Page 5 of Kidnapped By the Mafia Boss
I text my flatmate, but I know she won’t be any help. She works in a bar, and it’s a Friday freaking night. She won’t be sitting around, checking her phone for messages from me.
Maybe I can appeal to my stalker’s better nature? He follows my insta account, right? I open it up, and make a quick graphic.
Remember, everyone: it’s all fun and games until you say the safeword.
I’m going to have an avalanche of questions about what I mean, because this is hardly my typical content. I went viral for frisky micro stories about primal play. This is way too serious. Far too much reality, which is just about how I feel now.
Far tooreal.
I click to post, slide my phone back into my purse and lean against the vanity.
Will my stalker see it and understand? Howard’s better nature is probably non-existent, but I have to try.
There’s a knock at the door.
Silence.
Then another knock, more insistent this time.
“Who is it?” Howard calls suspiciously.
“Sir, there’s an enquiry about your bill.” The voice is male, rough, and low, with a hint of a Russian accent. But respectful.
Something about it drags at my memory.
“I’ve paid,” Howard snaps.
“Sir, I just need you to…”
An impatient sigh, the clink of the chain, a door swooshes, then a thump as a hard object hits the wall.
“Where is she, you blyat?” a man growls, and I’m confused. I’ve never heard anyone sound so furious. The rage boils out of this new man’s voice.
“Get off me, I’m not?—”
“WHERE IS SHE?”
Fear streaks down my spine, but muted somehow. I think I’m… My head is swimming.
I need to sit…
I grasp out at the vanity as my knees give way, but end up slumped on the floor.
“Jenna.” The man’s Russian accent is really strong, and I tremble. “Jenna, let me in.”
Even if I was capable, I don’t know if I’d open the door. This might be my home now. Permanent residence on these cold tiles. But as I try to respond, it’s a croak.
“Zayka, let me in!” Pure panic is laced through the demand.
I remember… Something about that voice. The image of the man who rescued the puppy is blurry at the edges of my mind.And fragments fit together into a man I’ve seen repeatedly over the last couple of months.
The door crashes open and a tall man fills the doorway. I peer at him from the floor, and he sways in my vision. He’s tall, dark-haired, broad shouldered, wearing a dark suit.
“Jenna,” he says, falling to his knees before my prone body. His eyes are wild, feral. Winter-sky-blue.
Andfamiliar.
The man I saw in the corner of the restaurant.
