Chapter Fifteen - Fiona

Dumb, dumb, dumb. That's what all of these Bratva fools are. Angrily, I pace back and forth, staring around the cold, gilded cage I've been barely existing in for the last day. I'm locked up in Ruslan's mausoleum of a mansion, somewhere around the outskirts of Chicago with no visible way out in sight. From the looks of it, the place appears to be a guest suite. There's only one large bay window to my right, and the suite itself has all the trimmings of a billionaire. A huge flat screen TV is built into the wall, and there's enough channels on it for a person never to leave the large black couch parked in the middle of the room. Large porcelain vases with artificial flowers fill its corners, but it's almost as if the place they've put me in is an unused room.

I have to get the fuck out of here!

Pacing, I keep trying to work out a plan of how to escape, but the panic bottled up inside me, prevents me from thinking straight. I keep moving as if my hopeless steps are going to spark some grand plan, but all I'm really doing is wasting valuable energy. And I'm tired. Oh, so tired . Yet I pace from the living room to the bedroom where a king-size bed awaits with lush bedding. There's a huge bathroom too, but even with all of this, the place feels as cold and uninviting as Ruslan's heart.

Shuddering as a painful memory strikes, the Bratva men's forest capture still weighing heavily on my mind and thin nerves.

"Ah, Luca's daughter. The only reason you're not dead is because Ruslan wants to keep you alive, but if I had my way, I would have drowned and dumped you in the Chicago River by now," one of his men declared, handling me roughly, along with another man.

"You're not going to kill me," I'd told him bravely, but I didn't know that. I could only rely on the fact that I have leverage. I've got important cargo growing in my belly, and Ruslan's seed is precious, right along with the fact the information I'm withholding is invaluable. At least it must be if so many Mafia families are fighting and trying to steal it.

Even as their wretched fingers dug into the flesh of my arms in order to keep hold of me, I didn't give up hope of escaping. As soon we reached the road, with my throat dry, I managed to tug my arm free from one of the complacent men, who'd made the unfortunate mistake of loosening his grip on my bicep. My hand shot up immediately as I flagged down an upcoming truck, wrangling my other arm free.

Yes! I've outsmarted them. That's what I reasoned in a microsecond of delusion. It didn't matter that Ruslan backed off, handing me over to his men once I told him he was the father of a baby conceived from a one-night stand. I couldn't be sure what his plans were once his men got hold of me, so in my head, if I made one last attempt to escape, then I would give it all I had. Immediately one of the men thwarted my silly plan, shoving a hard piece of cold metal into the small of my back, the other one wrenching the van door open, only to give me a hard boost into the van.

"Get in the fucking van, before I shoot you in the back," one of the captors barked, while the other one tied my hands with a dirty thick rope to the side panel of the van. Gritty tears of frustration trickled down my face as I shook my head violently, trying to wrench my hands free with no luck.

" You're not getting the files! " I yelled to no reply. The men entered the front talking amongst themselves in Russian as the van screeched, the sheer force of acceleration, jerking my head around on a swivel. My head smacked violently against the van panel, eliciting a groan to escape as the motion sickness kicked in.

"We are getting those files," one of the captors from the passenger side declared, staring back at me through the gap in the seats. "One way or another. Ruslan's got sweet, sweet plans for you," the man taunted with an ugly sneer. His face might not have been familiar, but his voice was.

Where had I seen him before? If only I could remember.

The man who'd done most of the talking, chuckled darkly from the driver seat, his beady eyes summoning mine in the mirror. "Careful back there, Fiona Anderson, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself." He thumped the man beside him with a wink. "Eh?"

"Exactly. She doesn't have his child," one of them scoffed to the pale guy, whose arms were intensely covered in even more tattoos than Ruslan.

"She may well be bluffing, and he's going to kill her anyway when he finds out, she's a fucking liar," the main guy teased with a deceptive smile, baring his teeth like a wolf in the mirror.

