Page 77 of The Gift
The room felt too small, too bright. The harsh fluorescent glare left nowhere to hide.
You volunteered for this.
Her reminder didn’t slow her racing pulse or settle the wild fluttering in her stomach. Vince stood behind her, his anchoring presence enough to keep her going.
Across the table, Gruzinsky watched her with a predator’s stillness. “What do you think you’re going to do?”
She didn’t answer. She simply reached out and touched his hand.
He jerked, trying to pull away, but the cuff clattered against the metal ring. A curse tore from him, in Russian that didn’t need translation. But the contact, brief as it was, had already been made.
It opened the door.
The first images didn’t slam into her violently as so often happened. They seeped in.
A dark-haired woman smiled. Two small children pressed close to her sides. Behind them, a modest home blanketed in snow. Warmth and love pulsed through it. A life far from this room. Not what she expected from a man like him.
The next image revealed as if through fog.
Sunset over water. A small boat was tied to a short dock by a rustic cabin. Inside, a threadbare couch and a battered desk beneath a window. A drawer opened and closed. The warped wood scraped. Crumpled receipts tucked away. Gold glinted among them but was gone before she could focus on it.
Then a mix of scents hit her. Lake water, damp wood, and beneath it, gun oil.
It was an odd combination, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she gripped his wrist, fingers sliding over his pulse point, seeking answers.
Gruzinsky stiffened, but he didn’t jerk again. No point in fighting now.
Her other hand closed over his opposite wrist, fingertips at his pulse.
The second contact detonated images.
A man cowering on his back on a bloodstained tiled floor. His voice cracked as he pleaded in Russian. Another figure appeared from the shadows, an older man in a crisp, white suit. His diamond-and-gold tie pin matched the ornate handle of his walking stick. He didn’t need the cane. It was for show. For power.
His face remained hidden, but she knew who he was. Kedrov.
He watched in silence as his orders were carried out, his presence colder than the violence itself.
Gruzinsky moved, gripping the injured man by the collar. Brass knuckles met bone, again and again. His actions were efficient, practiced, and without emotion.
Erica’s stomach lurched. The brutality wasn’t random. It was routine, assumed, rewarded even.
The image skewed to the same man on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. She got stillness and finality.
Fear followed. Not the victim’s. His.
Not of bars and the isolation of prison. Of Kedrov. Beneath it, deeper and more intense, fear for the family she’d seen and what he would do to them.
She broke contact and pushed to her feet. Too fast. The room tilted.
Vince was there, his hands firm at her waist. “You’re done.”
She swallowed hard, forcing air into her lungs. Then she looked at Gruzinsky. “Does Kedrov know about the cabin?”
The Russian froze. He didn’t answer. Confusion flickered then recognition.
She pressed. “Does he know about the cash you kept from him?”
His jaw clenched so hard, a muscle ticked near his temple. “You can prove nothing!”
