Page 20 of Flames

“His right hand man is Alexsander Kaschei—The Falcon.” Mikhael’s eyes darken slightly as he talks, the tone changing inexplicably. “You’re going to help me bring him down.”

My mind reels as my mouth falls open in shock. I close my lips, attempting to process what he just said before I open my mouth again. He can’t be serious, right?

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” A low chuckle shakes my core as the words tumble from my lips. “I’m not playing Bratva games with you, Mikhael.”

“The Falcon is ruthless, merciless, and vengeful. He’d sooner burn the entire city to the ground than give up an ounce of power.” Mikhael looks at me solemnly. “Should someone like that really be in charge?”

“I thought that the Pakhan was in charge?” I ask hesitantly. I can’t quite tell if Mikhael is sincere or pretending, but I have no interest in sticking around to find out. “If you have an issue with your rival, perhaps you should take it up with your boss, not some low-level thief.”

Something heady flares in Mikhael’s eyes. His irises are alight with the fire of a greedy man. I know that look. I hate that look.

“If you want the painting, you’ll help me, Marisa,” he snarks as a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face.

“You can shove that fucking painting up your a—”

“Careful,” he growls as his brow furrows. “You will help me, Marisa. You belong to the Organizatsiya now,” he states as he stands and buttons his suit jacket and righting the cuffs of his sleeves. He moves across the room, throwing open the door before turning back to me to call over his shoulder. “You can either work for us as a thief or a whore. Your choice, malen’kiy krolik.”

TWELVE

MARISA

Being a captive for the Russian Bratva is not how I intended to spend my weekend. Don’t these fuckheads know that I have shit to do?

None of that will matter if they give you cement shoes.

I push the little voice of worry and doubt inside my head away. I’m not dying here. My footsteps pace back and forth across the cool marble, nearly wearing a tread into the gaudy gold-veined flooring. I just need to play it smart, do as they say, and they’ll let me go… I hope. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s the Italian mafia and not the Russians that do the whole cement shoe thing.

Yeah, the Russians just blow your brains out.

“Shut up, brain!” I yell, my voice echoing through the cavernous, and absolutely ugly as shit bedroom.

It’s hour two of captivity and I’m arguing with the voices inside my head. This isn’t great.

A soft knock sounds at the door, causing me to spin. Mikhael didn’t knock. This is someone else.

“Miss Senka?” a soft, feminine voice calls through the door.

Hope blooms in my chest. Perhaps this woman, whoever she is, can help me.

“Come in,” I call back cautiously.

The door swings open slowly and in walks the smallest mouse of a woman I’ve ever seen. She’s seriously tiny. All four-ten of her walks in with a silver tray perched between her hands. She has golden hair that frames her heart-shaped face in soft waves. Her pale skin and blue eyes would make her striking in any circumstance, but her small form makes her large eyes almost seem unreal. She offers me a warm smile as she sets down a tray.

“I brought you something to eat,” she says motioning to the tray with the shimmering silver cloche perched atop it.

Is everything here straight out of the year 2002?

“Thank you,” I manage to say with a small nod, despite the ball of anxiety that’s been lodged in my throat for the last two hours.

“Of course.” She smiles again and something about her just seems so warm and trusting that I immediately relax a bit. She’s wearing a soft blue sweater and dark wash jeans that fit her slender figure perfectly.

Where does this woman even shop, Dolls-Are-Us?

“I trust your accommodations are sufficient?” she asks as she lifts the silver cloche, exposing a tray piled high with warm breakfast foods. My mouth waters at the sight of the sausage and my stomach rumbles audibly.

I let loose an audible laugh at my body’s betrayal as I move to sit at the small table. The tiny woman sits across from me and watches intently as I dig in. She gracefully removes a porcelain carafe from the tray and pours us both a cup of steaming coffee. The smell hits my nose and I could groan in excitement.

“The room is nice,” I agree as I take a sip of the coffee, washing down my bite of whole wheat toast. “Although someone needs to inform the decorator of the decade we’re currently living in.”