I licked my lips, scowling back at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing how shit-scared I was. As the van swayed, and exhaustion set in my bones, I reluctantly surrendered, thinking the best thing to do was to survive, gather my strength and bide my time.

"I'm not lying about anything," I eventually replied wearily, starting to fade.

Think of your baby. You can't keep arguing with them. Sleep's calling. I didn't bother figuring out where we were driving to. It would prove pointless anyway, because both sides of the back panels were covered, and the men had slid a panel of division between us. I lay in complete darkness and suffocating humidity in the back of some musty, random van. It wasn't until what felt like hours later with all my muscles aching that I realized we'd arrived at our destination.

Fuck. What are they going to do to me? How am I going to get out of this? The van door slid open forcibly, my eyes aching from the contrast of intense flooding daylight streaming in. Peeling my tongue down from the roof of my mouth, I needed water— desperately.

One of the men hauled me out, his fingers digging deep into the side of my arm.

"Welcome, Fiona. Let's see how long you last," the main guy chuckled, teasing me.

Stupid. You're fucking stupid. You didn't bother to put a blindfold on me. Where's Ruslan? Scattered thoughts occupied my brain as I attempted a quick scan of my location. All I knew was that we'd entered a sprawling estate, with multiple floors, but when I looked at the house, all I experienced were shivers rolling down my spine. I took note of the cameras lodged in every corner of the estate's eaves, and the sound of the gardener on his motorized lawnmower. I wondered if he understood I'd just been kidnapped by Ruslan.

Maybe I can get his attention, and he'll help me get out of this place. A small window of hope gave me the false sense of an escape plan, but I couldn't let my captors know. The sky was clouded over to the perfect gloomy shade of gray, the threat of rain—imminent, but the light still shining outside. I tried to absorb as much of my surroundings as possible, but didn't get far as Ruslan stepped out from his fancy sports car with a giant grin on his face.

"Good afternoon, Fiona. I trust you enjoyed the ride." He smirked, his jaw ticking while butterflies skittered around in my stomach as his men manhandled me forward towards the estate entry. It took a second to untangle the stream of words riding on the tip of my tongue, but eventually, I shook them loose.

" Let me go, you bastard! " I croaked out, my hair falling in my face.

Ruslan proceeded to park himself against his luxury vehicle with his arms and legs crossed, a smug expression camped on the mouth that had once brought me immense pleasure. His designer sunglasses shielded his soulless eyes, and for that I was grateful.

It was almost as if kidnapping me was similar to taking a nonchalant stroll in the park for the day. He shook his head back and forth.

"Nope. You're my prized possession now," he retorted, his teeth gleaming. "My dearest Fiona, I have to make sure you're telling the truth." He nodded to his men. "Take her to the spare guest suite. He paused for a second, raising his sunglasses to glare directly at me. "And get her some water." He winked, leading the way to entering the house. I frowned at the hint of kindness displayed from the brute.

Okay, maybe he won't kill me, I reasoned, dipping into delusion. This time, the Bratva men didn't slip, grasping my arms tightly and dragging me over the cold marble tiles to my guest suite, and locking me in.

"Night, night, Fiona. Sleep tight," one of Ruslan's main men uttered with a dirty wink. "Don't bother trying to escape. There are guards outside of your room."

From one of the bay windows, I noticed the huge fountain parked outside in the pristine green gardens. With my heart pounding and my hands on the window, I watched the gardener mowing large strips of grass, doing his job. I opened the window, vying to get his attention, flagging him down with urgent waves, but it was useless. He showed me through his actions that he was loyal to the Bratva payroll. His eyes met mine briefly, but he simply went back to his job as if he hadn't seen me. I cried, sprawled out on the bed, worried about my fate. What's worse is I had access to the time— the wall clock chiming loudly, almost like a forced countdown to the end of my life.

At 5:00 p.m. is when I glimpse the next possibility of escape. A loud rap of knuckles at the door sits me upright, my stomach muscles bundled together in a tight mass of knots.

Shit. Is it Ruslan? But as the door swings open, I see it's not Ruslan, but one of his housekeeping staff with dinner.

