Russian Lullaby

by Holly Bargo

  RUSSIAN

  Lullaby

  By

  Holly Bargo

  © 2016 Karen M. Smith

  HEN HOUSE PUBLISHING

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and events are fictitious or used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or copies without written permission from the author.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks go to beta reader Nikki, whose insightful comments helped me keep the story on track and made the characters feel closer. Nikki, if you lived closer, I’d ply you with lemonade and cookies. Additional gratitude goes to Cindra whose unfailing encouragement and support never go unappreciated.

  As always, thanks go to my husband, David, for his undying support and for the entertainment he provides.

  Last, but not least, a nod goes to Mr. Spot, the brown and white mini-lop bunny who showed us that rabbits really can spit and with amazing distance and accuracy, too. He is missed.

  Chapter 1

  Six books hit the sidewalk with an untidy clatter as Giancarla’s arms were jerked behind her. Three seconds and she had vanished, a black bag over her head, her wrists bound behind her, and a slam dunk onto the smelly floor of a panel van. She struggled. Of course. She yelled. Of course. A brutal kick to the abdomen cut off the yelling with a wheezing gasp.

  Hard hands groped where they had no business and she writhed and bucked in a futile effort to resist them. She yelled again and received another blow for her efforts. She could not help the vicious and unseen smile that followed when her wild kick blindly connected with someone’s family jewels. Unfortunately, her accuracy and spunk only netted her another harsh, steel toed boot in the ribs.

  Nausea threatened. She gasped to control it; vomiting within the bag over her head simply would not do. Rough hands squeezed her arms, more grabbed her ankles, one groped her breast and another pressed with crude accuracy at her crotch.

  “No!” she cried and tried to twist away from the unwanted touches.

  “Aún no,” someone said. His tone seemed almost bored.

  She did not know what the words meant, but the hands at her breast and crotch vanished, leaving only the slimy residue of impending rape to reduce her to a gibbering mess. Distantly, she wondered if anticipation was worse than the real thing. Would it be better if they just got on with it? Would delayed violation hurt more? Her mind skittered away from that line of rhetorical questioning to wonder if someone would notice the abandoned library books? Her book bag? Her purse? Surely, someone would want to take advantage of an abandoned purse with the potential of quick cash windfall. Maybe a fraudulent charge on her credit card would alert the cops. Or her grandfather.

  Her lips peeled back from her teeth. Whoever did this to her had better pray for the police, because her grandfather knew how to deliver vengeance. Which brought her right back to the horror of impending rape and the likelihood of further beating.

  The horrifying ride soon ended. Hard hands grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet. She struggled with a continued lack of success until something slammed the back of her knees and forced them to bend. They buckled and she collapsed onto a chair. The rip of duct tape was soon followed by her ankles being bound to the chair’s legs. She screamed in pain as her arms were yanked up and shoved over the hard back of the chair.

  “Shut her up,” a deep, male voice ordered. It wasn’t the same voice as from the van and it sounded strangely hollow.

  The bag was whipped off her head, pulling off her glasses which went flying. She heard them land on the hard floor and hoped they hadn’t broken. She blinked, but could see little more than the sweating man in front of her. More duct tape ripping, a length of cold, sticky plastic affixed to her skin over her mouth, and she was silenced. Another blow for good measure brought tears to her eyes and she whimpered behind the tape. The bag was yanked back over her head, returning the world to frightening darkness.

  Footsteps approached and the men’s voices quieted. It was an uneasy quiet. The footsteps stopped in front of her; Gia could feel their owner looming close and she shuddered in terror.

  “Is this she?” another masculine voice inquired, the accent distinct, but not so thick the words were difficult to understand. Gia heard something like a bag or briefcase gently placed on the hard floor. She heard some quiet clicks and the faint creak of leather and intuited that a case of some sort had been opened. She dreaded what the contents of that case might mean.

  A spate of Spanish filled the quiet. The sound nearly echoed.

