Chapter 5

Five

R uby

It takes me a minute to recall the events that led to my spiral. Admittedly, I'm distracted by the pillow of softness that I'm lying on, cocooned in the warmth of a?—

I sit bolt upright in the bed. It's not the bed I've come to know, in the cell I've come to think of as mine. These walls aren't dank concrete, and there are no bars. The wet chill that stings my lungs with every breath doesn't assault me now.

Fingers curling around thick, luxurious material, I sweep the room with my gaze. The familiarity tells me it's the room I'd known as my first prison. The pretty prison I destroyed before I'd been introduced to the cell that would become my home.

It's not as I recall leaving it, kicking and screaming in the angry arms of my captor. Then, the beautifully polished bedposts had been dented and chipped, the gauzy cream curtains that were tied to the posts in tatters on the floor. I'd smashed lamps, tossing them into the walls and watching through tear-blurred vision as prisms of glass rained onto the floor. The lovely antique desk had been flipped, and I'd managed to tear one artfully carved leg from its body, before I'd tried my hand at breaking the windows. They didn't break, and that had scared me like nothing else.

What kind of windows don't break?

That panic had fueled my attack on the doors. And that was when he'd barged in, looking like he might truly hurt me.

He'd taken me to my cell, where I'd remained until now.

How did I get here?

My mind feels fuzzy, my thoughts distant. My body is heavy in a way that makes me think I've been sleeping for a long time.

Slowly, I push back the covers and slide from the bed. My feet hit the floor cautiously, but as soon as they do, I get a flash of memory. Me in his office. A photo—photos—of my father.

The bodies…

A sharp sob splits the silence, and I cover it with my hand, hoping to conceal any others that dare to slip free. I need time to process this. I need time to?—

He'd been lying. The photos are photoshopped. There is no world in which my father, a man who had loved me and cherished me dearly, would ever harm another person. Another child. There is no world where my father, a man who had loved a woman like my mother, would do what the man in those photos had done.

I don't believe it. Can't believe it.

Mama wouldn't have loved a man like that, and she'd loved my father with her entire heart until her dying breath.

But why, then, does he want me?

Why go to the trouble of interrogating me if he'd altered the photos? What is his angle? And what does he expect from taking me?

Why me?

I can't seem to stop my tears as I try the door that I know leads into a hallway, into escape. The other two, I recall from my time before, lead to an ensuite and closet. And the fourth…

I don't know what the fourth door leads to. But like it was when I first stayed in this room, it's locked.

My tongue is fuzzy with sleep and sick, so I brush my teeth and splash my face with water. My belly roils as flashes of that terrible photo keep popping into my thoughts. But that's not my father. My father would never do the things my captor suggested. He just— he wouldn't .

Shoving the thoughts down deep, I change in the closet with my back against the door. As it had been when I'd first stayed in this room, it's been packed with clothes. Surprisingly, a lot of them are from my closet at home. Including the soaps and shampoo I'd used daily, my Kindle, and a few other personal items. They'd all been brought to this place.

It must look like I just packed up and left. An intentional parting from a life too overwrought with pain and loss. A fresh start I told no one about.

Is anyone even looking for me?

Or do they all just think that after Mama's death, I'd had a mental snap, packed up all my stuff and fled. But to where? Where could they possibly think I'd have gone?

Wearing fresh leggings and a slouchy brown sweater dress, I open the door and freeze.

Because he is standing there, hands in the pockets of his suit pants, expression the same confidently cocky expression he always wears.

"I hope you're feeling better, Ruby." His deep voice has ripples of fear and anxiety, and something else I'd much rather not think of surging through my body. I hate how handsome he is. He's a terrible person.

"Why?"

"We have a lot to talk about."

"I have nothing to say to you," I snap, but my bravado withers at the sharpness of his glare. I fold my arms over my chest, an act of defense and defiance. "You lie every time you open your mouth."

"I've never lied to you. Not once."

"You photoshopped those photos," I accuse hotly. "I know my father."

His expression doesn't change. Not at all. Saying nothing, he reaches out to close his hand around one of my wrists. He tugs my arm away from my body with a strength I have no hope to fight, and pulls me through the door.

He pulls me into the hall and down it, down a long set of wide stairs, and into the room I've come to know is his office.

My face flushes hot as my eyes land on the spot where I'd vomited the soup I'd eaten for dinner the night before. It's been cleaned, but I can't help but feel self-conscious, which is silly considering everything .

"Take a seat." I do as I'm told. I could argue, but the reality is that I'm going to find myself sitting anyway.

I watch as he leans into the desk directly in front of me, his hands in his pockets again as he crosses his ankles and peers down at me.

I'm struck by how large he is. Towering over me like this, he feels even more man than he usually feels, which is a lot.

"What do you want from me?" My voice is small, but I hold his dark gaze. I pray he can't see the flutter of my pulse where it tries to hide beneath my skin.

"You have two choices, Ruby, when it comes to how you live the remainder of your life."

The remainder of my life? Does he mean to kill me?

Fear flickers through me. I swallow the bitter swell of it down.

