Deadly Oath

21. Sabrina

21

SAbrINA

W hen I wake up, my vision doesn’t come back right away, which might be the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced. For a moment, everything is just a blur of different colors, a cloudy mess that I can’t begin to make sense of. And the sensations that come with it are even worse, sending terror flooding through me.

It feels like I’m sitting on a hard chair. The air is chilly. My neck hurts, where they must have injected me with some kind of drug. And everything else hurts too—including my wrists, which I can feel are tied behind me somehow.

That terror jolts through me again, and I jerk at whatever is holding me, before my vision fully comes back. I feel the chair that I’m sitting in, start to tip to one side, and I gasp, going very still before I fall over.

The only thing that I can think of that seems worse than being tied to a chair in an unfamiliar place, is being tied to a chair while helpless and tipped over.

I try to breathe, sucking air in through my nose and letting it out through my mouth, trying to calm my racing heart. The air smells slightly musty, like water that’s been sitting too long, mixed with metal and sawdust, and I can’t begin to imagine where I am. My vision starts to clear as I sit there, breathing a little more shallowly after scenting my surroundings, and I swallow hard as I start to see where I’ve been taken.

It looks like a warehouse of some kind. Corrugated metal walls and roof, a dirt floor, piles of lumber off to one side that are probably related to the sawdust smell. It’s uncomfortably warm despite being November, probably because I’m surrounded by metal walls with the sun beating down on them, and I can feel sweat starting to trickle down the back of my neck. The only light coming in is through a skylight in the roof—there are no windows anywhere. It gives me the feeling of being kept in a box, and I fight off that thought the moment it springs into my head, resisting the urge to panic. I’ve never been claustrophobic, and the room I’m in is actually quite large, but it gives me the feeling of being hemmed in all the same.

I can hear footsteps in the distance, a heavy tread of boots that makes my stomach tighten and more sweat break out across my skin. A sense of panic starts to overwhelm me, and I try to fight it off, feeling more and more afraid with every passing moment.

The footsteps get closer, and I curl my fingers into my fists, wincing as I feel how numb my fingertips have started to get. Whoever tied me up did it too tightly, and I don’t want to think too hard about what damage that might do.

The footsteps stop just in front of the door, and then it creaks open, revealing a tall, burly man in jeans and a denim work shirt over a black t-shirt, sleeves rolled up. His face is tanned and craggy, with short dark hair and stubble, and I’d guess he's probably in his mid-forties. There’s an air to him that makes me think he’s in charge here—after a lifetime of being the pakhan’s daughter, I recognize the aura. It seems even more evident when three other men file in behind him, dressed similarly, but clearly looking to the first man for guidance.

I wish I knew more about how to handle a situation like this. Thinking back on it now, it seems like my father should have prepared me for what to do, what to say in the event of a kidnapping. But I suppose he just always assumed he could keep me safe .

My heart is pounding so hard that I can feel it in my throat, and I look up as the larger man approaches me, looming over me as his cold, vaguely interested eyes appraise me. “Well, well,” he says with a chuckle, giving me one more once-over before taking a step back. “Look who’s finally awake.”

“Finally?” I croak, the word followed by a cough as I realize how dry and cottony my mouth and throat feel. I don’t know if it’s from the drug they gave me, or just from a lack of water, or from the three drinks I had before I was snatched—and come to think of it, that might be why my head is pounding, too—but I feel painfully parched. “How long have I been here?” I manage, and the man chuckles again.

“You were out for a full day, sweetheart.” He rubs a hand over his stubble. “I had a word with my men about it. Thought they might’ve given you a little too much juice. But they said you were tyin’ one on before they ever grabbed you, so I guess we just didn’t think about how it might interact with a few bourbons at the Crow Bar.” The man grins. “Hope you had a good night.”

I narrow my eyes, a surge of anger giving me a modicum of courage. “I was having a great night,” I snap. “Until you fucking abducted me.”

The man’s grin abruptly fades, and I take note of it. It’s clear he doesn’t enjoy being mouthed off to. He steps closer, looming over me once more. “Watch your mouth, girl,” he growls. “You’re not in any position to speak that way to us.”

