Page 47 of The Bratva's Forced Kidnapped Bride
“Do you know my name?’ I asked, trying not to sound like one of those idiotic celebrities when they got pulled over by cops. No answer, just glares. Baldy cracked his knuckles, but I refusedto blink. “You were probably told that I’m Masha Ovinko, that I’m married to Anatoli Ovinko.” I paused hopefully.
“We know who you are,” Baldy said.
“Okay, good, but do you also know I’m a Fokin? Aleks Fokin is my first cousin. He’ll give you anything you—”
“We know that too and don’t give a flying fuck,” Greasy said.
“I don’t think you understand how much he’d be willing to pay. Or maybe you want a more powerful position? Aleks is very generous to people who—”
This time, I was cut off by a hard slap to the face. It happened so fast and knocked my head so far back I didn’t even know which one did it. Baldy leaned close enough for me to smell that he was fond of cabbage.
“The only thing I want to hear out of you is answers to my questions.”
I nodded. Waited. Neither of them spoke for a long time. “Okay,” I said, finally, thinking they were waiting for me to acknowledge them. Nope. Another slap, this one drawing blood from the side of my lip.
“That wasn’t a question,” he said. “Try again.”
The silence lasted even longer this time, but I waited them out and Greasy finally nodded to Baldy, who took charge of the questions.
“Which one of you killed Enzo?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I winced, waiting for another slap, but none came.
“Try again. Who killed Enzo Santino?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
Not a slap, but a punch this time. How my neck didn’t snap off my head, I wasn’t sure, and the only thing keeping me from flying off the chair was Greasy shoving me back into it. I saw stars for at least a minute, and had to spit out a mouthful of blood.
“Why aren’t you crying, little girl?”
I glared up at him. He didn’t get to call me that. That was Anatoli’s. “I already told you I’m a Fokin,” I said, then clamped my sore lips together and refused to say another word.
They offered me the chance to pin the blame for Enzo’s death on Anatoli, asking me to tell how he did it, but there was no way I’d fall for their bullshit, because I was dead either way, and I’d never let anyone take the heat for something I did. Not even Anatoli. Especially not Anatoli.
He’d find me. He’d find me and save me, just as he had twice already. All I had to do was survive until then. That wasn’t going to be easy because they were not impressed with my silence. Blow after blow, I just tried not to cry out too much and focused on that moment when Anatoli would kick down the door and shoot them. Not dead, because I wanted a chance to get my own back for all the punches I was taking. But close enough.
Even as I kept getting smacked, it stunned me how much faith I had in my forced husband. All at once, it hit me even harder than Baldy’s fists that there was no way Anatoli didn’t care after the lengths he’d gone to for me. He never once tortured me or hurt me in any way, despite his empty threats. Not in any way I didn’t like, that was. He turned against his newfound family to try to keep me out of these brutes’ hands, and lost pretty much all his remaining men in the process.
Hell, if I were just punch drunk and wrong about my epiphany and he didn’t care, I was still safer with him than thesetwo. But I didn’t think I was wrong. I felt it somewhere deep down, a place I never knew existed within me. Anatoli cared about me. Maybe because I cared about him right back. Crazy as it was, it was real. It had to be real.
They finally stopped whaling on me when it was clear I’d die before I told them anything, and stormed out of my new prison, leaving me alone. It was only a tactic to make me stew in fear and pain, and it worked. Everything hurt. I could barely move my jaw, and blood oozed from my mouth, not really certain if it was coming from outside or in, but I leaned over so it wouldn’t choke me. They’d taken some shots at my ribs, so it was once again hard to breathe, and my vision was blurry, probably from my eyes starting to swell shut.
I slowly let myself fall off the chair and rolled to my side, curling up in a ball and letting my aching face thump against the hard plank floor. I was still alive; that was all that mattered, giving Anatoli more time to find me. He would, because he cared. I knew I was right.
I passed out from the pain, clinging to the hope that I was right.
Chapter 36 - Anatoli
It was the first time I was down on the new program I had created. It was amazing at finding information, and I had a hell of a lot to go on about the Collective in general and even Julio Santino in particular. Just not any locations that weren’t already public record, like the businesses they owned. It was obvious that they wouldn’t take Masha to any of those places, so I was at a dead end.
I had been working in that crowded restaurant for hours, blocking everything out except concentrating on what I saw in grainy camera views and what my program could provide. Now, as I looked up from my dark haze, the place burst into life again around me. The sharp barks of happy laughter from a large group of college kids a few tables over, the clink of silverware, the friendly singsong voice of my waitress, who was still on the clock. It all grated on me, pricked at my shredded nerves like a tenacious crow tugging worms from the ground. Like that crow, fear threatened to gobble me up.
Masha had been out of my sight and out of my protection for too damn long. I started a new cycle of recriminations—I should have gone with her and had Svet find a new car. We should have run down the original car that was following us and taken care of them. On and on, and none of it helped me find Masha, so I had to shut it down before I made a scene in this jovial, much too crowded place.
My phone buzzed, forgotten beside me as I pored over my laptop screen. I jolted, reaching for it. Who the hell was calling me when all my men were gone? It was an unknown number, maybe a ransom request. That seemed odd when the Collective were out for revenge. I answered it in a gruff tone.
“Anatoli Ovinko?” an unfamiliar voice asked. Not friendly, but not hostile, either. Not yet, anyway.
