by Erin Noelle
The room is at the end of a long hallway, the other doors are all closed as we pass by to a circular marble staircase that leads down to a grandiose foyer. The highest ceilings I’ve ever seen are framed with elaborate crown moldings and adorned with lavish chandeliers, while the floors are made up of what I assume to be rare, expensive tiles, meticulously laid out in intricate designs and color patterns. It looks more like a museum than a house.
The walls are free of personal touches, no family photos or any other indicator of who lives there. There isn’t any furniture in the entryway, where I stand behind Raze waiting for him to instruct me on what to do next, I can see a handful of men gathered around a massive oak dining table through the closed French doors on our left. I don’t allow my gaze to linger, afraid I’ll make eye contact with one of them.
“When they open the doors, I will escort you inside,” Raze explains without looking back. “Stay close to me, and they will not hurt you. Do not speak unless Pakhan asks you a direct question. Do not react to what others say to you. Be honest about what you know, girl, or he will find out. And my grandfather does not treat liars kindly.”
I nod my understanding even though he can’t see me, but somehow he senses it.
“Good.” He glances down at his watch then over at the men. “It should only be a few more minutes. After this, you’ll be allowed to eat dinner and shower.”
Again, I nod, but say nothing. My brain is set on overdrive, furiously processing the limited amount of information I have about the situation. The moment Raze said the last name Kabinov, I immediately made the connection to the man Vincent had ordered Ish to kill the night I was hiding in my closet—the hit that triggered the bloody turf war that began in Chicago a couple of years ago.
But if the Kabinovs hate the Riccis, what do they want with me? Are they going to sell me to the Italians? What did Raze mean by being a pawn? And how the hell does Emerson fit into all of this? Is Madden involved? Does he know what happened to me? Is he worried?
One question spurs another, and then another, until the massiveness of the unknown begins to suffocate me. I desperately want to grab my throat, to claw at the murky vines wrapping around my neck, threatening to cut off my air supply. My teeth sink into the flesh inside my cheek, purposely drawing blood to drink, forcing me to swallow. Raze becomes a blurry black figure in front of me, and just before the darkness takes hold, a door swings open, and a deep booming voice breaks through my haze, snapping me out of my panic attack.
“Raze,” the man barks, sneering in my direction before he adds something that sounds like, “Sookah. Siy-chas.”
Tipping his chin in my direction with an intense expression full of warning, Raze strides toward the gathering without saying a word. I follow closely, ignoring the muffled comments as we enter the room, most of which I don’t understand anyway. Keeping my focus fixed directly in front of me, on the center of his back, I nearly slam straight into him when he stops abruptly. Thankfully, I’m able to keep my balance without having to grab ahold of him, and I recover quickly.
My near-fall forces me to look around at my surroundings, which is when I realize we’re standing next to a chair—or what could better be referred to as a throne—at the head of the table. A man, who looks exactly like a seventy-year-old version of Raze, sits erect on the gold-plated seat and sizes me up, power and authority oozing from his pores.
“Mizz Oliveira—” be begins to address me, but I quickly cut him off.
“Blake,” I correct him. “My name is Blake Martin.” I lift my chin defiantly and hold his stare, disregarding the collective gasp heard around the room.
As Raze’s body tenses next to me, I prepare to be punished for my disrespectful behavior. The elder Russian’s face is stone-like while he studies me for several moments. Long, deafeningly silent moments. Then, probably as much to my surprise as the others in the room, the corners of his mouth begin to curl upward, and before I know it, he’s shaking with uncontainable laughter.
Everyone—myself and Raze included—remain motionless as we wait for the man to catch his breath . . . everyone except for the guy guarding the room who called for us to enter moments ago. A barely-audible chuckle escapes him, and immediately, the man who I assume to be Anatoli Kabinov stops laughing and cuts his frosty gaze in the direction of the door.
“Is something funny, Sergei?” I presume he’s using English for my behalf. He wants me to know what is happening. “Do you find amusement in your Pakhan being interrupted? Is there something funny about that?”
The guard straightens his posture and wipes any expression from his face. “No, Pakhan. Mne zhal.”
“I’m sorry too,” he replies impassively, lifting his eyebrows at another gentleman seated at the table. A chair grates across the floor as the man stands up, walks over to the guard, and slits his throat with a knife hidden in his belt. Then, with no reaction from anyone in the room, he returns to his seat and nods once.
Breathing is a struggle as I try my best not to freak out. No one else pays any attention to the lifeless body lying in a pool of blood only feet from the rest of us, but my entire body shivers with terror. I stare down at the contrast of my tiny bare feet next to Raze’s giant combat boots, a stark representation of how weak and defenseless I am around these people. People who place little value on the lives of others. People just like Ish Oliveira and Vincent Ricci.
“Yes, Mizz Martin,” Anatoli corrects himself, acting as if the conversation had not just been put on hold for a quick homicide. “I apologize for any disrespect. I can understand the desire to rid yourself of association with people such as your late husband.”
Lifting my terrified gaze to his, I whisper, “Yes, thank you.”
“Of course, you are a guest in my home,” he boasts, a hint of cynicism lacing his words. “And I must admit, though I’ve wined and dined with royalty from all over the world, you’re the first American Princess I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. I apologize for not having better prepared for your stay, but your arrival was a bit short notice.”
I suck in a sharp breath at his use of Ish’s nickname for me—the name that was splattered across newspaper headlines around the world for weeks after his murder—but refrain from speaking out. The Russian is playing a mind game with me, and I refuse to allow him to win that easily.
