Page 78 of The Masked King

“The food is drugged,” I say. “Did they forget to tell you that part when they sent you in here?”

She lowers her gaze to the covered plate and tugs on the string belt inside her shorts. “Yes. I mean, no, it can’t be drugged, I prepared it myself.”

Her accent is American, and I can only guess how she ended up working for the Bratva. I’ve seen it too many times: the kids who grow up believing that violence is an acceptable part of their life with no one to teach them otherwise, they get into trouble, get offered a way out that sucks them deeper into the worm hole, until eventually they forget they once had other options.

“Did you leave the room at any point?” I hear the resignation in my own voice and wish I had the energy to do something about it. Her silence is all the answer I need. “Take it. Tell them I’d rather starve to death.”

“I-I can’t.” She refuses to look at me.

I sit forward. “Did they threaten you?”

“Shh, please.” She glances at the bright lights behind the bed. “They will hear.”

“What is your name?”

After what happened to Michael Douglas, I’m frightened to make this young woman complicit, but I can’t ignore a plea for help, even if my situation is worse than hers. If we stick together, we might find a way out of here, and I can’t ignore the glimmer of hope blooming inside my chest.

“Zara.”

“Zara, have they hurt you?”

She holds her left arm close to her side and rubs it as if she is cold. “A little. Not much.”

Fucking assholes.

I force a small smile. “Can you tell me who they are?”

She moves closer to the bed and angles her body, shielding me with her back from the light and camera directly behind her. “They are Bratva.”

I nod, reluctant to tell her this much was obvious. “Who is the pakhan?”

“Dmitri Malevsky.”

This must be snake-guy.

Now that I’ve got her talking, I need to get as much information from her as I can without putting her in danger. “Where am I, Zara? I can’t even look out of the window.”

Her eyes swivel to the window, but she doesn’t turn around. “Manhattan. New York,” she adds in case it isn’t obvious.

“Am I being guarded twenty-four-seven?” It’s a dumb question, but I need to be armed with all the facts if I stand a chance of getting away from Dmitri Malevsky.

“Yes.”

“How many?” I’m aware of the seconds ticking by when her eyes drift back to the covered plate. “I’ll eat if you’ll answer my questions.”

I remove the cover to reveal chicken casserole with baby broccoli. I fork vegetables into my mouth and chew, dissecting the taste for a hint of whatever drugs it might be laced with. It’s hard to swallow when you already know the outcome, but I figure it’s worth it to keep her talking.

“Four. Sometimes more.”

My stomach clenches. “Is there a private elevator?” She nods in response, and I scoop casserole onto my fork next. “Does anyone else come and go?”

“No.”

So, no chance of yelling for help when the cleaner arrives or the delivery guy comes with pizza.

“Thank you.” I set the fork down on the plate and replace the cover. I could devour the rest of it and ask for seconds, but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite for a drug-induced hangover. “I hope you won’t get into any trouble for talking to me, but I can’t eat any more.”

She hesitates. “There is one more thing. The clothes.”