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“Is there a problem? The sedative should have worn off hours ago, is she still unconscious?” His voice is full of concern and fear.
“No, she woke fine. However, she is dehydrated, I’d like you to hook her up to an IV, she needs fluids and is being…” I pause. “Uncooperative.”
“Of course, Mr. Belov. I’ll get my bag and head straight over.”
Ending the call without another word, I stride up the stairs and toward the bedroom. Deactivating the lock, I walk into the room and straight for the closet. The idea of my wife choosing to sleep on the floor rather than in the bed I provided for her is ludicrous. Last night I allowed it, tonight I will not. She is not a common street rat, she is Alena Belova and the Belov’s do not sleep in anything but luxury anymore.
Opening the door, I step inside, striding unceremoniously over to the dressing table and crouching down to look beneath it. Just like I expected, she’s curled into the corner, knees bent up to her chest.
“Go away,” she hisses weakly.
“You need to drink something,” I say, placing the bottle on the floor beside her.
“I’m not eating or drinking anything from you,” she growls.
“Examine the bottle, it is unopened, the seal still in place.”
“I don’t give a fuck?—”
Interrupting her I snap, “You will drink the bottle of water, or I will drag you out from there, chain you to the bed, and force it down your fucking throat.”
“I’ll drink the water out of the tap.”
“We’re on an island in Brazil, this isn’t modern American plumbing, you can’t drink the tap water here,” I scoff.
Silently I wait, but she doesn’t make any move to reach for the bottle. “Fine,” I growl. “You prefer to do this the hard way.” Lurching forward I make to grab for her, but she reaches for the water and unscrews it, sniffing it before she brings it to her lips.
“All of it,” I demand, watching as she thirstily gulps the water down.
It takes her about five minutes, but she finishes the bottle, screwing the top back in place before throwing it at my feet. “There, happy now?” she sasses
“Immensely,” I drawl. Pulling the bench out from the center of the room, I sit, leaning forward so I can see her and she can see my face.
“Oh god, are you expecting me to thank you for giving a fuck?” she asks.
Scoffing derisively, I shake my head. “No. Lev likes to believe we saved you, but you and I both know that even though we might have, that’s not why we took you.”
“So why did you?” she asks.
“Because of who you are,” I tell her. “And because we could,” I admit.
“Who are you?”
“I am Dimitri Belov and the others are Lev Adamovich and Viktor Sorokin.”
“Those are your names but who are you?” she asks astutely.
“To you, we’re nothing more than rich villains who stole you. But I suppose to others we may represent something different.”
“Like what?”
“To some, we’re entrepreneurs who made billions before we turned thirty. To others we’re dangerous men who do as we please, because we’re wealthy enough to be above the law.”
Pausing, she rubs at her eyes. “Who are you to the man you think is my father?”
“Clever girl,” I praise. “To Grigoriy Polakoff, we’re probably nothing but an ancient memory.”
“But what…?” she asks, her voice slurred. “But if he remembered…” Her words trail off as her eyes roll back and her head slumps to the side.
