Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
I knew what that was… who that was. My breath left me all at once, and I covered my mouth with a trembling hand. Rossi. Of all the names my father hid, that was the one he never let slip. The Rossis weren’t street players or even warehouse operators.
They were at the top of the food chain, the type of people who bought screaming women inside of shackled crates.
I didn’t realize I’d moved until the edge of the desk pressed against my thigh. “God,” I whispered.
Dmitry finally looked at me. He didn’t appear sorry or even surprised. His expression was that of a man who had seen too many fathers weaponize their bloodlines to be shocked by it anymore.
“You think he’s sparing you from being sold like those women?” he asked. “No. You’ll just bring a much, much higher price than them when he sells you.” His words weren’t cruel, just precise, truth without anesthetic.
Something inside of me clicked I didn’t shatter. Didn’t explode or scream. It simply tilted into hatred and pivoted with quiet certainty, as if a lock inside of me found the right key. For the first time since Dmitry had taken me, my father wasn’t the most dangerous man in the room. He was just the most desperate.
My gaze returned to the buyer line on the screen. Rossi. I swallowed hard. “I know that family,” I said, almost to myself. “Lucia Rossi. The only time I wasn’t homeschooled was when my father—along with armed guards he insisted I have—allowed me to go to school in Milan. That’s where I met her. I was there for two years. She was kind and gentle. She’s the kind of girl who always had ink stains on her fingers from marking up her classical literature books.” The memory tugged at places I didn’t expect. “She used to sneak pastries into class and pretend she’d bought too many on accident so no one felt embarrassed to take one. We weren’t best friends, but she was the closest thing I ever had to someone genuine in my life.”
I exhaled, dazed by how easily the past resurfaced. “Her mother hosted charity luncheons. Her father smiled too much. Like a slimy salesman who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. But Lucia never talked about any of that. She was kind and sweet, and I could tell she was a good person.” I didn’t realize I was crying until warm tears tracked down my cheeks. “She’d go quiet whenever anyone brought up where her family’s money came from. Looking at this…” I gestured to the footer on the screen, bile rising. “I refuse to believe she knew about this.” My voice cracked on the last word. “Either she’d been left in the dark like me or she learned how to pretend it didn’t exist. I don’t know which is worse.”
Dmitry didn’t answer. He didn’t mock me for saying it nor did he offer any comfort. He just listened, and somehow, that had more of an impact than cynicism would have.
Before I could say another word, the burner vibrated across the table. Dmitry picked up on the second ring and set it to speaker.
“Well?” my father spat out. “You have your list.”
Dmitry didn’t take his eyes off me. “Partial.”
“It’s a beginning.”
“It’s an insult.” Dmitry’s voice even.
My father’s breath scraped through the line. “You got what you asked for.”
Dmitry’s tone didn’t waver. “I asked for the buyers.”
There was a pause, one long enough that I felt the calculated hum through the line. “I want proof she’s alive and untouched.”
Dmitry didn’t gesture toward me. He didn’t need to. I cleared my throat before speaking. “I’m here,” I said, voice steady. “Alive. Untouched.”
“Good.” Relief threaded in my father’s tone, not because I still breathed but because untouched meant unspoiled. Meant marketable. “Now listen carefully, Zoya. This man—”
“No,” I interrupted, and even I was startled by how steady the word sounded. “You listen. If you stall again, he won’t send ribbons and velvet boxes. He’ll send something big enough to bury.” The silence that followed wasn’t outrage. It was recalibration.
My father had spent my entire life crafting me into something polite and quiet. He’d never once considered that I might grow teeth.
Dmitry didn’t smile or nod, but something in his posture shifted. I wanted to believe it was his approval.
“Twenty-four more hours,” Dmitry said. “This time, you send the buyers.” My father inhaled, and for the first time since this began, fear curled beneath his anger.
“You don’t get those,” he whispered. “Those men don’t tolerate exposure. They’ll kill us both.”
Dmitry didn’t blink. “That’s not my problem.” He ended the call without ceremony.
The wind howled against the building all around us, and the laptop hummed as the data continued to scroll. My pulse slowed from frantic to deliberate. I half expected him to take me back downstairs, bolt the steel door, and make my world small and quiet again.