Page 31 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

That almost makes me laugh. “So do I. I share DNA with the bastard.”

He steps closer. “Then understand this. Patrick didn’t only steal money. Men are already asking about you. Morozov’s channels moved before we reached the estate. Your name is circulating.”

“My name has done a lot of traveling without my consent.”

“Listen to me, Cara.” His voice cuts through the room. “The Blacklist works because interpretation kills faster than guns. If your position is unclear, other men will define it.”

“My position is very clear. I’m pissed.”

“Pissed isn’t a status recognized by Bratva houses.” He doesn’t smile. “You’re under my custody until Patrick is found and your listing is frozen or settled.”

“Custody. Listing. Settled.” I taste each word and want to spit. “You people make human trafficking sound like accounting.”

“It’s accounting,” he agrees, “with blood behind the numbers.”

For a second, the floor seems to shift under me. Dmitri is describing a system I am already inside. Old, recognized, functional. A ledger where people can be priced, moved, argued over, claimed.

My brother put me in it.

Dmitri watches the realization take hold.

“You need rest,” he says.

A knock comes before I answer. A woman enters with a fresh tray, and Dmitri makes way. She needs no permission, which tells me she outranks half the guns in this house. Older, neat, severe. Her hair is pinned back, and ladybug-shaped glasses with dull red rims sit on her nose.

“Elena sends me,” she says.

Elena again. The house speaks her name like it belongs in ledgers and locks.

Pakhan’s wife.

Dmitri watches my face as I put that together.

“This is Mrs. Wentworth,” he says. “She’ll take care of you.”

She looks me over, sorting bruises, hunger, pride, and practical next steps.

“Take care of me?” I say. “That sounds expensive and involuntary.”

Mrs. Wentworth sets the tray down in a cozy little alcove. “Most useful things are.”

Dmitri almost reacts. Then he leaves before the room she can do anything human to him.

She lifts the cover from the bowl. “Tea. Chicken soup. Fresh rolls. You’ll eat while it’s hot.”

I blink at her. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for soup?”

“You look like you may faint and insult someone on the way down.” She straightens the napkin. “Soup prevents both, in my experience.”

I stare at her. Then, against every instinct I have, I laugh. It’s small and ragged and gone fast, but it happens. The soup smells good, damn it. Dill, chicken, something earthy. My body wants warm food, which feels like betrayal.

“Yes, that’s better,” Mrs. Wentworth says. She checks the water, towels, linens, and toiletries, then gives a satisfied grunt. “Eat. I’ll be just outside in the kitchenette. Holler if you need anything.” Somehow, she’s reassuring, which makes her dangerous in a whole new way.

I sit at the tray and pick up the roll.

She pauses near the door. “You won’t be harmed here.”

Then she leaves, and the lock clicks shut.