The hold he’s got on my neck is so tight I’m unable to speak, but I don’t think he really wants an answer anyway. With a shit-eating grin on his face, Tony strolls around from behind the counter and gets right up in my face, while their other friend flanks his right side.
“Madden Fucking Decker,” he sneers. “I’ve heard a lot about you in the last few days. Seems we may owe you a thank you for bringing our attention to where our little American Princess has been hanging out lately. You know, we’ve been looking for that little bitch for quite a while now, and to think, the whole time she’s been playing house with you in your fancy California home, living the fuckin’ life, all while one of our brothers rots in the ground.”
The cold metal of the knife disappears, but before my brain can register the movement, Tony punches me in the stomach. Harder than I’ve ever been hit before. “All.” He swings again, and I grunt at the white-hot pain burning in my gut. “Because.” Another blow. “Of.” And again. “Her.” With the final strike, the man behind me releases my neck and violently shoves me down to the ground.
On my hands and knees, my chest heaves up and down rapidly as my lungs absorb every ounce of oxygen they can get. The throbbing in my midsection is excruciating, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand on my own, but that doesn’t keep me from trying. The physical pain is nothing compared to the anguish I’ve felt since Blake disappeared.
Using all my might, I push off the tiled floor so I’m on my knees, and just as I’m about to attempt to rise to my feet, the bottom of Tony’s shoe meets the side of my face, knocking me back down. All I can taste is blood.
“Don’t you worry, pretty boy.” He squats next to me, grabbing the back of my hair and jerking my neck sideways so I’m looking at him. I fight the urge to spit in his face, to tell him what a piece of shit he is. Taking in everything about these people could be the key to finding her. “I know you think you’re about to die, but that’s not gonna happen just yet. First, I want you to witness what we do to her once we bring her home. It’ll make anything Ish ever did look like child’s play. I hope you don’t have a weak stomach.”
With an evil laugh, he rams my face back into the ground, my nose crunching on impact. “Take him to the back,” he orders, but before anyone picks up my limp body, the sound of the bell echoes through the room just before I hear someone shout, “Nobody move or I’ll shoot! FBI!”
“WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO eat?”
Peering up from the adult comic book—the one completely in Russian with a lot of scantily-dressed cartoon women that I’ve been making up my own story to—I stare blankly at Raze, who’s leaning against the doorframe between the living room and the bedroom, not sure I heard him correctly. “What did you say?”
Chuckling, he shakes his head and strides over to ‘his’ chair, carrying a pad of paper and a pen. “I asked what you like to eat. One of my men will be dropping off food and supplies this afternoon, and I wanted to make sure I got some things you like. It appears we’re going to be here a while longer than I originally expected.”
Groaning, I toss the book onto the coffee table, choosing to ignore his polite gesture of asking for my input. All I hear is the bad news. “How much longer? Why can’t we just do this and get it over with? I want to go home.”
Despite my previous vow to not help these people, I’ve now accepted that killing Vincent is my only hope for ever having a chance of freedom. I’m not sure what will happen afterward¸ or how it’ll all be handled, but I do know if I don’t do it, I’ll be dead for sure. And the more I think about, the more getting vengeance on the bastard who murdered my mom and brother appeals to me. I’m not sure if that makes me just as despicable as these people I hate, but if that’s the case, then so fucking be it.
“I want to go home too, girl, but organizing the hit on one of the most powerful Italian bosses in the country doesn’t just happen. There are a lot of factors in play,” he explains casually, almost as if he talks about murdering people every day. Then I remember, he probably does. Just like Ish.
He notices the way I’m looking at him and drops the paper and pen, his intense blue eyes pinning me in my place on the couch. Raze has to be the most perceptive man on the planet.
“I know what you’re thinking, girl. And I thought I made it clear to you the other night. I’m not anything like that monster you were married to. I’ve done a lot of wrong, fucked up things in my life, and I’m sure I’ll do a lot more before I die, but I’ve never once hurt someone who’s innocent to this life, and especially not someone I claimed to love. Not fucking once,” he growls.
I don’t respond right away; the lump lodged in the back of my throat won’t let me. My desire to believe the things he says scares me. I know who he is, what he’s about, and I can only imagine the things he’s done. Yet there’s still this part of me—a big part, if I’m being honest with myself—that wants to trust him.
The night before last, when I had the nightmare about Ish, I was completely caught off guard to find myself wrapped in Raze’s arms when I regained consciousness as he did his best to comfort me. With a warm tenderness I’ve only experienced with Madden, he didn’t push me to talk about the specifics of my nightmare or about my life with Ish. Instead, he stayed with me until I fell back asleep. And when I awoke the next morning, he was still by my side.
I’m still uncertain of what to make of him. He’s a brutish Russian mobster who runs organized crime and kills people for a living one minute, and then a compassionate, gentle giant who consoles his prisoner the next. And I’m not sure which one frightens me more.
Reaching across the small table, I pick up the pad of paper, add a few grocery items to his list, and then set it back down, offering him a feeble smile as an apology. “Thank you for asking me.”
He grunts as he stands, taking the paper and pen with him, but before he returns to his bedroom, he mumbles, “You’re welcome, kotyonok.”
The rest of the day mirrors the three previous ones: me on the couch, doing a whole bunch of nothing, and Raze in his room, working on his laptop and talking on the phone. Sometime in the early evening—or at least that’s my guess, based on the muted sunlight shining through the window—he emerges from his cave carrying a thin rope. My stomach plummets.
“Calm down, girl. My men are about to be here with the delivery,” he explains softly. “Pakhan will expect them to give a full report of what they see, and I’m supposed to be treating you as a prisoner. I promise you as soon as they’re gone I will untie you, but this is something I must do. Otherwise, I’ll be replaced with someone else, and I can assure you no one else in the Bratva will treat you the way I have. Do you understand?”
He lowers himself down to the couch next to me and lifts his eyebrows, awaiting my answer. Instead of giving him a verbal response, I extend my arms in front of me, offering up my wrists.
“Spasibo,” he tips his chin with appreciation. “They will not stay long, and after they’re gone, you can choose dinner.”
Mere minutes after he has bound both my hands and feet, a forceful knock on the door announces their arrival. Instantly, any kindness in his expression is replaced by a cold, hard mask. With vacant eyes, flared nostrils, and a tight jaw, my bipolar captor stalks toward the door to let in his men.
An icy, bitter wind howls outside, but even after the pair of Russians is ushered inside, the chilliness in the room remains. Raze greets them with a kiss on both cheeks, and then they all make their way back outside. He holds up one finger to me once the others are out the door, indicating he’ll be back in one minute.