Vaffanculo. So much for my three-step plan.
The Russian is making noise somewhere behind me. The hypnotic scent of garlic crawls down the hall. My mouth waters. I haven’t eaten food—proper food—since the day my uncle took me kicking and screaming from our family gathering.
The need to eat hits me so hard I sway on my feet. I had no idea culinary captivity could be a thing, but here it is—my jailor conspiring with my insane hunger levels to keep me in prison.
He’s right. I’ll try knocking him out again once I’ve gotten my strength back. The best way to do that is to eat some freaking food.
The kitchen is easy to find. It’s part of an open concept floorplan and while the room isn’t massive, it’s elegantly decorated. Impersonal, just like the bedroom, but expensive. Sleek cabinets, cleverly concealed appliances, and dark granite make up the kitchen. Beyond the breakfast bar there’s a dining room table for eight and a living room with sofas so plush they could double as beds. The bedroom I’ve been staying to is on my right, on the same side of the apartment as the living room. To the left, past the dining area, is an unlit hallway that leads off into darkness. Directly in front of me, the rear wall of the apartment is comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows, like those in the bedroom but without curtains concealing the view.
And what a view.
Aware that the Russian is still moving around the kitchen, I make my way across the main space and press my hands to the glass doors that lead to the balcony. The surface is cold. The sky outside dark. Buildings climb up and down the skyline, urban ambient light outshining any stars that might be above.
My throat tightens when I recognize the cityscape. “We’re still in Chicago.”
The soft clattering in the kitchen stops. “Where else would we be?”
“Um, I—” I turn to find the Russian studying me from across the room, the scar across his eye more pronounced with his brows drawn down like they are now. He’s paused in the middle of chopping something, a chef’s knife glinting beneath the kitchen lights. “Honestly, I don’t know. Beyond the fact that I’m not in my uncle’s basement and you don’t want me leaving this apartment, I don’t know a thing. Not even your name.”
“It’s Alik.” He’s resumes chopping, his eyes never leaving my face. “And one of the reasons you can’t leave the apartment isbecausewe’re still in Chicago. We removed the tracking device, but?—”
“Wait, what tracking device? And who is ‘we’?”
“The one your family embedded in your arm. Anti-theft measures, like you’re a fucking car. Or a dog. Dr. Ruiz did the actual removal, with me playing nurse.”
I yank up both sleeves of my sweatshirt and spot the bandage on the inside of my left arm. Feel a wave of nausea hit. “I don’t remember them putting it there.”
“Given what they did to you, I imagine there’s a lot you don’t remember.” Alik drops his attention back to his task. “Probably best you don’t try right now.”
“The doctor—” I wrap my arms around my waist like I can protect myself from what’s already happened. “Did he do everything else? The bandages and the IV and the…you know.” I’m not going to say catheter out loud. That’s just one indignity too far.
“She did, yes. Gloria’s been checking on you twice a day as well, monitoring your progress. She’ll be thrilled to hear you’re out of bed. Though she may have something to say about you”—he pauses, thinking of the right way to phrase it—“disconnecting yourself unsupervised.”
I dismiss the concern with a shrug. I have far bigger problems than pissing off Dr. Ruiz. Like: “How long have I been here?”
“Seven days. No, wait.” He looks at his watch. “Make that eight.”
I dread the answer before I ask the next question. “And what’s today’s date?”
“The second of February.”
I hear my gasp like its miles away. “Rocco kept me down there for?—”
Alik looks up, his face expressionless as he confirms, “A little more than two months.”
Oh God. I choke back a cry as I sink to the ground, the cold glass against my back the only thing keeping me from collapsing entirely. The world shrinks to a pinpoint and I’monly able to take a full breath when something warm and soft surrounds me. Alik slowly comes into focus. He’s crouched in front of me, one fist holding the corners of the blanket he’s cocooned around me. “Breathe, Marya. Take a deep breath.”
He fills his chest with air, holding it until I do the same. We exhale together. Repeat the process until I’m able to kick my brain back on. “Two months. That’s…longer than I thought.” Another breath. “My mother let him keep me down there for two months.”
Another breath, this time deeper. I fill my lungs and Alik’s scent comes along for the ride. Pine and cedar with that hint of lilac trailing behind. It stirs a memory from captivity, a few moments of peace in a dark stretch of hell. Chasing close behind that peace is anger, so deep and boundless I can’t stop from lashing out. “Youlet him keep me down there for two months. Let him torment me for two fucking months.”
Alik releases his grip on the blanket, stands up. “Like I said,moya voitelnitsa,I was never there to rescue you.”
“But you could have.” I stagger to my feet, the injustice of it all giving me false strength. “You knew I was there, knew what he was doing to me. You could’ve said fuck it to your own reasons and gotten me out. You should’ve gotten me out.” My voice breaks. We both ignore it.
“Don’t.” Alik turns his back on me, retreating to the kitchen and whatever shit he’s cooking. “I told you—I’m not the good guy. Not some savior or knight in shining armor or whatever you’re envisioning. I had my own reasons for infiltrating your family’s organization and saving you was never part of it.”
8