Текст книги "Transparent"
Автор книги: Erin Noelle
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
I LIE AWAKE, BUT DARE not open my eyes. Bound together with an abrasive rope digging into the paper-thin flesh of my wrists, my arms are tethered above my head to the frame of the bed, though my feet and legs remain free. Lying curled in a fetal position, a musty, threadbare blanket covers my otherwise naked body as I count my breaths, wondering which will be my last. A chill slices through me as I think about what I’m about to endure, causing goosebumps to blanket every inch of my exposed skin and my teeth to chatter violently against each other. The visceral fear of my situation roots deep within my bones.
I have no idea where I am or how I got here. I haven’t the slightest clue what time it is or even what day it is. But the one thing I do know for sure is who is responsible for my being here.
That jealous, conniving bitch, Emerson. I should’ve known after hearing her talk with her friends at Madden’s party that she’d do anything possible to get her hands back on him. But once again, I was too busy falling head-over-heels in love with someone who seemed too good to be true, and I let my guard down, became blind to what was going on around me. I’d told myself never again, and less than a few months into my new life, I fell right back in.
I’m so fucking stupid.
The unexpected image of Emerson sitting cross-legged, waiting for me in the backseat of that town car, all high-and-mighty with her typical arrogant expression, will be forever etched in my mind. Perfectly styled, strawberry-blonde ringlets framing her equally flawless heart-shaped face. A wide-spread, malicious grin showing off her impeccably straight white teeth. Bright, emerald green eyes sparkling victoriously as my birth-given name rang out loud and clear between us in the confined space.
I should’ve known the façade of a life I was living wouldn’t last long. I knew better than to believe I’d ever be able to start over and not be discovered. The day I pulled the trigger on Ish, I sealed my fate. Moving to California and pretending to be someone I wasn’t only prolonged the inevitable.
The only way out of the mafia is death, and now, all I can hope is for it to be as quick as possible. But I know better than that, too. I’m sure by now my ex-father-in-law, Vincent Ricci, has developed his own special form of torture, a way of inflicting the most pain possible before I actually die, intended specifically for the woman who killed his son. Bastard or not, Ish was his blood, and Vincent won’t rest until mine is spilled.
Footsteps. A pair of thunderous feet echoing angrily outside the room, growing closer with each stride, startle me and cause me to lose count. Trembling with trepidation, I roll over onto my stomach and bury my face into the mattress, praying silently for mercy.
The visitor stomps inside and grunts, turning on the overhead light just before the door closes behind him.
“Wake up and uncover your face, girl,” the man orders in a rumbling baritone, his heavy accent unfamiliar—maybe Eastern European, but definitely not Italian. “We have to leave soon.”
Squeezing my eyelids shut as tightly as possible, I ignore his command. An infinite number of questions swirl in my mind as I desperately try to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. If I’m not with Vincent or the Italians, where am I? Who else would want me captured? And how is Emerson associated with all of this?
“Uncover your face,” he repeats gruffly as he approaches the bed. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
Again, I remain stubbornly still, blatantly refusing to roll over and look at him. My palms, underarms, and the backs of my knees all feel damp and clammy, as my nervous system switches into fight or flight mode. If it’s true what they say that you can smell fear, then right now, I reek of it.
An exasperated sigh whooshes from him as he grabs the sheet and insistently yanks it down to my hips, revealing my bare back and butt to him. Instinctively, I stiffen, waiting for the blow I know is coming . . . but never does.
The mattress dips with his weight as he sits on the bed next to me, bending down so his mouth is less than an inch from my ear. “Girl, I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ll do what’s necessary to make sure you cooperate. I’m going to ask you one more time to show me your face before I put my hands on you and force you to.”
His warm breath feathers over my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. Much like his accent, his scent is foreign, a pungent mixture of exotic spices and formidable danger. My heart bangs frantically against my sternum as the reality of the situation seeps in. I know without a shadow of a doubt I’m going to die, so I decide to stay obstinate and make him work for it.
“Fuck you,” I croak into the sheet, grimacing at the painful rawness of my throat.
“Unbelievable,” he snarls, adding a word I can’t understand as he pushes off the headboard and returns to standing. He paces silently for a few moments, but stays close to the bed, his presence looming as I continue to conceal my face.