I swallow hard, feeling my gut churn with anxiety again, chills running down my spine. The realization of how close this is to something I only narrowly escaped before hits me, and guilt worms its way in along with the fear. Kian will find out about this before long. And I have no doubt he’ll come for me—if he can find me in time. I don’t know what these men have planned for me. But beyond that, he’s going to be furious. And rightfully so.

I should have listened . I bite my lip, trying not to hyperventilate as the man looks down at me, crowding me as my breath starts to come in short, quick bursts .

I yank against the ties holding my wrists. I can’t help it. As the fear builds, so does the need to be free, and I twist in the chair, looking up at him with my best attempt at defiance. But the man just chuckles, a little of his humor returning as he steps back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Easy there, sweetheart,” he says. “No need to hurt yourself. We don’t want you damaged.”

Not damaged? Why? There are plenty of terrible possibilities, beginning with what was planned for me back in Chicago, when my father’s rival intended to have me trafficked. The man’s words send a fresh chill through me. The implications are terrifying.

“Not damaged,” I repeat, my voice still a parched whisper. “What do you want with me?”

The man crosses his arms over his chest, regarding me. “We’ll get to that,” he says dispassionately. “But for the moment—” he motions to one of the other men, a wiry fellow with a scar across his cheek. “Get her some water. Can’t have her passing out from dehydration on us. We’ll have to have her in good shape to get what we want.”

There’s a muttering among the three men, and I can see from their expressions that they’re annoyed. I have a feeling they’d like to do things to me that would leave me in less than good shape , and the thought makes me feel so nauseous that I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep water down. But I know I have to try. I don’t want to pass out either—the last thing I want is to be insensible and helpless around these men.

One of the three lackeys goes to the door, sticking his head out. “Billy!” he shouts. “Bring a bottle of water. Quick, boss wants it!”

So the burly one is the boss. My instincts were correct, then, which is gratifying to know. I’m not completely helpless here—mentally, at least, if not physically. I glance around the room again as we wait for Billy, trying to pick out anything I can that might give me some idea as to where exactly I am. But it’s useless. There’s nothing distinctive about the warehouse, just the corrugated metal walls and piles of lumber, and I doubt it would help even if I did notice something. I barely know the town I live in. I certainly don’t know the surrounding area .

I hear a rasping chuckle, and my heart drops when I see the man who walks in the door holding a bottle of water—Billy. Out of everyone here, I recognize him—he’s the man who Kian threw in the jail cell. He’s walking strangely, with an odd gait, as if whatever Kian did to him has consequences, and I can see the gleeful anger burning in his eyes as he approaches me.

“I’m gonna give it to her,” he says, and the boss nods, a small smirk on his lips as Billy approaches me.

“Just don’t hurt her,” the boss warns. “You can be a little rough if you want. God knows her boyfriend fucked you up bad enough. But just remember what we’re doing here.”

What is that? I want to yell the question, but I’m too preoccupied with the way Billy stalks towards me, unscrewing the cap of the water bottle. His beady gaze is fixed on me, and the pleasure he’s going to take in whatever he has planned is obvious.

I struggle against the ties wrapped around my wrists, more out of instinct than any real belief that I’m going to get free, and Billy laughs. It’s a rough, delighted sound, and before I can even take another breath, his hand wraps in my hair, pulling hard enough to make me cry out in pain as he yanks my head back and forces the open mouth of the water bottle against my lips.

My first instinct is to tighten my mouth against it, but the water just drips over my lips, spilling onto my jeans and the floor. “Open up, girlie,” Billy sneers. “Or all this water is gonna go to waste, and you won’t get any more.”

That thought is enough to make me take the bottle between my lips. Billy thrusts it lewdly against my mouth, a gleam in his eyes that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing, tipping the bottle up so that it pours into my mouth so quickly that I have to swallow rapidly or choke.

“Swallow it all,” he rasps, his gaze fixed on mine, hot and angry. I know exactly what he’s going to be doing after this, when he’s alone again, and I shove the thought out of my mind before I throw the water back up. It’s bad enough as it is—it’s lukewarm and slightly metallic, but I’m so thirsty that I almost don’t care. And I don’t know when I’m going to get more.

