Page 12 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
I lean against the wall, crossing my arms carefully to avoid putting pressure on my stitches. "You expect me to believe that? That he sent you to America and never contacted you again?"
"I don't care what you believe." She lifts her chin, defiant even though she can't see me. "It's the truth."
"Your father is a traitor. He testified against the Bratva, stole valuable heirlooms from my family, and then disappeared. You're his daughter. You're telling me you know nothing about any of it?"
"That's exactly what I'm telling you."
I study her face, looking for signs of deception. But all I see are exhaustion and fear and something else. Resignation. Like she's been expecting this moment for years and has finally accepted that it's here.
"Let's try this again," I say, pushing off the wall. "Where is Yegor Pushkin?"
"I don't know."
"Where are the heirlooms?"
"I don't know."
"When did you last see him?"
"Nine years ago, the day he testified."
We go on like this for hours. I ask the same questions over and over, varying the order, changing my tone, trying to catch her in a lie. But her answers never change. She doesn't know where her father is. She doesn't know anything about stolen heirlooms. She hasn't seen or heard from him in nine years.
Either she's telling the truth or she's the best liar I've ever encountered.
Matvey brings in a bucket of water at one point, and I pour it over her head, hoping the shock will break through her defenses. She gasps, sputtering, her clothes soaking through. But when I ask again, she gives me the same answers.
"I don't know where he is. I don't know about any heirlooms. I haven't seen him in nine years."
By the time midnight rolls around, I'm exhausted and my side is killing me. Mariya is shivering in her wet clothes, her hair plastered to her face, but she hasn't broken, hasn't given me anything useful.
I don't believe in hurting women. It's a line I've never crossed, not even in self-defense beyond what's necessary to protectmyself. But I'm running out of options. How else am I supposed to get answers from her?
"Fine," I finally say, my voice rough with frustration. "Let's try something different."
I reach forward and untie the blindfold, pulling it away from her face.
She blinks against the sudden light, her green eyes watering as they adjust. When her vision clears, she looks directly at me, and I see the moment recognition hits. She remembers me from the library, from the alley. She knows exactly who I am.
"You're going to be my guest," I tell her, keeping my voice level. "You'll stay here, in my estate, until you decide to give me the answers I need."
7
MARIYA
The blindfold comes off, and I blink against the harsh fluorescent light. My eyes water as they adjust, and when my vision finally clears, he's standing right in front of me.
The man I stabbed.
He looks different now than he did in the alley. More composed. More dangerous. His dark hair is still perfectly styled despite everything that's happened, and those blue eyes study me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. The blood on his shirt has dried to a dark stain, a reminder of what I did to him, what I'm capable of when I'm desperate.
Not that it did me any good.
He reaches forward, and I flinch instinctively. But he doesn't hit me. Instead, his hands move to the zip ties binding my wrists to the chair. The plastic cuts into my skin as he works them loose, and when they finally snap free, I have to bite back a gasp of relief. My arms ache from being held in the same position, and my fingers are numb.
He moves to my ankles next, cutting through those restraints with the same efficiency. When I'm finally free, I want to collapse, want to curl into a ball and let the exhaustion take over. But I force myself to stay upright, to meet his gaze without flinching.
I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