  That same voice spoke again, in Spanish. Gia understood not a word. She sniffled, tears leading to unpleasant side effects like a runny nose and clogged sinuses. She didn’t know why she’d been kidnapped, but her imagination worked overtime to fill in what would happen next. Unfortunately, none of those imaginings was remotely benign.

  With a hard, fast yank, her shirt was ripped open. Behind the tape and the hood, Gia yelped and arched in futile protest. The bag was pulled away from her face, settled back on her head like a hat and ready to be yanked downward again. She blinked and found herself looking into eyes the cold, bluish gray color of gunmetal. Her own brown eyes widened fearfully and she tried to plead with him through them even as tears ran down her cheeks.

  The man looked into the young woman’s terrified gaze. The resemblance was uncanny, but he knew it wasn’t the woman he sought.

  “You’ve got the wrong woman,” he said as he straightened. He glanced at her chest, the B-cup breasts encased in pale pink satin. He drew a knife and slit bit of satin between the cups. The elastic snapped back and her breasts spilled free. He could practically smell the lust pouring off the men behind him. Except for the bruises blooming on her abdomen, the soft, pale skin was unmarked.

  “Carmen Montoya has a tattoo under the left breast. There is no tattoo on this woman, who is too young by a decade. You took the wrong woman,” the man said. He glanced around and saw the spectacles lying on the concrete floor several feet away. He walked over to them, picked them up, and peered through the lenses. He realized immediately they were prescription lenses; the woman was quite nearsighted.

  “You have the wrong woman,” he said for the third time as he straightened the bent frame and gently placed the glasses where they belonged.

  Giancarla blinked rapidly at the restoration of sight. What she saw did not reassure her: the dim space of an empty industrial building, a small group of tough looking, greasy haired men with flat, dead eyes like sharks. Trash scattered the concrete floor marred by cracks and patches that looked like damp or old oil stains. She could not see the last man’s face. He stood, which gave her a close-up view of his fly. The fine fabric of his slacks gave understated testimony to an expensive, tailored suit.

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to dispose of her,” the first voice replied from behind her.

  The gray-eyed man’s lips thinned with displeasure. “Don’t be wasteful.”

  “We could sell her, but there’s little call for four-eyed whores.”

  Gia whimpered. She wanted to beg, to plead that she’d never tell, she wouldn’t go to the police. It didn’t work in the movies and she was certain it wouldn’t work now, but the instinct to escape overwhelmed good sense and logic.

  “I’ll take her,” the gray-eyed man said as he pulled off the latex exam gloves that Gia only just noticed.

  “You want this puta?” the other man cackled. “For as much trouble as she has caused me, you’ll pay more than she’s worth.”

  “She’d have caused you no trouble if you had made sure of her identity first,” the man said. “Where did your men pick her up?”

  “Outside the biblioteca.”

  The man shook his
head and muttered something derogatory in Russian. “This girl caused trouble for four men? Either she’s a martial arts marvel or your men are incompetent. I’m leaning toward the latter.”

  “You are outnumbered here, Vitaly.”

  “And you are foolish if you think anything can happen to me without swift and severe reprisal, Pepe. Let’s not annoy Maksim, hm?”

  The Russian boss’ name made every other man in there turn pale.

  “Bien,” the unseen leader of the thugs snapped. “Five thousand dollars and you can have her.”

  “Done. I don’t carry that kind of cash in my pocket. I’ll pay you tomorrow morning.”

  “No money, no puta.”

  The gray-eyed man’s expression and tone turned glacial. “Do you doubt my word?”

  “Bah! Take the bitch and go back to your master, perro.”

  * * *

  Vitaly Synvolka carried his bag of tricks into the Culebras’ warehouse, a cesspit in the city if there was one. Four of the five men who waited for him in the vast, empty space shifted restlessly. He felt their anxiety and took no little pleasure in knowing that they feared him almost as much as they feared his boss.

