The walls are free of personal touches, no family photos or any other indicator of who lives there. There isn’t any furniture in the entryway, where I stand behind Raze waiting for him to instruct me on what to do next, I can see a handful of men gathered around a massive oak dining table through the closed French doors on our left. I don’t allow my gaze to linger, afraid I’ll make eye contact with one of them.
“When they open the doors, I will escort you inside,” Raze explains without looking back. “Stay close to me, and they will not hurt you. Do not speak unless Pakhan asks you a direct question. Do not react to what others say to you. Be honest about what you know, girl, or he will find out. And my grandfather does not treat liars kindly.”
I nod my understanding even though he can’t see me, but somehow he senses it.
“Good.” He glances down at his watch then over at the men. “It should only be a few more minutes. After this, you’ll be allowed to eat dinner and shower.”
Again, I nod, but say nothing. My brain is set on overdrive, furiously processing the limited amount of information I have about the situation. The moment Raze said the last name Kabinov, I immediately made the connection to the man Vincent had ordered Ish to kill the night I was hiding in my closet—the hit that triggered the bloody turf war that began in Chicago a couple of years ago.
But if the Kabinovs hate the Riccis, what do they want with me? Are they going to sell me to the Italians? What did Raze mean by being a pawn? And how the hell does Emerson fit into all of this? Is Madden involved? Does he know what happened to me? Is he worried?
One question spurs another, and then another, until the massiveness of the unknown begins to suffocate me. I desperately want to grab my throat, to claw at the murky vines wrapping around my neck, threatening to cut off my air supply. My teeth sink into the flesh inside my cheek, purposely drawing blood to drink, forcing me to swallow. Raze becomes a blurry black figure in front of me, and just before the darkness takes hold, a door swings open, and a deep booming voice breaks through my haze, snapping me out of my panic attack.
“Raze,” the man barks, sneering in my direction before he adds something that sounds like, “Sookah. Siy-chas.”
Tipping his chin in my direction with an intense expression full of warning, Raze strides toward the gathering without saying a word. I follow closely, ignoring the muffled comments as we enter the room, most of which I don’t understand anyway. Keeping my focus fixed directly in front of me, on the center of his back, I nearly slam straight into him when he stops abruptly. Thankfully, I’m able to keep my balance without having to grab ahold of him, and I recover quickly.
My near-fall forces me to look around at my surroundings, which is when I realize we’re standing next to a chair—or what could better be referred to as a throne—at the head of the table. A man, who looks exactly like a seventy-year-old version of Raze, sits erect on the gold-plated seat and sizes me up, power and authority oozing from his pores.
“Mizz Oliveira—” be begins to address me, but I quickly cut him off.
“Blake,” I correct him. “My name is Blake Martin.” I lift my chin defiantly and hold his stare, disregarding the collective gasp heard around the room.
As Raze’s body tenses next to me, I prepare to be punished for my disrespectful behavior. The elder Russian’s face is stone-like while he studies me for several moments. Long, deafeningly silent moments. Then, probably as much to my surprise as the others in the room, the corners of his mouth begin to curl upward, and before I know it, he’s shaking with uncontainable laughter.
Everyone—myself and Raze included—remain motionless as we wait for the man to catch his breath . . . everyone except for the guy guarding the room who called for us to enter moments ago. A barely-audible chuckle escapes him, and immediately, the man who I assume to be Anatoli Kabinov stops laughing and cuts his frosty gaze in the direction of the door.
“Is something funny, Sergei?” I presume he’s using English for my behalf. He wants me to know what is happening. “Do you find amusement in your Pakhan being interrupted? Is there something funny about that?”
The guard straightens his posture and wipes any expression from his face. “No, Pakhan. Mne zhal.”
“I’m sorry too,” he replies impassively, lifting his eyebrows at another gentleman seated at the table. A chair grates across the floor as the man stands up, walks over to the guard, and slits his throat with a knife hidden in his belt. Then, with no reaction from anyone in the room, he returns to his seat and nods once.
Breathing is a struggle as I try my best not to freak out. No one else pays any attention to the lifeless body lying in a pool of blood only feet from the rest of us, but my entire body shivers with terror. I stare down at the contrast of my tiny bare feet next to Raze’s giant combat boots, a stark representation of how weak and defenseless I am around these people. People who place little value on the lives of others. People just like Ish Oliveira and Vincent Ricci.
“Yes, Mizz Martin,” Anatoli corrects himself, acting as if the conversation had not just been put on hold for a quick homicide. “I apologize for any disrespect. I can understand the desire to rid yourself of association with people such as your late husband.”
Lifting my terrified gaze to his, I whisper, “Yes, thank you.”
“Of course, you are a guest in my home,” he boasts, a hint of cynicism lacing his words. “And I must admit, though I’ve wined and dined with royalty from all over the world, you’re the first American Princess I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. I apologize for not having better prepared for your stay, but your arrival was a bit short notice.”
I suck in a sharp breath at his use of Ish’s nickname for me—the name that was splattered across newspaper headlines around the world for weeks after his murder—but refrain from speaking out. The Russian is playing a mind game with me, and I refuse to allow him to win that easily.
“Sir, I am sure you are well aware I am no princess,” I respond with a forced polite smile, “and if you’ll tell me why I’m here, I’ll do my best to help, and then be on my way.”
He contemplates my words for a minute as he steeples his hands in front of his face, tapping the tips of his index fingers against his pursed lips. “Do you know who I am, Mizz Martin?”
I nod. “Yes, sir. You are Anatoli Kabinov, the highest-ranking boss of Russian organized crime in the States.”
“How do you know who I am?” he presses. “And don’t tell me because my grandson told you either. I want to know what you know.”
Sensing my hesitation, Raze shoots threatening daggers in my direction, reminding me of his earlier warning. I swallow hard, the metallic taste of blood still lingering on my tongue, before I open my mouth and disclose everything I know.
“One evening a couple of years ago, I overheard my former father-in-law and ex-husband discussing you and your family’s activities in the Chicago area.” My voice is shaky, the words rushed. “Vincent ordered Ish to take two of his men to a warehouse, where they were to carry out a hit on your grandson, Alexei Kabinov, and everyone who was with him.”
Rage flares in Anatoli’s eyes as the entire room bursts into disorder, everyone shouting and talking at once . . . everyone except Raze. He is a frozen statue, his face murderous. It’s not until now I realize if Anatoli is his grandfather also, then Alexei must’ve been either his brother or cousin.
Having had my own brother and mother murdered by Vincent, an unfathomable urge to reach out and grab his hand, a desire to soothe him, flickers inside me, but before I can act on the reckless impulse, Anatoli leaps to his feet, silencing the room.