself unconscious is dead. The enforcer is back. And I'm bringing hell to whoever is behind that door.
4
ELENA
The dining room swallows me whole.
That's what it feels like every single morning. The ceiling stretches twenty feet above my head, painted with frescoes of Russian saints with golden halos, the exact opposite of anyone's traits in this house.
The table extends the length of the room, dark mahogany polished to a mirror shine. Twenty-two chairs line its edges, ten on each side, and one at each end.
But as usual, only one seat is occupied. Mine.
The plate in front of me holds food I didn't ask for. Blini with caviar, smoked salmon, and a side of fresh berries arranged in a perfect circle.
Two crystal glasses flank my tray, one with orange juice and the other with water.
I haven't touched any of it.
My hands rest in my lap as I stare out the open window, daydreaming about my life that I used to have. About my family, my sister, and sometimes still, him.
The breeze hits my face and for a moment I think about how absurd it is to feel a lovely, gentle breeze that carries the fresh scent of flowers and joy while being trapped in hell.
Like clockwork, Anya stands near the door, her hands clasped in front of her black uniform. She's a few years younger than me, maybe twenty-two, with pale blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. I don't think I've ever seen her do it any other way.
Her eyes keep darting to the breakfast tray and I know exactly what she's looking at.
That damn thing sits on a small silver dish beside my water glass. Pale blue and the size of a Tic Tac.
"Ma'am," Anya says, her voice cutting through the silence and my wandering thoughts.
I blink, but keep my gaze fixed on the window.
"Ma'am, you know you need to take your pill."