Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (open ebook .TXT) 📗

brogue and the foul breath and the veiled threats that all they had done to me thus far wasn’t the worst of it, wasn’t even the beginning of it.

In a room with nothing more than a bucket in the corner, a locked door, and a sliver of window enough to let me know when day changes to night and back today again, I had a tiny fraction of hope.

Yesterday, that hope faded by half. Today, it’s gone.

Now, with every second that passes, hysteria creeps into my blood, and I tremble.

Because sleep comes in short little bursts, I’ve learned to count time between each opening of the door that brings food and contact with another person, even though I hate those people and have prayed more than once that every person responsible for my current situation dies a horrible, fiery death.

I’m tired, curled into as small a ball as I can into the corner of my dingy, concrete-walled room.

I still don’t know much of anything besides the fact that I’m in the Diamond Owl Repair shop. And it’s almost time for lunch again. Any second the door’s going to open and some monster is going to walk through with a bag of whatever fast food is on today’s menu.

I also know today’s delivery boy will stand in the doorway and toss the food through the door because I’m not bound, not gagged, and they consider me a flight risk. It’s been two days since anyone’s been further inside this room than the doorway.

As if I’ve summoned them, the door opens. This time, there are three men, and they walk inside. All dressed in similar jeans and plain dark-colored shirts, all dark-haired and virtually indistinguishable, they stand in a triangle in front of me.

The one closest crouches down to my level, rests his forearms over his knees. I try not to flinch when he lifts one hand, but I can’t help it. I’m not so strong that I welcome pain, that I can forget what they’ve already done, that I’m willing to believe they won’t hurt my baby.

“Today’s the day. Your television debut.” He winks like we’re sharing some kind of secret and I want to claw his eyes out, but I curl my fingers into my fist, scratch my palm with my nails so I can concentrate on the sting rather than how close he is, rather than how he smells like whiskey, rather than the way his eyes keep lowering to ogle at my breasts.

I cross my arms, and he laughs. “Don’t worry, lass. I prefer my women less bruised, less run-through than one of Kostya Zinon’s castoffs.” His leer matches his breath—rancid.

“Thank God for that,” I murmur. For my sarcasm, he backhands me. I bite my tongue. My mouth fills with the coppery taste of blood. I spit it onto the floor next to me.

He laughs cruelly. “You’ve got spirit.” He stands and holds out his hand to me. “Stand up.”

I’ve paced a thousand miles around this room. My legs still work, but they’re weak and they nearly give out as I clamber unsteadily to my feet. Probably because I’m scared and dizzy and because I haven’t eaten more than a few bites of processed food in days.

I walk, flanked on each side by the suited men, down a hallway to a room with a sofa that looks inviting and soft and like more weakness. If I sit on that thing, chances are I’m never getting up. There’s no way I’m getting close to it.

But Irish Goon #1 pushes me onto the sofa. I sink into the cushion. It’s so much better than I expected and I press my lips together to keep from moaning at the comfort I’ve missed these last days. Now, if I could just talk them into a shower and a change of clothes, my captivity might not be so bad.

Though I know damn well that’s just wishful thinking. I’ve been brought here for something else other than to enjoy the office furnishings.

But, as I wait for the big reveal, I look out the windows. On one side, there is a lot where I can see my car. My trusty old Volkswagen with the piece of duct tape holding the glove compartment closed and the vise grips that act as a window crank.

On the other side, I can see the shop. Two cars on lifts, one with a guy in a blue uniform standing underneath. There’s a part of my brain that wants to see the car fall on him, to crush him underneath it. Another remembers him taking a shot at my jaw with his fist. And yet another that wishes he would be the guy who looks up, realizes he’s got a shot at moral redemption, and saves me.

A third wall has a pinup girl calendar hanging from a nail next to a bulletin board crammed full of slips of paper of various sizes.

The door to my left opens and one of the uniform guys rolls in a TV on a cart that looks more like a toolbox than a TV tray—red, sliding drawers, oil on the handles—but uniform guy opens one of the drawers and pulls out a cord to plug into the wall.

The screen flickers and a line rolls up from the bottom. It’s old. Looks like it weighs about a thousand pounds, and I wish I could lift it and throw it at someone, or even just be close enough to shove it onto the foot of one of the sons of bitches who laid his hands on me.

I breathe out slowly, waiting. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but the fact that they brought me out of my secluded hole means they have a purpose.

I stare at each one. What amazes me is that there’s nothing extraordinary about any of them. No tell-tale sign that a single one of them is affiliated with organized crime that would kidnap a woman to force another organized crime boss to surrender