“I know you do not know me, but right now, you need to realize I’m the best friend you have.” The words are clipped with forced control as he restrains himself from reacting to my insubordinate behavior. “Show some respect and do what you are told. I mean you no harm, but I will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary to ensure that you cooperate,” he repeats.
He pauses briefly as something soft lands on the bed, brushing against my ribcage. “I’ve brought you some clothes to change into. I trust when I free you that you won’t do anything stupid to force me to tie you again. Now, I’m going to ask you for the last time to turn your head and look at me.”
The foreigner’s voice overflows with increasing irritation, and innately I know he’s not one to make idle threats. Ever so slowly, I twist my neck to the side and rest my cheek on the mattress. My dry, scratchy eyes are open, but I still refuse to meet his eyes as I stare at the blank white wall behind him. I’m hanging on to the tiny bit of courage and dignity I have left, refusing to submit completely.
Fully expecting him to yank me by the hair or to backhand me like Ish used to whenever I didn’t agree with something he said, I’m surprised when a burly chuckle escapes him, and without thinking, my inquisitive gaze cuts upward to his.
I gasp with surprise then quickly look away. Oh, shit. He’s huge. And scary.
“My reports said you were timid and docile, but I can see my investigators were fooled. Sassy and stubborn seem a bit more fitting.” He smirks while untying the knots of my restraints. “It’s a good thing I love a challenge.”
Determined not to let the warm smile tugging at the edges of his mouth lull me into thinking this man is a nice guy for any reason, I lower my freed arms to my sides, grimacing at the soreness in my biceps and shoulders from being suspended. Pushing myself up to sitting, I inspect the enflamed friction burns around my wrists and am reminded of my own self-destructive behaviors.
My life is a fucking mess. Good thing it probably won’t last much longer.
“Who are you, and what do you want from me?” I snap angrily as I glower up at him. “Just fucking kill me already and get this over with.”
“My name is Raze, and I want you to put some clothes on.” His piercing, icy blue gaze falls to my bare breasts momentarily before he lifts it back up to mine again. “I have no plans on killing you, girl, but if you don’t get dressed soon, I’m not going to be responsible for other things I may do with you.”
I snatch the folded, oversized white t-shirt from the bed where he tossed it minutes ago and quickly slip it over my head. Glancing down, he raises his eyebrows at the white lacy panties, which I recognize as the ones I had on when I was abducted, still atop the covers. Then, without me asking him to, he slowly turns around and steps a few feet away to give me a bit of privacy.
As he’s facing away from me, I contemplate jumping on his back, attacking him, and making an attempt to escape, but not knowing where in the world I am or how many others like him are waiting outside the door, I wisely stick to putting the panties on. If I have any chance of a getaway whatsoever, I need to make smart, well thought out decisions, not hasty, impetuous ones. Those will only get me killed . . . faster.
Even though I now have enough clothing on to cover me, I keep the blanket pulled up over my legs and chest as I sit cross-legged on the mattress. Once he senses I’m settled, he pivots around on his heel and locks his penetrating stare on me, the amused expression all but erased from his face.
Up until now, I’ve been too scared out of my mind to take a really good look at him other than his arresting eyes, and not that I’m relaxed or optimistic about the situation now, but I figure he didn’t bother with having me get dressed just to kill me in the next several minutes. So as he moves back toward the bed, I do a quick assessment of my captor, in the infinitesimal chance I may one day escape and need to describe him to authorities.
His straight, dirty blond hair is cut short in the back while the top is long and unruly, though it doesn’t strike me as the fresh-out-of-bed look. No, he’s just a man who doesn’t give a fuck and has more important stuff to do than waste time styling his hair. An angry, jagged scar starting right below his left brow zigzags down to his cheekbone, where it bleeds into the several-day-old stubble covering his sharp, angular jaw. He’s wearing a solid black long-sleeved Henley shirt, which I find odd, considering it’s summer in Southern California, paired with black pants that are tucked into heavy-duty, black military boots, all of it snugly fitting over his powerfully built body. He looks like an assassin. Striking . . . dangerous . . . oddly beautiful. Like an angel of death.
“I see your mind working on overdrive, girl, but you need to be patient. Everything will be revealed to you in due time,” he says as he leans against the bedframe, keeping a fair amount of distance between us.
“Where’s Emerson? What do you want with me?” I blurt out, ignoring his previous comments.
