Captured
My heart raced as our driver strangled the steering wheel and maneuvered the Range Rover through the busy streets of London. Raindrops beat down on the windshield and condensation fogged up the glass, turning the steady stream of commuters on the sidewalk into a blur. I inhaled a shallow breath and directed my gaze out the window to avoid the intensity of my abductor’s haunting blue eyes.
The man who kidnapped me from the airport interlaced his fingers with mine and caressed his thumb along the inside of my wrist. I cringed, sickened by his touch, but I kept still and submissive. Sweat trickled down my back as the consequences of my capture consumed my thoughts. My punishment for ticking off the Russian mob was about to be delivered by an overconfident, twenty-something-year-old genius who reigned as boss of London’s most powerful organized crime ring—Maksim Ovechkin.
I shot a sideways glance at him and found his gaze fixated on my heaving chest. As he stroked his perfectly trimmed beard, his thin lips curled into a devilish grin, and he seemed aroused by my fearful reaction to him. Based on first impressions, Maksim was a handsome businessman with stylishly coifed black hair, a welcoming smile, and an artsy array of tasteful tattoos trailing down his neck. But I knew the truth about the despicable man seated beside me, forcibly holding my hand, and getting some sort of twisted pleasure from my terror.
Maksim was a ruthless mobster engaged in a mafia war with my husband, Vladimir. He had stolen me away from my family in hopes of using me as bait to force him to surrender and was determined to end the war by executing my husband, leaving me a widow at the age of nineteen and our unborn child without a father.
“You look radiant, Carter, like a beautiful California girl.” Maksim picked up a strand of my sun-kissed blonde hair and wrapped it around his finger, twisting it into a loose curl. “Hiding away in the mountains has served you well, love.”
His accent held no trace of his Russian heritage, and his chipper British vernacular nauseated me. That monster’s sick fascination with me would undoubtedly lead him to inflict unspeakable horrors on my body before my family could rescue me.
“Vladimir was fortunate to have you. Pity he won’t be around to enjoy the benefits of your affection.”
My fear flipped over to rage when he referred to my husband as if he were already dead, but I kept my temper in check and resisted the urge to play into his trap. Maksim wanted me to do something stupid and make a mistake that would give him an excuse to punish me for my insubordination. Unnerved by the magnitude of his stare, I squirmed and nonchalantly rested my arm across my waist to conceal my baby bump. I was fifteen weeks along, and unless he saw me naked or in tight clothing, I would be able to hide my pregnancy. He could never learn my secret. If he knew Vladimir had an heir—the thought of Maksim harming our child sickened me.
I remained calm by taking in a series of slow, steady breaths and focused on my surroundings in search of a weapon or an opportunity to escape. The best chance I had to get away was while I was still in the Rover. There was a driver, a stone-faced enforcer riding shotgun, and Maksim and I occupied the back seat. He was a wisp of a man compared to the brutes up front, and unless he pulled out a gun and put a bullet in my brain, it was possible to outmuscle him and escape.
It wasn’t in Maksim’s best interest to kill his bargaining chip—me—and although my odds of escaping were slim to never-fucking-going-to-happen, I wouldn’t get another chance once they transported me to wherever it was they were going to hold me captive.
“You’ve healed from your injuries, Carter? Your cheeks are rosy, eyes bright. All better now?” Maksim asked.
Once the vehicle brakes at the next traffic light, I’ll dive for the door. If Maksim gets hold of me, I’ll crack him in the nose with my elbow. That will give me enough time to escape before the goon up front can reach over and grab me.
When I didn’t respond, Maksim squeezed my hand harder to get my attention. He locked his gaze on mine and stared deep into my eyes to assert his dominance. He was only a few years older than I was, and young to have worked his way up to the top of the criminal chain of command, but it wasn’t his brawn or ruthless nature that earned him the role of pakhan, boss of the Ovechkin Bratva. It was his intelligence and tech-savvy skills that made him an invaluable resource to the high-ranking members in Moscow.
Until the car stopped or slowed down, I had to be civil and not do anything to piss him off. “I’m fine. Good as new.”
Maksim’s gaze drifted back to my chest, and he undressed me with his eyes. I wanted to punch him in his smarmy face, but that would be a loser move while the car was in motion. I had to stay focused on my escape plan. If I didn’t find a way out of the SUV, my husband was a dead man. The vehicle rolled to a stop. I glanced up and saw the light was red, and we were behind a line of cars in traffic. The driver drummed his thick fingers on his leg, impatiently waiting for the light to turn.
