Stolen by the Mob Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance (Bratva Hitman) by Nicole Fox (classic fiction TXT) 📗

quicker. I can get that and cut these ropes on my hands. I slide my legs out from under me and reach one foot out, desperately trying to reach the bathtub. My foot stops short just past the toilet, and I let out a cry of frustration, trying not to lose my cool entirely. Repositioning myself, I get further, but it’s still not enough. When I feel like I’m about to tear my arms out of their sockets, I take a break, sitting up straight again.

That’s not going to work. I can’t reach it. Think, Lucy. Think.

Aside from the razor, there’s not much else in the room that can help me. I could try and reach for the shampoo or conditioner to help slick my hands up enough to slide out of the rope, but with how tight the binding around my wrists is, that might be time wasted that I could be putting towards something else. Something that might actually help me escape.

Frustrated, I tug against the rope and stifle a yell, panic threatening to overtake me. The feeling of being trapped is like a wildfire and it spreads throughout me, every part of my mind on red alert. The only thing I can focus on is getting free.

Breathe, I tell myself. Talking it out works wonders, and that bubbling of anxiety slows down.

Lying outside of the doorway of the bathroom is my purse. I can just barely see my cell phone poking out of the top of it. Hope sparks again, and I take a deep breath. This is going to hurt. It looks closer than the razor, but still a bit out of my reach. I have no other choice, though. I have to do this. I have to get away. My eyes close, and I try to collect myself. I can do this.

When I’m calm, I slide down on my back and stretch my legs forward, patting around on the ground in search of the strap. My arms scream for mercy, but I can’t stop. I have to reach further. I have to grab the bag. This is the only way that I’m going to get out of here alive. My captor could return at any moment, and every second I spend not calling the police is another second wasted.

When I finally feel the strap hook against my foot, I swell with excitement. I’m not finished yet. I still have a chance. I close my eyes and tug my foot back hard, yanking the bag closer to me. I slide it more and more in my direction, sitting up straight when it’s finally close enough for me to poke around inside with my foot.

No ... I frantically move things around inside the bag. It was right there in my purse. I know it was. I saw it!

But the phone’s not there.

I search through the bag in a flurry, tears welling in my eyes. I look up where the bag was and see that the phone has fallen out. It lies facedown, taunting me. I ease back down onto my back, repeating the same method as before, but this time, I can’t reach it. Everything hurts. My head throbs even harder, my eyes sting, and the muscles in my arms burn as I try with everything I have to make myself longer. But it’s not enough.

I’m going to die here.

***

A quick kick to my leg wakes me up this time. I must’ve passed out. My head still hurts, but the throbbing hasn’t gotten any worse, thankfully. I tilt my head back and see the stranger standing over me, a blank expression on his chiseled face.

“Wake up,” he says simply.

He’s quite the talker, I think bitterly. My eyes fall to what’s in his hands. He has bags of chips, prepackaged sandwiches, and two bottles of water.

“Eat.”

The last thing I want to do is have dinner with this nutcase. I imagine breaking free from these ropes and scratching his eyes out, shoving him out of the way so that I can make my escape. I couldn’t take him in a fight one on one, but if I had the element of surprise, I could probably outrun him. His large frame is dense, like he’s spent his whole life training, and I imagine he must move slower than me.

I sit up straight and grit my teeth. The names I could call him right now would probably land me in deeper shit than I’m already in, so instead, I bite my tongue and continue to stare at him with malice.

“Eat,” he repeats, tossing the sandwich and chips in my lap. He reaches forward and tugs the gag from my mouth, letting me speak.

“Am I supposed to eat with my feet? You need to untie my hands.”

His emotionless gaze remains on me for a long moment, and I start to wonder if my sarcasm has gotten me in trouble. I don’t know this man. I don’t know what he wants from me. He could be some kind of sex trafficker for all I know, and here I am, sassing him and mouthing off like my life isn’t literally in his hands.

Rather than lashing out or striking me for my insolence, he simply takes a seat on the toilet and grabs the food from my lap, unwrapping the plastic surrounding the sandwich. He points it in my direction, and that’s when I hear my stomach growl. The fighting spirit in me says that I’d rather starve than do what this bastard says, but the part of me that hasn’t eaten since breakfast this morning is ravenous.

Tentatively, I lean forward and take a bite from the corner of the sandwich, never once taking my eyes off his. He looks back at me with the same intensity, the same hesitant curiosity, and I have to wonder what’s going on in his mind. Is he going to rape me? Kill me? Sell me?

He brings the sandwich to my mouth again, and this time, I feel his