The foreigner’s voice overflows with increasing irritation, and innately I know he’s not one to make idle threats. Ever so slowly, I twist my neck to the side and rest my cheek on the mattress. My dry, scratchy eyes are open, but I still refuse to meet his eyes as I stare at the blank white wall behind him. I’m hanging on to the tiny bit of courage and dignity I have left, refusing to submit completely.
Fully expecting him to yank me by the hair or to backhand me like Ish used to whenever I didn’t agree with something he said, I’m surprised when a burly chuckle escapes him, and without thinking, my inquisitive gaze cuts upward to his.
I gasp with surprise then quickly look away. Oh, shit. He’s huge. And scary.
“My reports said you were timid and docile, but I can see my investigators were fooled. Sassy and stubborn seem a bit more fitting.” He smirks while untying the knots of my restraints. “It’s a good thing I love a challenge.”
Determined not to let the warm smile tugging at the edges of his mouth lull me into thinking this man is a nice guy for any reason, I lower my freed arms to my sides, grimacing at the soreness in my biceps and shoulders from being suspended. Pushing myself up to sitting, I inspect the enflamed friction burns around my wrists and am reminded of my own self-destructive behaviors.
My life is a fucking mess. Good thing it probably won’t last much longer.
“Who are you, and what do you want from me?” I snap angrily as I glower up at him. “Just fucking kill me already and get this over with.”
“My name is Raze, and I want you to put some clothes on.” His piercing, icy blue gaze falls to my bare breasts momentarily before he lifts it back up to mine again. “I have no plans on killing you, girl, but if you don’t get dressed soon, I’m not going to be responsible for other things I may do with you.”
I snatch the folded, oversized white t-shirt from the bed where he tossed it minutes ago and quickly slip it over my head. Glancing down, he raises his eyebrows at the white lacy panties, which I recognize as the ones I had on when I was abducted, still atop the covers. Then, without me asking him to, he slowly turns around and steps a few feet away to give me a bit of privacy.
As he’s facing away from me, I contemplate jumping on his back, attacking him, and making an attempt to escape, but not knowing where in the world I am or how many others like him are waiting outside the door, I wisely stick to putting the panties on. If I have any chance of a getaway whatsoever, I need to make smart, well thought out decisions, not hasty, impetuous ones. Those will only get me killed . . . faster.
Even though I now have enough clothing on to cover me, I keep the blanket pulled up over my legs and chest as I sit cross-legged on the mattress. Once he senses I’m settled, he pivots around on his heel and locks his penetrating stare on me, the amused expression all but erased from his face.
Up until now, I’ve been too scared out of my mind to take a really good look at him other than his arresting eyes, and not that I’m relaxed or optimistic about the situation now, but I figure he didn’t bother with having me get dressed just to kill me in the next several minutes. So as he moves back toward the bed, I do a quick assessment of my captor, in the infinitesimal chance I may one day escape and need to describe him to authorities.
His straight, dirty blond hair is cut short in the back while the top is long and unruly, though it doesn’t strike me as the fresh-out-of-bed look. No, he’s just a man who doesn’t give a fuck and has more important stuff to do than waste time styling his hair. An angry, jagged scar starting right below his left brow zigzags down to his cheekbone, where it bleeds into the several-day-old stubble covering his sharp, angular jaw. He’s wearing a solid black long-sleeved Henley shirt, which I find odd, considering it’s summer in Southern California, paired with black pants that are tucked into heavy-duty, black military boots, all of it snugly fitting over his powerfully built body. He looks like an assassin. Striking . . . dangerous . . . oddly beautiful. Like an angel of death.
“I see your mind working on overdrive, girl, but you need to be patient. Everything will be revealed to you in due time,” he says as he leans against the bedframe, keeping a fair amount of distance between us.
“Where’s Emerson? What do you want with me?” I blurt out, ignoring his previous comments.
“I have no idea who Emerson is, and right now, I want you to shut up,” he retorts, shaking his head. He mumbles something else I can’t understand before adding, “Do you Americans ever just listen?”
“What language are you speaking? Who are you? Where am I?”
He holds his hand up in the air as he pinches his brows together. “Shut up!” he barks. “If you would shut the fuck up for one goddamn minute and let me talk, I’ll tell you what you need to know.”
Deciding it’s in my best interest to keep my mouth closed at this point, I press my lips into a straight line and tip my head toward him, indicating I’m finished with my outbursts. For now, at least.
“As I already told you, my name is Raze, and we are inside one of the many houses owned by my grandfather, Anatoli Kabinov, which is who’s currently waiting downstairs to see you.” Exhaling a deep breath, he pauses briefly, but keeps his intense stare locked on me. “Get ready, girl. You’re about to become the most important pawn in the biggest mafia war this country has ever seen.”
ALL MY SENSES ARE ON full alert as I follow Raze from the bedroom I’ve been held in, out to what seems like an ordinary house—well, what I assume is ordinary for Russian mafia warlords.
The room is at the end of a long hallway, the other doors are all closed as we pass by to a circular marble staircase that leads down to a grandiose foyer. The highest ceilings I’ve ever seen are framed with elaborate crown moldings and adorned with lavish chandeliers, while the floors are made up of what I assume to be rare, expensive tiles, meticulously laid out in intricate designs and color patterns. It looks more like a museum than a house.
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?