This could be my only chance to escape.
I took a deep breath to fuel my body with oxygen before lunging for the door.
One…two…three…
I pulled away from Maksim and clutched the door handle.
Click, click, click…
I repeatedly squeezed the handle, praying it would magically swing open, but it was locked. Trapped inside with a gang of Russian mobsters, I lifted my shoulders and winced, waiting for Maksim to grab me by the hair and slam me down on the floor or twist my arms behind my back and restrain my wrists with cable ties. Maybe he didn’t fight his own battles and would leave my punishment to his enforcer to knock me upside the head a few times, beat me into submission, and teach me a lesson about what happened when you fucked with the pakhan.
When my brain caught up with my instinct to get the hell out of the vehicle, I reverted to damage control mode. I released the handle, turned back around in my seat, and peeked at Maksim, then at the driver, and then at the behemoth with a pink teardrop tattoo on his cheek riding shotgun. They were all glaring at me like snarling predators, salivating as if I had slathered my body with bacon grease and rung the Pavlovian dinner bell.
“You can’t open the door, sweet pea,” Maksim said. “The handle is disabled, and the rear windows are inhibited as well. No way out.” He captured my hand and interlaced his fingers with mine.
While Maksim handled my escape attempt lightly, the enforcer wouldn’t take his menacing dark eyes off me. Although I was sure I’d never seen him before, there was something familiar about him. His broad face, humongous body, and a death glare that had enough nuclear energy to melt the skin off my bones. The contemptuous regard for me plastered across his face reminded me of my father-in-law’s heart-stopping expression. His resemblance to Boris was uncanny. Much younger, though, probably in his mid-twenties, but the same freakishly large body, murderous dark brown eyes, and bulging veins on the side of his head. There was no way another human being could look dead-on to Boris unless they were related.
The SUV rolled up to a dodgy warehouse littered with patsani in tracksuits and a crew of eagle-eyed men guarding the perimeter. The driver lowered his window and a rush of warm air laced with tobacco and exhaust fumes wafted into the vehicle. He honked the horn and hollered at the suits at the entrance, and then a heavy garage door clambered open and the Rover pulled into the building. Once inside, a pack of hardened criminals covered in prison ink and battle scars surrounded us as if they could smell the blood of their enemy.
Maksim ushered me out of the vehicle and introduced me to his crew as Mrs. Vladimir Ivanov. Hearing him say my husband’s name brought a sickening feeling to my stomach. The goons cheered in victory and murmured catcalls and degrading remarks about my body in Russian. They glared at me with hungry eyes, eager for Maksim to serve up my panic-stricken body as a victory feast. Even though I knew very little about the inner workings of the Bratva and the details of the ongoing war between my family and the Ovechkins, I understood the implications of my capture—my family was on the verge of extinction.
The unsettling reality of what they were going to do to me evoked a level of terror that consumed me. Those filthy bastards were waiting for their orders from Maksim to drag me off somewhere, tear off my clothes, and gang rape me. Maksim wouldn’t have his men simply kill Vladimir, they would make him suffer in every conceivable way to send a message to others who challenged the Ovechkin Bratva.
Maksim barked out orders to his crew, prompting a sketchy guy with oily brown hair to swoop in and deliver a metal chair into the circle. Then the enforcer with the pink teardrop tat stole me away from Maksim and planted me on the seat. I tried to squirm away, but he stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders and glued me in place. His hot breath beat down on me as the thought of what they were going to do to me induced a rush of panic and a round of nausea. Terror set in that I might not live through this hopeless situation.
Maksim pulled out his phone and glanced down at me. “It’s in your best interest to behave, love. You don’t want to give Yuri a reason to correct you, right?”
The enforcer behind me, Yuri, tightened his grip on my shoulders to send the message he didn’t have a moral dilemma with punishing an innocent woman for the sins of her husband.
I hunched my shoulders and nodded obediently.
“Good girl, Carter. I’m going to contact your family now so we can make arrangements for the exchange. You have nothing to fear—as long as your family complies with my demands, of course.” Maksim tapped on his cell and aimed it at me. As the phone rang, my image appeared on the screen with Yuri’s tattooed hands perched on my shoulders. Then my father-in-law’s menacing face popped up on the phone, and I was reduced to the size of a postage stamp in the corner of the screen.
“Privet, Boris. I believe I have something that belongs to your pakhan,” Maksim said from behind the camera.
