Page 51 of Velvet Chains
I whip my head around to stare at him. “Chopper? What chopper? Where the hell are we going now?”
I turn back to Victor, my voice rising with each question. “You know, it would be really fucking nice if someone could learn to communicate with me about what’s going on in my own goddamn life!”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know how ridiculous they sound. I’m not in control here. I’m just a pawn in whatever game Victor and the Vasilievs are playing.
And if I want to survive, I’ll have to learn to play by their rules.
Chapter 22
Laura
“WE ARE taking a chopper to Canandaigua Lake for the weekend,” Victor informs me, his eyes glued to his phone.
I open my mouth and close it again.
Once again, I’m being dragged to a different place, expected to just go along with it like it’s no big deal.
Well, guess what? It is a big fucking deal.
I want to scream at them, to demand they give me a break. To beg them to just let me have my old life back.
But what was in that old life, anyway? More lies. More pain. More betrayal.
I glance over at Victor, who’s been on the phone for the past thirty minutes. I haven’t got a clue what he’s saying since he’s speaking in rapid-fire Russian. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s about the ledger because he turns to me and asks, “Where exactly did you hide it?”
“Under a loose floorboard in my apartment,” I reply, feeling like a kid being interrogated by the principal.
He gives me a curt nod, like I’m a soldier who’s just completed a mission. But I’m not his soldier. I’m not his anything.
Every move I make seems to trap me deeper in this mess.
I grip the hem of my dress, my knuckles turning white as I stare out the window. The East River stretches out before us, the midday sun glinting off its murky surface.
What’s his plan? Drive around until he finds a nice spot to dump my body?
Suddenly, a private helipad comes into view, surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The place has an ominous air about it, like something out of a spy movie.
Armed guards peer into the car as Misha rolls down his window. “Mr. Morozov,” they greet Victor, their tones respectful but wary.
Misha drives through the gate, pulling up right next to a sleek black helicopter—the kind I’ve only ever seen in action flicks—with “Morozov Enterprises” emblazoned on the side.
Victor ends his call and steps out of the car, coming around to open my door. He extends a hand to me, his expression unreadable.
“Come on, kiska. The chopper’s waiting.”
I hesitate for a moment, a thousand doubts swirling in my mind. Is this really happening? Am I seriously about to get into a helicopter with my kidnapper-turned-husband?
But what choice do I have?
I take his hand, letting him help me out of the car. The wind from the helicopter’s blades whips my hair around my face as we approach.
Victor helps me climb inside, his hand firm on the small of my back. Misha hops into the pilot’s seat, slipping on a headset.
Of course Misha flies, too. What doesn’t this guy do? Knit sweaters in his spare time?
As I buckle myself in, I realize I have no idea if I’m afraid of heights or not. I’ve never had the opportunity to find out.
Guess I’m about to get a crash course.
