Captive by the Mafia

I felt each movement, heard each tap in my mind as if it were a clock ticking away, telling me our time was almost up before it had even truly begun.

When she stood, her dress hugged every curve of her lush body. I should have sent her away.

An intelligent man would.

But the masochist in me needed her to stay, or maybe it was just the irritating little muscle in the center of my chest, the one that modern medicine claims cannot truly feel emotion.

For the second time in my life, I felt emotion, felt her, right in the center of my chest, as if she'd been placed there, as if it was my job to keep her safe.

I drummed my fingertips on the door, still watching, waiting. She looked irritated and reached for her phone.

With a sigh, I walked over to my intercom and picked up the phone. “Send her away.”

Because he had no soul.

“Fine,” the smooth voice said in a low whisper, “but I work alone, leave me.”

Shoes clicked against the ground in rapid succession.

A door clicked shut.

And I was alone.

I lifted my chin in defiance. I wasn't going to give in to fear, even though it was a real tangible thing, licking across the back of my neck, causing hair to raise all the way down my arms.

I was a Petrov.

Maybe this was my father's way of punishing me for sneaking out last week. But I'd wanted freedom.

A freaking date.

Something. Anything to feel alive.

To escape the black and white life that had been built around me, the crystal castle that dared me to throw something against the wall just so I could feel the break.

A warm hand cupped my chin. “You're beautiful. I think that's the first thing we should establish.”

I refused to respond. He'd have to do better than that.

“Second,” his hand dropped. I hated that my face felt cold without it there. “This is going to hurt, but you won't remember anything afterward, not even the sound of my voice.

“Because, Maya, I'm very good at what I do. You could say I'm the best.”

He sounded young.

Almost as young as me but that would be impossible.

His voice was both smooth and gravelly as if when he spoke he had to fight to keep the words from sounding too pretty—maybe it was because what he did was ugly.

“I don't care,” I whispered. “Do your worst.”

“He said you'd be brave.”

“I'm Russian.” My answer to everything.

“No, actually.” He sighed. “You're not.”

“What?” The first slice of pain against my arm was like getting a really deep paper cut. I hissed out a breath and tried my best to glare through the blindfold.

“The first cut,” he said smoothly, “Is always the easiest because you don't expect it.

“But there's always a second.” A slow burn trickled down my wrist and then severe pain hit me again, this time on my other forearm. “Even the second isn't so horrible, because who only makes one cut?

“It's almost more expected than the first. But the third…” He made another slice this time on my open palm. “Is the worse because that's when you realize… it's only just begun.

“You can't break me,” I hissed. “And I've done nothing wrong.”

I woke up from the dream in a cold sweat. It was always the same. Someone slicing my arm, and a smooth voice taunting me. The message was always the same.

I shivered and looked at my clock.

It was time to call in a favor. I was tired of the nightmares, but more tired of putting my life on hold... I needed to finish my research if it was the last thing I did.

So, with dread, I picked up my cell and dialed my father's number.