It occurs to me too late that I also don’t know if they’re going to let me go pee. I can feel that I need to go as it is, which tells me I was out for a good bit of time. The water isn’t going to help.

But passing out from dehydration isn’t a good option either, so I gulp it down.

Billy finally pulls the bottle away when it’s empty, stepping back as I sputter. The boss looks towards the door, clearly impatient. “Get going,” he tells Billy flatly. “You had your fun. Now take off and do your job.”

I can tell that Billy is none too pleased with the orders—he clearly doesn’t think he’s had enough fun. The other men look restless, too, and I press my damp lips together, hoping against hope that Kian gets here before they can start to think about ways to circumvent their boss’s orders.

“How long have I been here?” I manage, looking directly at the boss.

He raises an eyebrow, rocking back on his heels as if considering whether or not to answer my question. “You were out for a little over a full day,” he says finally. “Whole night and the day after that.”

My stomach twists, as I try to estimate if that’s enough time for Kian to find me. If I have any hope of rescue at all. “You said you’d get to what you want with me,” I continue, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “You should know I’m not a virgin any longer. So if you’re hoping to traffic me, I won’t be worth nearly as much.”

I feel my face flush as I say it. It’s a gamble—the loss of my virginity doesn’t necessarily make me unsaleable, from what little I know of that dark part of the mafia world. It just means I’m unworthy of a high bidder, more likely to be sold to someone cruel, who wants to play terrible games with the women he buys instead of someone who would pamper me and treat me like a treasured possession. Neither is a good fate, in my opinion. But I also don’t think these men are running in the kinds of circles that the Bratva back in Chicago do— unless they’re go-betweens. If they’re not, then they might not be interested in selling a girl with limited value.

The boss starts to laugh at that, a deep, full-throated belly laugh that catches me off-guard, as if I’ve said something hilarious. He wipes at his eyes, shaking his head as he looks at me bemusedly.

“I don’t think the man we’re selling you back to is all that concerned with your virginity,” he says with a chuckle. “At least, I would hope not. Or maybe he is, in terms of knowing what his little girl’s been up to. But I don’t think it’ll matter when it comes to the terms of the sale.”

I blink at him, suddenly realizing what he’s getting at. “You’re going to sell me…back to my father?”

The boss nods. “We know exactly who you are, Sabrina Petrova. And who your father is. Pakhan of the Petrov Bratva, up in Chicago. And he can give us money. Lots of money, to know where his baby girl went, and get her back. We’ve fallen on some hard times, you see, and we just need to settle that. No harm done to you, just collecting a ransom and sending you back where you came from.”

“And if he doesn’t want to pay?” A dozen scenarios run through my head, each more frightening than the last. My father not believing that these men have me. Him believing, paying, and them killing me anyway, or selling me twice. Them sending me back to Chicago, only for Kariyev to steal me away again. Caldwell said that there was movement with that, something that would make me safer, but he didn’t say I could leave witness protection. That must mean that it’s not entirely safe.

The boss smiles, and it’s not a pleasant expression. “Then I suppose we’ll find out how many pieces your daddy is willing for us to send him from his daughter before he’ll pay. We’ll start with ones you can easily live without. A toe, maybe. A finger. A back tooth. And then we’ll move on from there. Eventually, he’ll pay—or you’ll die. The loss will be unfortunate, considering how much you’re worth, but I doubt your daddy will let it go for more than a piece or two. That should ease your mind,” he adds, grinning maliciously at me .

My stomach turns, threatening to send the water back up. “You wouldn’t dare,” I whisper, and the man laughs.

“Oh, we would. We already have.”

My heart pounds against my chest, sick fear flooding me. I feel like I might pass out after all, until a sudden, familiar voice echoes from the door, and I wonder if I’ve already gone unconscious, and I’m just dreaming.

It’s Kian’s voice, loud and sharp, followed by the click of guns being readied.

“If you wanna die clean, you won’t lay another finger on her.”