Page 77 of Cruel Russian Pakhan
I froze. Since when did Artyom view Katya as family?
I scoffed. “You don’t even like her. Get the fuck out of my way.”
“Whether I like her or not is irrelevant,” he said coolly. “She’s a Rykov by blood. We have every right to go with you to save her. We can either stand here and waste time arguing…or the eight of us…” he nodded behind me.
I turned. My brothers were there, stepping up beside me, eyes fierce.
I returned my gaze to Artyom, and he continued, “...can work together to get Katya back. The clock’s ticking, Safin. So, what’s it going to be?”
Chapter 24 - Katya
I kept my eyes closed, an ache radiating from my skull as the freezing sting of the concrete seeped into my skin. My arms were twisted painfully behind me, the handcuffs biting deep into my wrists, which throbbed. I'd been conscious for at least five minutes, maybe more, long enough to listen.
At first, I thought it was Artyom, that I’d somehow been dragged back to him. But when I woke on a cold, filthy floor instead of a warm bed, with unfamiliar voices circling me like vultures, I knew I was wrong.
The men didn’t bother whispering. They spoke in English, but they had an accent. Italian? Maybe French? Definitely not Russian.
Their words scraped against my bones, and I fought not to let their words affect me.
“Once we cut off her head and send it to Rykovs, it’ll rip his faction apart.”
A cruel laugh.
“Send the fetus to Safin. In a little box. Tied with a ribbon.”
Another laugh.
“With this bitch tied to both the Safins and the Rykovs, her death would ripple through two of the most dangerous families in the Bratva in Philly. Making our job at dismantling them easier than expected.”
I fought the bile rising in my throat. I was nothing more than leverage: an unborn child, a severed head, and a statement.
I forced myself to breathe, slow and shallow, to keep my body limp and muscles slack. I didn’t want them to know I was awake.
When they finally left, the door slammed shut and I was left in silence.
I cracked one eye open. The room was dim, the walls crumbling and stained, a thin window near the ceiling letting in barely any air. I pushed myself up slowly, wincing as pins and needles shot through my arms.
I leaned back against the wall and exhaled shakily. “I really hope they didn’t use the expensive cuffs,” I muttered dryly.
Biting down on my bottom lip, I slammed the metal against the wall. Once. Twice. Again. My wrist screamed in protest, but I kept going. After the fourth hit, the lock finally gave and popped open with a small metallic click. The cuffs clattered to the ground.
I flexed my hands, shaking out the numbness. My fingers brushed against my hair. Relief rose in my chest; I still had my handmade hair stick tucked in tightly.
Without wasting time, I pulled it free and approached the door. It was locked, of course. I knelt and worked the thin blade into the keyhole, ears straining for any sound outside: footsteps, voices, engines.
But I heard nothing.
“Don’t panic, Katya,” I whispered to myself. “Panic wastes energy. Panic gets you killed.”
The lock gave with a faint click. I stood, blade still in hand, and slowly cracked open the door.
Two men stood just outside.
Shit.
They froze. So did I.
Then I lunged.
