Arranged By The Bravta King

17

Maria

"I don't know any more than what you do." The words catch in my throat, and suddenly I wonder if I've said too much.

"Is that so?" Alexander asks, a hint of skepticism in his posh tone. "Your father was a very important man. He never told you anything? Not even about his old friends?"

"My father works with computers," I insist, my voice wavering despite my best efforts. "And he never talked about friends."

The men exchange glances, clearly not convinced by my answer.

"He works with computers, yet you don't have a phone?" Ippolit asks softly. "No social media presence for a young lady like yourself. Why?"

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, keenly aware of their scrutinizing gazes. "My father doesn't trust it," I say, trying to sound confident but feeling anything but. "He thought it wouldn't be safe for me."

"Safe?" Ippolit presses, narrowing his eyes. "Did he ever tell you why he was so concerned about your safety?"

My hands tremble, and I pull the pillow closer to me to hide my growing terror.

"No," I admit, my voice barely a whisper. "He never explained anything to me. He just ... wants to protect me."

The bulldog, Gunsyn, laughs out loud as he finally stops staring at my chest. "Protect you from what, princess? Us?"

I frown at his assumed familiarity, narrowing my eyes to match his disgusting gaze. How dare he call me princess like Mikhail?

"Gunsyn." Mikhail's tone is low and threatening.

Chastened, Gunsyn nods, looking down his nose at me. "Okay. That's fine. You haven't said anything to us that we don't already know."

Ippolit frowns at Gunsyn, looking annoyed, but Gunsyn ignores him. Ippolit then glances at Mikhail, waiting for a reaction. But Mikhail doesn't acknowledge him either. I watch him, wondering why Mikhail seems so tense.

Is he worried about me or himself? Who are these men?

"Look." I try to suppress the tremor in my voice, "I don't know anything. I'm ... I'm sorry."

The men study me as if gauging the veracity of my words. Then Ippolit leans back, seemingly satisfied for now.

Mikhail finally looks at me and takes my trembling hands. Warmth flows from his touch, and I feel my heart slightly slow its panicked beat. He clenches his jaw.

"Enough," he snaps, his voice like a whip cracking through the air. "You've had your chance to question her. Now back off."

There's a pause before the men murmur their consent, and I see the scowls on their faces as they begrudgingly submit to Mikhail's authority.

The tension in the room doesn't dissipate. If anything, it thickens and presses down on me. The three men's cold stares linger, raising goose bumps along my bare skin. Mikhail shoots the bulldog a look that makes me tremble. I know I should feel relieved, but all I can think about is how much darker and more dangerous my world has become.

"Maria," Mikhail's voice is soft but firm. "Go back to your room so that I might speak to my brigadiers alone."

I nod and jump to my feet, quickly moving toward the floating stairs. I glance back at Mikhail, and his gaze stays with me, filled with an intensity that sends a tremor down my spine. As I slowly climb, I face them at every turn, catching the three other men r****g me with their eyes as I ascend. I slow my steps when I reach the hallway. And when I'm out of sight, Mikhail's voice rises into a commanding roar that makes me gasp.

"You have no right to interrogate her like this!" His voice is dangerous, the calm before the storm. "You enter my home without permission and disrespect my guest before me. I don't care what you want. You will not harm her, do you understand? If she so much as gets a scratch because of you, I will make you pay for it tenfold."

"She already looks scratched up to me." A low laugh follows but suddenly stops. I hear a struggle, but I don't dare look.

"Kolya, Kolya." Posh Alexander's voice drifts up. "Calm yourself. Gunsyn was only joking."

"Call me Kolya one more time," Mikhail replies tersely. "And I will throw you off the terrace."

"Mikhail Ivanov, we're not monsters," Ippolit's voice drips with insincerity. "We won't hurt the girl unless it is an absolute necessity. But even you must admit that the safety of the Bratva comes above all. Your late father wouldn't want a traitor running free. And she is our ticket to him."

Bratva? A traitor? Are they talking about Dad? I hold my breath as I hang onto every word.

"You don't get to terrorize her," Mikhail growls, his anger palpable even from a safe distance. "She's been through enough."

"Nevertheless," Ippolit speaks, his voice hardly above a whisper. "We need to question her further. With your permission, of course, Mikhail Ivanov."

A shudder runs down my whole body as I realize they don't even see me as a person. Just a means to an end in their twisted game, a piece to be moved across the board and tossed aside when my function is fulfilled. I clench my fists, fighting to suppress the rising tide of resentment and fear before it leaps out of me in a scream.

I take a deep breath and force myself to stay calm.

I'm strong. I'll get through this. I need to find a way to escape. I need to get back home to Dad. I have to tell him about these people. I have to warn him!

A noise at the far end of the hallway comes from my room. Dominika steps out into the hallway, holding a pile of dirty bedsheets. She eyes me suspiciously as I press myself stiffly against the wall. Her gaze moves from me to the staircase. I hold my breath, waiting to see what she will do.

Unexpectedly, she presses her finger to her lips, reminding me that the penalty for noise is something I cannot yet imagine.

Dominika walks past me and heads downstairs as I practically run to my room. I fling open the door, shut it gently behind me as quietly as I can, and then drop onto the bed, my heart racing and my mind a cacophony of thoughts.

I wait to hear footsteps, but no one is coming. I roll over onto a dress lying on the clean covers. It's simple, crisp and white like Dominika's, but smaller.

I grab it eagerly and quickly pull it on, thankful I have something decent to cover myself up in.

I sit there for a moment, counting my breaths as I stare at the curtain drawn across the window. The lavender fabric blocks the view that I once dreamed about but now dread.

Suddenly, all I want is to be back in Holtsville, living my boring life with my boring father.

I close my eyes and wait.

But I can't stop my knees from shaking at the thought of what fresh hell awaits me.