This is my chance. I take note of the narrow pathway past her trolley into the open corridor, but I can't get past the getaway thought because two bulky Bratva men are pacing in front of the door, guarding it with pistols.

I'm fucking trapped. Shit.

"Dinner, ma'am," the timid woman greets as I blink rapidly. As far as my girlfriends and I are concerned, if you blink twice, that's enough of a signal to let bystanders know you're in trouble. Unfortunately, this woman misses the universal "help" signal. Nothing comes of me winking except for sore eyes, and a confused expression lining the older woman's face.

"Thank you," I reply humbly, taking a second to squeeze her pinkie finger, pleading in need, silently. Her eyes finally link with mine as I mouth the word help as she wheels the food further inside the suite.

Fear has a grip on her too, because her eyes widen as she discreetly tilts her head to the bulky guards parked right outside the door. "No," she mouths back, covering her back and swiftly unlinking my finger from hers. "Enjoy your food tonight, ma'am. The chef tells me the fish is nice," she says cordially, speaking louder than necessary, making it implicitly clear she's not willing to assist me.

Fuck. I'm never getting out of here. Somebody—anybody… Help.

"Thanks," I mumble pitifully as she quickly backs her trolley out of the room. The guards must sense something wrong as one of them steps inside the room, watching me like a hawk.

"Are you good?" he asks, his tone thick with a Russian accent.

"No," I groan. "I'm not so good. My stomach hurts, and I think the toilet here might be blocked. I need to go to another one," I pitch, hoping the guard is stupid enough to buy my fake story.

He sneers, tapping the side of his hip where his gun sits comfortably in its holster. "No. The toilet works fine. Pee in the shower," he remarks coldly, the guard's combat boots crunching over the cold marble as he moves back to his post back outside the door. "Don't call out again unless it's an emergency, otherwise you're going to be sorry," he warns for good measure.

Bad move, and talk about being doomed. Maybe it's the baby brain or sheer panic stopping me from coming up with a good plan, and even if I am cloaked in fear, the rumble in my stomach tells me, I still have to eat. For my baby's sake. I peek under the silver cloches, excepting slop, but I'm surprised by the high quality of food served to me.

Looks can be deceiving…. Picking up the fork, suspicion makes me hesitate as I stall, listen closely to the men outside, seeking clues, but they're speaking in Russian, the language barrier fucking me up.

What if he's poisoning me for payback purposes? I plop back down to the dining table, my logical reasoning coming online.

You're carrying his baby. He's not going to poison you.

Spiraling thoughts rock me, but still I take the gamble, devouring the tender chicken breast drenched in white sauce in front of me, along with the creamy mashed potatoes and asparagus . God. I hate that food from the enemy tastes so damn good, but the pangs of hunger can't be staved off as I finish my food fast, justifying it by keeping my baby alive.

I throw myself back into the horrors of my present, rubbing my cold arms, staring down at the faint purple and blue bruises from rough handling covering my upper arms.

Shaking off the bad memories, I resolve to sit cross-legged on the cold, tile floor, biting my tongue to keep from crying. Running my fingers through my messed-up hair, I feel around for sore spots or any lumps unaccounted for. There are none—other than a broken spirit.

My teeth grind and clang together as I tire myself out, laying down on the marble tile for the next couple of hours.

When will this end? He can't keep me here like this! I let my chest rise and fall as I think about my unquenchable need for revenge on Ruslan for his keeping me locked up.

Will anybody find me in time? Surely my mother and my friends are searching for me already, right? Are the Bratva gonna kill me?

My chest grows tighter as an imaginary hand grips my throat. I can't breathe. I get up again pacing around the room, the realization hitting that there's no escape from this sterile hell house.

A faint knock at the door minutes later, ends my mental prison, and I stalk towards it—every time, hoping it's Ruslan, so I can sort out a way to reason with him, but no, it's a woman with a severe blonde hairstyle, and high cheekbones.

