Page 5 of Innocent Bratva Hostage
Opening the door without ensuring I wouldn’t be in any danger wasn’t a good idea either, but I couldn’t stand here all night without knowing why someone would visit me at this hour.
Something was wrong, and I needed to know what it was.
I tiptoed to the front door with wobbly legs and peered through the peephole. Two men in police uniforms stood on my porch. I couldn’t hear what they were muttering to each other, but I let out a long breath once I saw it wasn’t the Russian mafia.
Still, I couldn’t be relieved until I knew why they were here.
Did something happen? Did someone get hurt?
A terrible thought crept into my mind, sinking its claw into my chest as I reached for the door handle with shaky hands and unlatched it.
Red and blue lights flashed against the darkened street behind the two officers, making it seem that this was a crime scene that they were there to investigate.
It took a moment for me to find my voice. “Good morning, officers,” I greeted, my gaze shifting between them. “Is there a problem?”
The taller nodded. “Are you Giselle Rae?”
My heart sank to my stomach. This wasn’t a mistake; they were here for me. “I am.”
“We need you to come with us to the station, ma’am,” he answered, pulling out a pair of cuffs from his pocket.
I took a step backward on instinct, wondering if I’d heard him right. “I’m sorry, I’m really confused right now. Why?”
The shorter officer exhaled sharply. “You’re under arrest for the possible involvement in the production and trade of a harmful substance called Typhoon-1.”
“Typhoon-1,” I repeated.
I hadn’t heard that name before, but I’d read it somewhere—in the text Dad sent to me the day he died. He’d spelled it Tyfun-1, so I assumed it was pronounced differently until I met that man at the cemetery.
How was I under arrest for possible involvement in the production and trade of the substance when I didn’t even have a freaking idea what it was?
My head began to spin violently as I pieced the puzzle together. Did Tyfun-1 have something to do with what the man at the cemetery said? Did Dad steal from the mafia, and if he did, was that the reason he was murdered?
I had so many questions, but more importantly, what made them think I had something to do with it? Surely, they wouldn’t just come to arrest me based on mere assumptions or the fact that my father had something to do with it.
“Officer, I think there’s been a mix-up somewhere. I have no idea what that is. I am not involved whatsoever with it. Please believe me.”’
“You have the right to remain silent,” one of the officers said, ignoring my explanation as he grabbed my wrist and forced it behind my back. The cold steel of the cuffs locked around my skin. “Anything you say now can and will be used against you in a court of law. You also have the right to an attorney.”
Panic clawed at my throat, and breathing became three times harder. They weren’t listening to me. “No, you can’t do this. I can’t go to court. I don’t have an attorney.”
“Please, rest assured. We’ll provide an attorney for you if you cannot afford one for yourself.”
“You need to listen to me, please. I have no idea what Tyfun-1 is.”
“This way, ma’am.” The taller officer guided me toward one of the police cars parked in the driveway.
The night air felt colder as it bit against my skin, and the flashing lights were suddenly too bright for my eyes to adjust to.
This wasn’t one of those nightmares that haunted me while I slept; it was a reality. I was being whisked away in the dead of the night for a crime I knew nothing of a few days after my father was murdered. How bad could my luck get?
All I could think of was the text from Dad.
The Typhoon’s eye holds the calm—Tyfun-1.
***
I sat stiffly in the interrogation room, my wrists hurting from where the cuffs were biting into my skin. The walls were a dull gray, the kind that made the room feel smaller than it was and more suffocating. A single flickering light buzzed overhead, casting an ominous shadow on the table in front of me.