“I have no idea who Emerson is, and right now, I want you to shut up,” he retorts, shaking his head. He mumbles something else I can’t understand before adding, “Do you Americans ever just listen?”
“What language are you speaking? Who are you? Where am I?”
He holds his hand up in the air as he pinches his brows together. “Shut up!” he barks. “If you would shut the fuck up for one goddamn minute and let me talk, I’ll tell you what you need to know.”
Deciding it’s in my best interest to keep my mouth closed at this point, I press my lips into a straight line and tip my head toward him, indicating I’m finished with my outbursts. For now, at least.
“As I already told you, my name is Raze, and we are inside one of the many houses owned by my grandfather, Anatoli Kabinov, which is who’s currently waiting downstairs to see you.” Exhaling a deep breath, he pauses briefly, but keeps his intense stare locked on me. “Get ready, girl. You’re about to become the most important pawn in the biggest mafia war this country has ever seen.”
ALL MY SENSES ARE ON full alert as I follow Raze from the bedroom I’ve been held in, out to what seems like an ordinary house—well, what I assume is ordinary for Russian mafia warlords.
The room is at the end of a long hallway, the other doors are all closed as we pass by to a circular marble staircase that leads down to a grandiose foyer. The highest ceilings I’ve ever seen are framed with elaborate crown moldings and adorned with lavish chandeliers, while the floors are made up of what I assume to be rare, expensive tiles, meticulously laid out in intricate designs and color patterns. It looks more like a museum than a house.
The walls are free of personal touches, no family photos or any other indicator of who lives there. There isn’t any furniture in the entryway, where I stand behind Raze waiting for him to instruct me on what to do next, I can see a handful of men gathered around a massive oak dining table through the closed French doors on our left. I don’t allow my gaze to linger, afraid I’ll make eye contact with one of them.
“When they open the doors, I will escort you inside,” Raze explains without looking back. “Stay close to me, and they will not hurt you. Do not speak unless Pakhan asks you a direct question. Do not react to what others say to you. Be honest about what you know, girl, or he will find out. And my grandfather does not treat liars kindly.”
I nod my understanding even though he can’t see me, but somehow he senses it.
“Good.” He glances down at his watch then over at the men. “It should only be a few more minutes. After this, you’ll be allowed to eat dinner and shower.”
Again, I nod, but say nothing. My brain is set on overdrive, furiously processing the limited amount of information I have about the situation. The moment Raze said the last name Kabinov, I immediately made the connection to the man Vincent had ordered Ish to kill the night I was hiding in my closet—the hit that triggered the bloody turf war that began in Chicago a couple of years ago.
But if the Kabinovs hate the Riccis, what do they want with me? Are they going to sell me to the Italians? What did Raze mean by being a pawn? And how the hell does Emerson fit into all of this? Is Madden involved? Does he know what happened to me? Is he worried?
One question spurs another, and then another, until the massiveness of the unknown begins to suffocate me. I desperately want to grab my throat, to claw at the murky vines wrapping around my neck, threatening to cut off my air supply. My teeth sink into the flesh inside my cheek, purposely drawing blood to drink, forcing me to swallow. Raze becomes a blurry black figure in front of me, and just before the darkness takes hold, a door swings open, and a deep booming voice breaks through my haze, snapping me out of my panic attack.
“Raze,” the man barks, sneering in my direction before he adds something that sounds like, “Sookah. Siy-chas.”
Tipping his chin in my direction with an intense expression full of warning, Raze strides toward the gathering without saying a word. I follow closely, ignoring the muffled comments as we enter the room, most of which I don’t understand anyway. Keeping my focus fixed directly in front of me, on the center of his back, I nearly slam straight into him when he stops abruptly. Thankfully, I’m able to keep my balance without having to grab ahold of him, and I recover quickly.
My near-fall forces me to look around at my surroundings, which is when I realize we’re standing next to a chair—or what could better be referred to as a throne—at the head of the table. A man, who looks exactly like a seventy-year-old version of Raze, sits erect on the gold-plated seat and sizes me up, power and authority oozing from his pores.
“Mizz Oliveira—” be begins to address me, but I quickly cut him off.
“Blake,” I correct him. “My name is Blake Martin.” I lift my chin defiantly and hold his stare, disregarding the collective gasp heard around the room.