"Ms. Anderson," she greets cordially, promptly stepping inside the door. "My name's Anastasia, and I've come to collect a sample of your blood. I'll need to take rounds of it for testing purposes."

"What's this about?" I snap, bewildered for a moment, until I catch on to Ruslan's plan. The baby. This is about the baby.

The woman spares no reaction to my outburst, directing me to the closest chair instead, unveiling a blood pressure cuff, and performing her duties clinically. Her icy blue eyes cut into mine when she finally answers.

"It's about taking a blood sample for various purposes. Ruslan has requested this. Remain still as I retrieve the samples." I'm tempted to snatch the needle out of her hand and stab her with it, but I sit still, not wanting to rock the boat . Yet.

"Okay." It only a few minutes for her to retrieve the sample, and then I'm back to square one, pacing around the large space, flicking the TV on and off, trying to work out what Ruslan's going to do to me.

Nothing works, and I find myself curling up on the large couch, falling sleep. I don't know how long I've been asleep on the couch, but when I rise—my eyes are fuzzy as I stare at the wall clock, noting the time. Midnight.

It's two days on and midnight. Still Ruslan hasn't come to see me or tell me my fate, but just as new thoughts of slowly fading away in this place plague me, the door clicks open.

Clawing at the couch, my heartrate shoots through the roof as the light flicks on, a large, bearded man standing in its doorway. It's Ruslan and he's holding papers in his hand, and a satisfied smirk on his generous mouth.

Licking my dry lips, I adjust to the light, my arms shaky as I sit upright. It's the pregnancy confirmation reports. It can be nothing else he has in his hands.

He wanted to prove he was the father. Now he knows.

"Fiona Anderson," he drawls, his heady cologne swirling around the room and taking up space.

"Ruslan-I-don't-know-your-last-name," I retort smartly, not wanting him to know how frightened I truly am.

Ruslan laughs, striding across the room to sit beside me on the couch. His encroachment on my space instantly makes my body lock up, but at the same time there's a magnetic pull towards the man because he looks sexier than ever. Confused by my reaction, I frown, building a small pocket of space between us, but Ruslan fills it, putting his large hand in the middle of us, his fingers covering mine.

Like an electric shock, energy shoots through my body, leaving Ruslan smug over his obvious effect on me. God, I'm so inexperienced in this dirty game of seduction, but I can't let him know. "You'll become very familiar with my last name soon enough." His eyebrow peaks as he side-eyes me.

"Why's that?"

Ruslan pauses for a second, his eyes boring into mine. "Because you're about to carry it," he whispers, leaving me in shock, my mouth dropping open.

"What?"

"You heard me. The Omerta Files are linked to you, so I might as well go ahead and marry you."

"Marriage or not, you won't find those files," I tell him. "I made a vow to my dying father that I would protect those files. I won't reveal those secrets to you," I declare, revealing my father's deathbed wish, even though I doubt the existence of the files, because all that's in the bottom of the box is a picture.

"Hmm," Ruslan replies, stroking his beard. "I admire your loyalty, and that's an even better reason for me to marry you."

"Oh, not because I have the Omerta files," I cut back at him, finding my lost confidence. He chuckles as I do my best not to crumple because I'm sitting next to him. "It was a shitty joke," I spit back as Ruslan's broad shoulders shrug.

"Might have been, but of course we have to marry. We can't have a child out of wedlock. That's not the way Russians work. We are traditional people."

"Oh, so you're willing to marry a woman who you had a one-night stand with and whose father is a deceased Italian mobster?" I grate sarcastically.

"Yes. I am," he replies matter-of-factly. "We take care of our blood—unlike your people," he jabs back truthfully, my stomach full of rocks.

He knows my father abandoned me? Of course he does. He found you even when you gave him the wrong number. He's a mobster and a killer.

Swallowing hard, tears glisten in my eyes, his subtle and ill-timed dig hitting a raw nerve. He says nothing else, getting up to leave the room, standing at the door for a second and replying, "Utkin. Your surname will be Utkin." He clicks the door shut behind him, shattering any life I've ever known previously.