  He detested dealing with thugs like them, but intelligence had it that they’d somehow captured the elusive Carmen Montoya who had somehow screwed his boss out of several million dollars. He slowed down slightly as he approached the woman bound to a straight chair. His practiced gaze ran over the slender lines of her body, the elegant droop of her neck. He glanced at the wire frame glasses carelessly tossed aside, the frame bent.

  This did not look like a woman in her late thirties or early forties.

  He set down his bag and unfastened it, drawing it open. The gleam of the metal instruments within was usually enough to reduce brave men to sniveling tattlers. He pulled out a pair of latex exam gloves and put them on. Blood not only stained clothing, it stained skin, too.

  “Is this she?” he asked, ignoring the pathetic sniffles emanating from beneath the bag over the woman’s head.

  The leader of the street gang, a pock-faced thug with greasy hair and a complete lack of conscience, answered him in rapid Spanish. Vitaly had no trouble understanding him.

  In the same language, he said, “I’ll verify that. It wouldn’t be the first time you made a mistake.”

  Gently, because gentleness could be more debilitating than rough treatment, he pulled the bag off the woman’s face. Her eyes and nose ran with abandon, showing distress and fear. Her face was far too young. Squatting in front of her, he glanced toward the glasses several feet away on the floor and looked back into her eyes. After a moment, her eyes focused and he inhaled sharply through his nose. God, she was beautiful! She looked like a young Sophia Loren, one of Hollywood’s Golden Age movie stars on the calendar a colleague had given him as a gag gift for Christmas.

  He needed one more verification that this young, terrified woman was not Carmen Montoya. With an efficiency that frightened his victims and aroused his bedmates, he ripped her blouse open. Buttons scattered. Keeping his gaze clinical, he nonetheless found his groin heating and thickening.

  Had she been able to yell, the woman would have screamed her anger and mortification at being so rudely exposed. She blinked those big, brown eyes and he could have sworn he saw innocence, desperation, and a plea for help. Intelligence lurked behind the terror.

  He knew it. The resemblance to Montoya was uncanny, but she wasn’t Montoya.

  “You’ve got the wrong woman,” he said as he straightened. He glanced at her chest and gave into impulse. He extracted a small, razor sharp knife from his bag and sliced through the taut fabric between the cups of her bra. The garment sprang back and her breasts spilled free. He cupped the left breast, careful not to squeeze, lifted it, could not help but brush his thumb over the rosy nipple. It tightened, but without accompanying flush of pleasure. She whimpered again behind the tape over her mouth and shrank from the unwanted touch.

  He looked at the other breast, already showing the bluish tinge of rough handling, and tamped down the spark of anger. He was suddenly very grateful he did not have to desecrate such perfect, lovely breasts. That these uncouth brutes had put marks on this young woman’s skin made him want to show them the deadly skills he had learned well in military service. Only gutless cowards beat women and children.

  The gangsters behind him shifted restlessly, excited by her exposure. Vitaly silently chided himself for putting the poor woman at even greater risk of violation.

  The smooth, pale skin he had exposed confirmed she was not Carmen Montoya.

  “Carmen Montoya has a tattoo under the left breast. There is no tattoo on this woman, who is too young by more than a decade. You took the wrong woman,” Vitaly said coldly.

  He looked back at the glasses lying on the floor and retrieved them, pausing to straighten the bent frame. He looked through them: as he surmised, these glasses were worn from necessity, not for some nefarious purpose. The girl was nearsighted. With a care for which he was not known, he settled them on her face.

  “You have the wrong woman,” he said for the third time.

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to dispose of her,” Pepe replied with a careless shrug.

  Vitaly could feel his expression congeal with icy contempt. “Don’t be wasteful.”

  “We could sell her, but there’s little call for four-eyed whores.”

  The young woman whimpered again behind the tape over her mouth. Vitaly made a snap decision, having the feeling that leaving this woman would destroy whatever was left of his humanity.

