For what reason, though? Does he have a death wish? Mikhail won’t stop coming for me, which was something I was ready to handle. It would have been easier to disappear on my own. I didn’t have a plan, true, but whatever was going to happen after Viktor killed Mikhail’s men could have involved me disappearing into the night.
There’s no logical reason for Viktor to have brought me here. That makes him dangerous. Logic, at least, makes men predictable. I could reverse engineer whatever the hell he was thinking and figure out his motives. Without it, I’m left completely in the dark.
I turn my head slowly and take in my gilded cage. The room is clean but impersonal. The walls are painted a neutral beige, and there are no pictures or artwork. Not even the stock photos you’d see at a hotel. The furniture is also minimal. There’s a bed, a nightstand, and a wardrobe. Nothing else. The room also has a slightly musty smell, like it hasn’t been aired out in a while. Whoever owns this place doesn’t live in it.
I sit up and force myself to actually wake up and figure out my next move. There are no weapons in the room. I check the nightstand, and of course, it’s empty. The wardrobe as well. All I have are the clothes I came in.
I walk over to the window to see if, maybe, it’ll open. Not that it would matter since the room is on the third floor of the brownstone. Even so, the window is sealed shut. There might as well be bars on it, though they would stand out in this neighborhood. I try to figure out where we are. Brooklyn Heights? Williamsburg? Maybe Bay Ridge or Red Hook. We’re definitely not in Brighton Beach.
So, he’s made me cross territory lines. That could be impulsive, or it could be incredibly calculated. There’s no way for me to tell. I try to remember what little I know about Viktor Kovalev.
He’s the heir of the Kovalev Bratva, I remember that much. His father died fairly recently, although that’s relative. For all I pay attention to other families, that could mean the last six months or the last five years.
I remember that he’s called The Enforcer, though I don’t really remember why. I assume it’s because that was his main role in his family before his father’s death. He certainly is physically imposing. Ironically, he isn’t the kind of man I would want to run into in a dark alley.
So why didn’t he just leave me? Why did he force me to come with him? He gains nothing from this. If anything, he stands to lose big because of it.
I walk over to the door and gingerly check the knob. It isn’t locked. I pause with my hand on the handle, considering what to do. He’s clearly given me the freedom to leave the room. What about the house? How easily could I get away?
That’s answered immediately when I step out into the hallways and see a guard standing there. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know he would stop me from leaving the house if he had to. Sure enough, he dogs me as I move through the place.
I also pretend not to notice the cameras all over as I explore. They’re not well-concealed, but then they probably aren’t meant to be. He wants me to know he’s watching.
First, I find the bathroom. It’s also pretty bare, with only a couple of bars of soap and one towel. There’s a thin shower curtain, like something in a cheap hotel. Everything about this screams minimal effort.
There’s another door on this floor and I peek in to find another minimal bedroom. From there, I go down to the second floor, where there’s another bedroom and bathroom. The bedroom is much larger and the bed looks slept in. This must be where he stayed last night. I don’t linger in the doorway very long. Something about it feels invasive.
Instead, I go down to the main floor, where I find an open living room and a large kitchen. There’s a smattering of pastries on the kitchen counter and a few bottles of water in the fridge. I ignore them and continue my search around the house, noting the layout.
There are two possible exits downstairs. The front door, obviously, and a back door off the kitchen. It isn’t clear yet if there’s anything in the back that would prevent me from running, like a reinforced alleyway. Based solely on Lurch following me around, I’m sure he has guards who would prevent me from trying.
I don’t go to the front door, because I know it would be useless. There’s no way he’s left the front door open for me, or that one of his guards wouldn’t prevent me from leaving. He’s not stupid. He’s a man who relies on psychological warfare just as much as physical.
That’s why I didn’t run last night. He was right when he said I had nowhere else to go. I could have run when we arrived at the house, but there were already men waiting for us.
Instead, I asked him where I would be sleeping and he told me to pick a room on the third floor. That was the last interaction we had, and now I don’t even know where the hell he is.
I go back to the kitchen, my hunger getting the better of me. I grab a bottle of water and a pastry, and sit down at the table, slowly taking a bite. I stare out onto the street. The whole place is so bright and airy, but it’s an illusion. I have a feeling you can’t see into the house from the outside. He’s smart enough to know that keeping the house locked down and all the blinds closed would be too obvious of a tell.
“You’re awake,” Viktor says as he walks into the kitchen, causing me to startle as he pulls me from my thoughts.
I ignore him, looking over his shoulder longingly at the knives sitting on the counter. He tracks my gaze.
“Try it,” he says mildly. “I’d love the sparring practice.”
I roll my eyes and keep my gaze fixed on him. He’s larger in the light of day. He’s not bulky, necessarily, but he’s clearly well-built and very, very tall. His shoulders are broad, and his arms are thick enough to be imposing.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It’s probably better that you don’t know,” he says carefully.
It doesn’t matter, I realize. Either way, we’re away from Brighton Beach, and Mikhail isn’t going to like that. He’s going to tear up the city looking for me.
“You’re not known for rescuing women,” I continue. “So what exactly is this?”
He goes to the counter where he brews coffee at a Keurig I didn’t notice. He doesn’t answer my question at first, instead taking his time to make his drink. He’s irritatingly patient.
I get up and join him in the kitchen, grabbing one of the knives since his back is to me. Immediately, he turns on me, wrapping his fingers around my wrist until I’m forced to let go of the handle. The knife clatters onto the floor, the sound of metal hitting wood filling up the space.