Boris had his black, wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail, revealing the knife tattoo he had inked on his neck that advertised he was a hit man for the Russian mob. “Tell the murderer to take his hands off my daughter-in-law.”
“Yuri, say hello to your papa. It’s been a while since the two of you have spoken, eh?”
The enforcer bent down and his face took over the screen. “I don’t have no papa.” Yuri grimaced with distaste as if he had bile on his tongue.
Holy shit. Yuri, as in Boris’s oldest biological son? Vladimir had only mentioned him once in the time I’d known him, and no one in the family, not even Boris, had ever uttered his name. I’d seen his picture on the wall in Vladimir’s bedroom in Cincinnati along with their younger brother Pasha. When Vladimir spoke of Yuri, he had implied they didn’t get along but failed to mention he’d flipped sides and gone to work for the enemy. I had no clue what had happened between them, but the veins on Boris’s neck were protruding and his lethal glare oozed with hostility.
Maksim tapped his finger on his lips, amused by Boris’s bravado. “You are in no position to give orders. Vladimir will surrender to me, and I will let her go. Furthermore, I will only negotiate the terms of her release with the pakhan.”
I cringed when Maksim uttered the word “surrender,” devastated by the consequences of my capture. The Bratva was a ruthless underground crime ring comprised of Russia’s toughest gangs with international territories that spanned the globe. These dreadful men were going to punish Vladimir for his crimes against Maksim. I dropped my gaze to the floor, unable to make eye contact with Boris.
“I have not spoken to Vladimir. I don’t know where he is. Your men were the last to see him.”
Boris is lying. He had told me his contacts had located Vladimir when my bodyguard Dmitri and I boarded the plane for London. I had a twinge of optimism knowing my family must have a plan in play.
“While Mrs. Ivanov is your guest, you will follow my rules without exception,” Boris said. “I will lay out the terms of Vladimir’s surrender, and you will speak only to me.”
“What are your conditions?” Maksim’s tone was casual and breezy as if they were deciding on whether to play cards or a game of chess.
Boris glared into the camera. “Number one: You will not lay a hand on her. No physical abuse, no rape, no assault on her body. Any violation of this rule kills the deal. You damage the goods, she’s yours to keep. I will not trade the pakhan for a broken-down woman.”
“And?” Maksim crossed his arms and cocked his head.
“Rule number two: You will not deprive her of her basic needs. She will have food and water, clean clothes, warm bed, bathroom, and shower.”
Maksim scoffed, as if insulted by Boris’s second demand.
“Rule number three: She will have her personal bodyguard with her at all times. Dmitri will see to it that rules one and two are followed and will be questioned before the exchange takes place. I must ensure Mrs. Ivanov has been treated with respect and still has her dignity.”
Maksim panned the crowd of thugs with his phone to capture the mood of his crew. “Do you hear that, mates? Boris Chuchin has a list of rules for us to follow.”
The men jeered and fired off curse words as they aimed their prison-tatted fingers at the screen. No one with an ounce of self-preservation would cross Boris. He was more terrifying than all those mudaks put together and would personally disembowel anyone who dared to lay a hand on me—especially now that I was carrying his grandchild. As strong and lethal as I knew my father-in-law to be, the fact they were disrespecting him meant they didn’t consider him a threat. Bad judgement on their part and definitely not a good sign for my family.
Maksim held up a hand to silence his pack. “Let’s try this again. Rule number one: There are no fucking rules.”
Maksim’s patsani cheered for their boss, supporting his fearless display of power.
“Rule number two: I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to her.” His jaw clenched and his face burned with rage. “Rule number three: I will only negotiate with the pakhan. Every minute I wait for his call is a minute his wife will suffer. I’m not fucking around, big papa. Mrs. Ivanov is a prisoner of war. There will be no food, no water, no mercy until her husband contacts me.” He lifted his gaze to his most formidable enforcer. “Yuri, let’s make Mrs. Ivanov very uncomfortable while we wait.”
Maksim aimed the camera in my face to capture my terror.
“I’m sorry, Boris. Tell Vladimir I love him.” My words caught in my throat and tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Be strong, Carter. No one likes a baby.” By the way Boris stressed the word ‘baby,’ I understood the underlying meaning of his message. He was warning me not to let them find out I was pregnant.
Maksim wrapped his hand around my neck and squeezed my throat. “If the pakhan fails to make contact before the sun goes down, you can fish her body out of the Thames.”