His square jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare. He looks like a lion seconds before it pounces. He looks wild. “It was not a suggestion.”
“I know,” I say, taking another step away from him.
I look over my shoulder and see the hallway is a dead-end. The only way out is to run straight for the stairs. Straight past him. Which I know immediately he won’t let happen. He held both my arms above my head with one of his own earlier. He could snap me in half if he wanted, and I suspect he would if I tried to run.
He lowers his voice like he’s afraid someone will overhear us. “Someone is waiting for you. Go.”
I shake my head. It’s my father. I know it. And once I see him, any hope I have of escape will wither, and I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to be hopeless. Hope is keeping me standing. Hope is the only thing keeping me from dissolving into a puddle of tears. If I lose hope, I lose everything.
The man sighs and wraps a hand around my neck, leading me forward like a disobedient dog. It feels like he might rub my nose in the carpet to teach me a lesson. I squeeze my eyes shut as he opens the door, but when I don’t hear any labored breathing or smell the metallic tang of blood, I open one eye and then the other.
I’m standing in an office. A nice office.
A large wooden desk sits in the middle of the room, two plush chairs sitting in front of it. Bookshelves line the room, filled with books and photographs and knickknacks that look like they belong in my father’s office. And best of all, there’s a long window set into the wall just below the ceiling. I can see grass growing around the edge of the frame and the trunk of a distant tree. It confirms my theory that I’m being held in a basement, and gives me hope that it hasn’t yet been a day since I was kidnapped. The sky is the dark blue of early evening.
Just like in a movie, the chair behind the desk spins around, and a dark-haired man is sitting in front of me, smiling. His teeth are intensely white, especially compared to his tan skin. Something about him seems familiar to me, but I don’t have time to figure it out before he starts speaking.
“Bella McNair.” He has a thick accent, and my name sounds like a magic enchantment being whispered over a cauldron. “So happy to have you with us.”
If I’d met him first, I might have been fooled by his smile and wide flung gestures, but as it is, I distrust his kindness immediately.
“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and there will be time for those. But for now, I wanted to say hello. I like to introduce myself to all of our guests.”
“Guest?” I scoff. “I’m a prisoner.”
His smile fades into a mask of concern. “I’m sorry you have felt that way. Have you been following our rules?”
I don’t answer, and he shrugs helplessly. “We expect a certain level of respect from all of our guests. If it’s not shown to us, we do not return it. I cannot guarantee your treatment if you undermine the authority of your guards.”
“The exchange of respect was broken the moment I was drugged and taken against my will. Excuse me for not following your rules.”
His jaw clenches, and I see it. I turn to the man standing next to me. The one who grabbed me, who ... touched me. They have the same bone structure. I can’t believe I didn’t see it immediately.
When I turn back to the man sitting behind the desk, I see him as if for the first time. He is burly and squat with a thick mustache, but they have the same jaw. And the same eyes. And under the collar of his shirt, I see black ink tracing up towards his neck. They even have similar tattoos.
“You’re related,” I say, looking between them, my brain reeling as I try to solve this puzzle.
The man behind the desk folds his hands in front of him. “Has my son not introduced himself yet?”
The man next to me shifts from one foot to another, and I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable or nervous or both. Regardless, he doesn’t look at me.
“My name is Ivan Petrov,” the man says, pressing his fingers to his own chest.
Ivan Petrov. His accent is Eastern European. I can place it now. And the name ... the name is Russian.
My heart begins to race in my chest even before the man next to me turns to face me. Even before I look up into his warm brown eyes and remember what he did to me only hours ago. The way I felt about it. My pulse flutters in my throat like a hummingbird, and I feel like I could pass out.
These men are Russian. They’re related. They want my father. They’re using me to get to him. And suddenly, a piece of the puzzle clicks into place.
“And I,” the man says, leaning forward in a bow, a sarcastic smile smeared across his face, “am Yuri Petrov.”
They’re part of the Russian mob, and I’m their hostage.
Chapter Four
Yuri
My father is laying it on thick, grinning at Bella like he wants to eat her. Though, that might actually be part of it. He has always appreciated a pretty face, and Bella’s is prettier than most.
“Now that introductions are out of the way,” he says, clapping his meaty hands together, “take a seat. Please. Get comfortable.”
Bella doesn’t move, and even though it has been a real obstacle for me, I admire her fight. Most people would cower in the presence of the head