  “I’ll take her,” he offered as he removed his gloves and dropped them into the bag.

  “You want this puta?” Pepe laughed his derision. “For as much trouble as she has caused me, you’ll pay more than she’s worth.”

  “She’d have caused you no trouble if you had made sure of her identity first,” he pointed out. Pepe frowned at his unerring logic. “Where did your men pick her up?”

  “Outside the biblioteca.”

  “Chertovy idioty,” he muttered in a low voice. More loudly so that Pepe could hear him clearly, he continued: “This girl caused trouble for four men? Either she is a martial arts marvel or your men are incompetent. I’m leaning toward the latter.”

  “You are outnumbered here, Vitaly.” The four men in question drew knives and shifted restlessly again, their mood turning from lustful to lethal.

  “And you are foolish if you think anything can happen to me without swift and severe reprisal, Pepe. Let’s not annoy Maksim, hm?”

  The name of Vitaly’s boss made every other man in there turn pale.

  “Bien,” the unseen leader of the thugs snapped. “Five thousand dollars and you can have her.”

  “Done. I don’t carry that kind of cash in my pocket. I’ll pay you tomorrow morning.”

  “No money, no puta.”

  Vitaly turned his icy gaze back to Pepe, who probably had the good sense to fear him. He asked in a soft tone redolent with menace, “Do you doubt my word?”

  “Bah! Take the bitch and go back to your master, perro.”

  He nodded. With studied nonchalance, he closed his medical bag, meticulously fastening the latches. He turned back to the woman who watched him like a mouse watches a hungry cat. He was hungry, no doubt of it, but he also prided himself on his control.

  “This will hurt. I am sorry,” he whispered to her as he reached for the tape on her face.

  She gave a tiny nod and squeezed her eyes shut in preparation for the discomfort of having the tape ripped off her skin. It was best to get it over with quickly, so he took firm hold of one corner and removed it with a quick, hard yank. She gasped at the pain, which he was mildly surprised she could feel beyond the bruise over her right cheek.

  “I’m going to cut your wrists and legs free. Remain sitting if you wish to live.”

  She responded with tiny nod again, her whole body trembling with either eagerness or fear. He didn’t kno
w and it didn’t matter. Gripping the small knife that he hadn’t yet put away, he sliced through the duct tape binding her ankles to the chair legs and then walked around her to cut the tape binding her wrists. He paused to drop the knife into the bag’s side pocket.

  He picked up the case and gestured to her. “Come.”

  Face still white with fear, but eyes showing a bright spark of hope, she rose shakily from the chair. Her hands clutched the gaping shirt closed in a futile bid for modesty.

  In a low tone, Vitaly told her, “Follow closely behind me. Do not look anywhere else but at my back.”

  She nodded, a jerky little gesture, to show she understood. Her chin trembled, but she locked her jaw tightly and pressed her lips together in a mute bid for emotional control. He led her out of the dingy abandoned warehouse to his car. First, he dropped his bag of tools on the back seat. The he led her around to the passenger side and opened the door.

  “Get in and buckle your seat belt.”

  She obeyed, knowing resistance would be foolish. It took no more than a quick glance to see that this man, so much bigger than she, was also very fit. He’d run her down and overpower her before she got ten yards. And then he’d be mad and she would be sure to suffer even more.

  She hated having to choose the lesser of the evils.

  He crossed the front of the car and seated himself with brisk efficiency. With a turn of the key, the engine purred quietly and he drove them away from the warehouse.

  “What is your name?” Vitaly asked, trying to keep from frightening her even further. He could well imagine what was going through her mind and, though he acknowledged such atrocities happened on a daily basis in his city, he did not want her to think him party to that particular crime.

  “Gia—Giancarla Bonetti,” she muttered her reply. As though he’d given her leave to speak, she asked, “W-what are you going to do with me?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” he replied with disturbing honesty. “But I’ve no intention of hurting you.”