"I don't know what you're saying."

"You can go with your brother, or you can agree to be mine."

I flinch away from him. "I will never be yours. And I don't have a brother."

He sighs, like he's over this. But he's the master of this mess. If he's tired, all he has to do is let me go. I'll find my own way home. I'll catch a bus, whatever .

Twisting, he lifts a stack of papers I quickly realize are photos, from the desk. He hands me the stack. "Take a look through the photos." I scowl up at him, too afraid to glance down. Too afraid of what I might see. "It's nothing like last night." His voice is somehow gentler and rougher at the very same time. "These are the men your father sired, though I am certain there are more. They are your brothers. Only one remains alive today."

Curiosity gets the better of me, because my eyes drop. The first photo is of a younger man, maybe a few years older than me. He's smiling widely, his arm looped around a beautiful woman in a bikini who looks up at him as though he can make her every dream come true. He's standing on a— a yacht? His white shirt is unbuttoned and blowing in the sea breeze, showcasing a set of well-honed abs. There is nothing remarkable about him, other than he has an excellent bone structure, as had Daddy. On the top of the photo, where the white of the printer paper cuts the image off, is two words ‘ Lev' and ‘ Deceased' written in red ink.

I flip the photo. This one is a headshot. The man has a face that whispers of pain. I see it in his eyes. In the firm set of his wide mouth. He looks more like my father than the other man, but I'm still unconvinced. My eyes move to the top of the photo, and I read, ‘ Boris' and ‘ Deceased' in the same red ink.

I flip the photo to a man who, shockingly, looks the most like my father. They share the same stocky build, the same dark eyes, and the same wide forehead. Only, where my father's eyes had shone with adoration and kindness and life , this man's eyes are cold—chillingly, deadly cold. And so dark. Something unpleasant skitters up the length of my spine, because— could my captor be telling the truth? My eyes fly up to the red ink. ‘Ivan III' and ‘Deceased' stamp the top.

"His name was Ivan?" I breathe. I'm not sure if I'm waiting for a reply.

I get one. "Ivan was his first legitimate son, with his only legal wife, Rebeka."

"Legitimate?" My soul hurts.

Legal wife? Mama had been Daddy's wife.

My captor's face is a hard, emotionless mask. Does he even know that he's shredding the very foundation of my life? Does he know he's tearing my soul from the fabric it was weaved into on the day I was born? Does he know he's mincing my heart…?

"Ivan married his first wife, Rebeka, when he was twenty-two. The marriage was arranged, as are many Bratva marriages."

Wait, what? "Bratva?"

He nods, matter of fact. "The Bratva is a word for Russian Mafia."

"Russian—M-mafia." I feel cold and hot and confused and scared. But I giggle. My captor's brow arches. "My father—was in the m-mafia?"

"Bratva, or so he liked to claim. The Popov family has been trying to overthrow my own since Ivan Popov, the first." He smirks. It's deadly. "He's a thorn. Mostly, we've allowed the Popov family to play their games, but enough is enough. It won't be long before the entire line is wiped out."

My giggle turns into a full-on laugh. A hysterical laugh. "You can't think I'm buying this. My father was not a mafia man."

"He called himself the Pakhan , or boss."

I gape. "You're delusional."

He tips his head toward the photos between my hands. "There is another photo. Another son." His voice pitches lower. "Another brother."

Huffing, I flip the photo. In red ink at the top, I read, ‘ Artyom' and ‘ Alive' before my gaze slides down to the image of the man. He's standing outside what appears to be a restaurant. The shot is taken from just far enough away, he clearly hasn't clocked the photographer, but it's close enough that I can see his face clearly. This man may as well be my father's doppelganger. He's his spitting image.

My blood runs cold.

My breath catches. This Artyom is my brother.

How can this be?

"Artyom has taken over your father's business. Though, much to his displeasure, your father left a hefty share of his overseas fortune to you."

I blink, my gaze flickering from the photo to the man before me. "Is that why you took me? You want the money he left me?"

The mask of his laugh hardly conceals his incredulous disgust. "My family would piss on your father's money and burn it before we'd spend it."

"I don't understand." My frustration peaks, and I toss the photos back at him, standing. My knees tremble, but my voice raises. "What do you want from me?"

He doesn't look affected by my anger. In fact, I think I amuse him.

He's such a dink. A doorknob. A monster.

I hate him.

"Like I said, your family has been a thorn in my family's side for a very long time. The Volkovs don't do business the same way the Popovs do business. Your father tried to partner with my family, and we rejected him. He couldn't handle that rejection and started a war that saw the death of not only himself, but three of his sons. I've told you my family will wipe out the Popov line, and we will."

"So, you're going to kill me?" I'm breathing so fast now; my lungs feel the sting of every shallow gasp. My chest rises and falls fast, his dark eyes dropping to the swell, calling a flush of heat to spill beneath my cheeks.

I feel dizzy. Unsteady. I'm breathing, and yet I feel starved for air.

"No," he says softly. "I have every intention of keeping you, Ruby."