Page 33 of Never Distract a Biker

"So Electra," I begin again.

"Umm … yes?" she replies with a tremor in her voice.

I can't let her see how she affects me.

"Let's start over," I say, placing my hands on the cold surface. I lean forward slightly, asserting my dominance over the space. It's imperative that I maintain control—not just of the situation but of myself.

"Tell me about your work at the club," I command, my voice even and devoid of personal attachment.

Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before she steels herself. "I dance," she says flatly. "That's all. I'm just a stripper."

Her reply hangs in the room, and I scrutinize her face, searching for any flicker of deceit. There’s none. Just the same nervous energy that makes her seem smaller in the chair.

"And Igor Makarov? What was your involvement with him?" My inquiry slices through the tension, sharp and precise.

"Who?" Genuine and clear confusion clouds her features. She's lost, completely unaware of the name that carries weight like a lead in the crime underworld.

My instincts scream at her innocence in this matter, but my role demands skepticism.

“Let me reintroduce myself. I am Viktor Makarov, son of Igor Makarov.” I say, watching her like a hawk. But still, there is no flicker of recognition in her vivid green eyes.

Maybe a different approach will jolt her memory.

"When was the last time you worked at the club?" I press, my tone is flat, clinical even.

"Over two months ago," Electra murmurs, her eyes dropping to her hands, now fidgeting in her lap. "I ... I couldn't do it anymore. I didn’t have to do it anymore."

Relief seeps through her words and softens her face. She's undoubtedly glad to be out of that life, and her liberation is tangible in the sterile room. I feel it as I watch her. What I see doesn't fit the narrative I've been sold. This person sitting before me has no connection to the world I belong to.

"Is that so?" I probe, my voice betraying none of the turmoil inside me.

"Yes," she insists, meeting my gaze once more. Her eyes are pools of honesty in a sea of lies. "I'm telling you the truth, Mr Makarov."

So it’s Mr Makarov now?

"Interesting," is all I say.

Her unease is palpable, yet she holds my gaze unflinchingly. It's as if she knows her sincerity is her only shield against me.

"Alright," I start again, leaning against the cold metal desk. "Tell me about the money under your bed."

Her lips part in surprise, and a silent plea is written across her face. She swallows hard, her gaze darting around the room, seeking an escape where there is none.

"I found it in my locker at the club," she whispers, her words quivering like leaves in a storm. "I don't know—I can't ..."

"Can't what?" I press, my tone calm yet laced with an edge sharp enough to cut through her defenses. "Tell me the truth?"

If the money Lev and Zasha brought back is part of what I left in her locker all those weeks ago, then she lied about having financial issues.

Her eyes lock onto mine, wide with terror. Suddenly, she bends forward, retching violently onto the floor. Fear squeezes her until she empties her stomach's contents, which is evidently nothing.

"Get her some water," I order without breaking my stare. Lev moves swiftly, returning with a glass, but she's too shaken to take it.

"Look at me, Electra," I demand, waiting for her trembling hands to still, for her breathing to steady. "We will continue this until I have my answers."

She nods, a feeble attempt at composure as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The interrogation isn't over. Far from it. This is just the beginning.

She huddles in her chair, small and defeated, yet I cannot afford the luxury of pity. She may be the link in a chain that binds me to the past, to the blood-stained throne I’ve now inherited.

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