Page 10 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

I pour myself a glass of vodka and settle in for what promises to be a very long forty-eight hours.

5

Sabrina

The suite is gorgeous, but it’s sterile in the way that expensive hotel rooms always are. Everything is perfectly arranged, from the fresh flowers on the side table to the stack of fluffy towels in the bathroom, but there’s no warmth here. No personality.

It’s a beautiful cage, and I’m the bird trapped inside.

The lock clicks my captor, and the sound echoes through the room like a gunshot. I wait, listening for footsteps in the hallway, but the carpeting is too thick to hear anything beyond the door. The silence that follows is deafening.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs finally giving out as the adrenaline that’s been carrying me through this nightmare starts to fade. The Egyptian cotton sheets are softer than anything I’ve ever owned, but they might as well be sandpaper for all the comfort they provide. This isn’t a guest room. This is a prison cell dressed up in designer furnishings.

My head throbs, and the injection site is still tender. My mouth tastes like copper and fear, making me suspect I bit myself at some point during the abduction or unconscious period afterward. I touch the spot on my neck gingerly, wincing when my fingers find the small puncture wound. Whatever he used to knock me out is still making me dizzy, and every time I move too quickly, the room spins.

I need to think. I need to figure out what the hell is happening to me and how to get out of here alive.

The man who brought me here thinks I’m someone named Irina Volkov, a woman who disappeared ten years ago with information that got his brother killed. The resemblance is notable, but I’ve never seen that woman’s face before in my life. I would remember. You don’t forget something like that.

He doesn’t believe me, of course. That much was clear from the way he questioned me, probing for inconsistencies in my story like he was expecting me to slip up and reveal my true identity. The problem is that my true identity is exactly what I told him—Sabrina Clyde, twenty-six years old, from Modesto, California. I’m a woman drowning in medical debt and working at a nightclub to keep her head above water.

There’s nothing particularly exciting about me, and I’m definitely not worth kidnapping.

The sitting area has a leather sofa that’s buttery soft, and a stack of windows offering a peaceful view of the mountains and forest.

I walk over to test the glass, pressing my palms against the cool surface. It doesn’t budge. The windows are sealed, and the glass is thick enough that I suspect it’s bulletproof.

So much for an easy escape.

I examine the rest of the room, looking for anything that might help me get the hell out of here, or at least understand what I’m dealing with. The bathroom is stocked with expensive toiletries and thick towels, but there’s nothing that could be used as a weapon. The furniture is too heavy to move, and everything breakable has been removed or secured.

He’s thought of everything.

A soft knock at the door makes me freeze. I back away from the windows, my heart galloping as I wait to see who’s coming in. The lock disengages with an electronic beep, and the door opens to reveal a man I haven’t seen before.

He’s younger than my captor, maybe early thirties, with the kind of build indicating he spends serious time in the gym. He’s carrying a tray with water, sandwiches, and what looks like soup, and he enters the room like I’m a guest instead of a prisoner.

I press myself against the far wall. “Who are you?”

He sets the tray on the coffee table without answering, then straightens and looks at me with the kind of professional detachment that’s somehow more unnerving than outright hostility. This isn’t personal for him. I’m just another job, another problem to be managed. “Eat something,” he says finally. His voice is surprisingly gentle. “You’ll feel better.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat anyway. Boss’s orders.”

He turns and walks back toward the door, and I realize this might be my only chance to get information from someone who isn’t playing mind games with photographs and accusations.

“Wait.” I take a step toward him. “What’s your name?”

He pauses at the door but doesn’t turn around. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Eat the food, drink the water, and get some rest. Someone will be back to check on you later.”

The door closes behind him with an electronic click, and I’m alone again. The smell of the food makes my stomach growl despite everything, reminding me I haven’t eaten since starting my shift at the club. How long ago was that? Hours? Days? Time has lost all meaning in this nightmare.

I approach the tray cautiously, half-expecting the food to be drugged. I guess if they wanted me unconscious, they wouldn’t need to be so subtle about it. They could just inject me with whatever they used in the alley, so my hunger overcomes my fear.

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