As Raze’s body tenses next to me, I prepare to be punished for my disrespectful behavior. The elder Russian’s face is stone-like while he studies me for several moments. Long, deafeningly silent moments. Then, probably as much to my surprise as the others in the room, the corners of his mouth begin to curl upward, and before I know it, he’s shaking with uncontainable laughter.
Everyone—myself and Raze included—remain motionless as we wait for the man to catch his breath . . . everyone except for the guy guarding the room who called for us to enter moments ago. A barely-audible chuckle escapes him, and immediately, the man who I assume to be Anatoli Kabinov stops laughing and cuts his frosty gaze in the direction of the door.
“Is something funny, Sergei?” I presume he’s using English for my behalf. He wants me to know what is happening. “Do you find amusement in your Pakhan being interrupted? Is there something funny about that?”
The guard straightens his posture and wipes any expression from his face. “No, Pakhan. Mne zhal.”
“I’m sorry too,” he replies impassively, lifting his eyebrows at another gentleman seated at the table. A chair grates across the floor as the man stands up, walks over to the guard, and slits his throat with a knife hidden in his belt. Then, with no reaction from anyone in the room, he returns to his seat and nods once.
Breathing is a struggle as I try my best not to freak out. No one else pays any attention to the lifeless body lying in a pool of blood only feet from the rest of us, but my entire body shivers with terror. I stare down at the contrast of my tiny bare feet next to Raze’s giant combat boots, a stark representation of how weak and defenseless I am around these people. People who place little value on the lives of others. People just like Ish Oliveira and Vincent Ricci.
“Yes, Mizz Martin,” Anatoli corrects himself, acting as if the conversation had not just been put on hold for a quick homicide. “I apologize for any disrespect. I can understand the desire to rid yourself of association with people such as your late husband.”
Lifting my terrified gaze to his, I whisper, “Yes, thank you.”
“Of course, you are a guest in my home,” he boasts, a hint of cynicism lacing his words. “And I must admit, though I’ve wined and dined with royalty from all over the world, you’re the first American Princess I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. I apologize for not having better prepared for your stay, but your arrival was a bit short notice.”
I suck in a sharp breath at his use of Ish’s nickname for me—the name that was splattered across newspaper headlines around the world for weeks after his murder—but refrain from speaking out. The Russian is playing a mind game with me, and I refuse to allow him to win that easily.
“Sir, I am sure you are well aware I am no princess,” I respond with a forced polite smile, “and if you’ll tell me why I’m here, I’ll do my best to help, and then be on my way.”
He contemplates my words for a minute as he steeples his hands in front of his face, tapping the tips of his index fingers against his pursed lips. “Do you know who I am, Mizz Martin?”
I nod. “Yes, sir. You are Anatoli Kabinov, the highest-ranking boss of Russian organized crime in the States.”
“How do you know who I am?” he presses. “And don’t tell me because my grandson told you either. I want to know what you know.”
Sensing my hesitation, Raze shoots threatening daggers in my direction, reminding me of his earlier warning. I swallow hard, the metallic taste of blood still lingering on my tongue, before I open my mouth and disclose everything I know.
“One evening a couple of years ago, I overheard my former father-in-law and ex-husband discussing you and your family’s activities in the Chicago area.” My voice is shaky, the words rushed. “Vincent ordered Ish to take two of his men to a warehouse, where they were to carry out a hit on your grandson, Alexei Kabinov, and everyone who was with him.”
Rage flares in Anatoli’s eyes as the entire room bursts into disorder, everyone shouting and talking at once . . . everyone except Raze. He is a frozen statue, his face murderous. It’s not until now I realize if Anatoli is his grandfather also, then Alexei must’ve been either his brother or cousin.
Having had my own brother and mother murdered by Vincent, an unfathomable urge to reach out and grab his hand, a desire to soothe him, flickers inside me, but before I can act on the reckless impulse, Anatoli leaps to his feet, silencing the room.
“You have already done us the favor of killing the man who held the blade, and for that, we are grateful. But now, you must finish the job. If you want to live out your days as Blake Martin, you will also take the man’s life who gave the orders to execute my grandson and other family members.” He stares at me keenly with a villainous smile spread across his face, flashing his perfect white teeth. “Kill Vincent Ricci, or you will join your cunt of an ex-husband in the ground, Princess.”