“Sir, I am sure you are well aware I am no princess,” I respond with a forced polite smile, “and if you’ll tell me why I’m here, I’ll do my best to help, and then be on my way.”
He contemplates my words for a minute as he steeples his hands in front of his face, tapping the tips of his index fingers against his pursed lips. “Do you know who I am, Mizz Martin?”
I nod. “Yes, sir. You are Anatoli Kabinov, the highest-ranking boss of Russian organized crime in the States.”
“How do you know who I am?” he presses. “And don’t tell me because my grandson told you either. I want to know what you know.”
Sensing my hesitation, Raze shoots threatening daggers in my direction, reminding me of his earlier warning. I swallow hard, the metallic taste of blood still lingering on my tongue, before I open my mouth and disclose everything I know.
“One evening a couple of years ago, I overheard my former father-in-law and ex-husband discussing you and your family’s activities in the Chicago area.” My voice is shaky, the words rushed. “Vincent ordered Ish to take two of his men to a warehouse, where they were to carry out a hit on your grandson, Alexei Kabinov, and everyone who was with him.”
Rage flares in Anatoli’s eyes as the entire room bursts into disorder, everyone shouting and talking at once . . . everyone except Raze. He is a frozen statue, his face murderous. It’s not until now I realize if Anatoli is his grandfather also, then Alexei must’ve been either his brother or cousin.
Having had my own brother and mother murdered by Vincent, an unfathomable urge to reach out and grab his hand, a desire to soothe him, flickers inside me, but before I can act
on the reckless impulse, Anatoli leaps to his feet, silencing the room.
“You have already done us the favor of killing the man who held the blade, and for that, we are grateful. But now, you must finish the job. If you want to live out your days as Blake Martin, you will also take the man’s life who gave the orders to execute my grandson and other family members.” He stares at me keenly with a villainous smile spread across his face, flashing his perfect white teeth. “Kill Vincent Ricci, or you will join your cunt of an ex-husband in the ground, Princess.”
GLASSY BLOODSHOT EYES RESTING ATOP dark half-moons stare back at me in the mirror as coarse brown stubble covers the bottom half of my face, straggling unevenly down my throat. The scalding hot shower I just took did nothing to hide the evidence of the sleepless night I spent on the phone and computer, searching frantically for any clues to where Blake could be. For a man who prides himself in remaining calm, cool, and collected in all situations, the hungover, homeless look I’ve got going right now is anything but. Instead, I appear exactly how I feel—disheveled, distraught, and desperate.
I’m teetering on the edge of lucidity, hanging on by a single thread of hope . . . hope that she’s alive. Unfortunately, the person who I’m pretty sure has the most information about my girlfriend’s whereabouts took an impromptu vacation out on a catamaran with friends for the weekend—a trip I don’t believe for one damn minute was sheer coincidence. Emerson knew we wouldn’t be able to reach her via cell phone if she was hundreds of miles off the Pacific Coast, but she has to come back sometime—tomorrow afternoon, according to what she told her parents—and you better believe your ass I’ll be the first one waiting for her at the marina. Demanding answers.
But until then, I have no plans to sit around with my thumb stuck up my ass. No, I’ve got to do something, compile whatever information I can. Between the little that Blake has shared with Jae and me about her past, there’s a dark, sinister story there, and I’m afraid it’s caught up with her. I just can’t figure out how Emerson is tied to any of it.
Rapidly, I shake my head back and forth, forcing myself out of the incessant thoughts swarming through my mind, and propel my body into motion. Staring at myself in the mirror all day isn’t going to bring me any more answers than I have now, so I push off the marble sink and stalk over to the cargo shorts and t-shirt I brought into the bathroom, quickly slipping them on before heading downstairs.
Still in yesterday’s wrinkled clothes, Easton and Jae are already seated at the table, with plates of eggs and bacon in front of them and piping hot mugs of coffee in their hands. Neither of them appear to be very interested in the food, as they both sit quietly, pushing it around with their forks. Clucking around the kitchen in an almost frantic pace, Sarah looks up when she hears me enter the room, and immediately, I know by her somber expression that they’ve told her.
“Oh, Señor Madden. Why didn’t you call me last night?” my longtime housekeeper asks with smeared mascara below her worried eyes, fresh tears clinging to the red lower rims. “I would’ve come to help. You know how I feel about that dear child.”
I nod, striding over to give her a comforting hug. Shortly after Blake and I began seeing each other, Sarah witnessed one of Blake’s flashback episodes, and ever since then, she’s taken a special interest in my girlfriend, very much like a protective mother.
“There’s nothing you could’ve done, Sarah,” I murmur, holding the gray-haired Hispanic lady in my arms. “While we’re waiting to speak with Emerson, Jae, Easton, and I are going to go search her apartment this morning to see what we can find out.”
Releasing her grip, she steps back and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “Haven’t you notified the police? Can’t they be looking for her? Can’t someone be doing something?”
“We have,” I assure her, “but because Blake is an adult, they can’t do anything for twenty-four hours without proof of foul play. I did manage to talk to one of the detectives late last night, and he’s going to see what he can find out, but we were leery to tell them what we know about Emerson, the texts, and any possible involvement until we talk to her.”
“Ay Dios Mio!” she screeches with an incredulous glare. “Why would you do that? I don’t understand. There was obviously foul play involved. Why would you cover for that—” she curls her nose up like she has a bad taste in her mouth before spitting the last words out, “—that pinche bruja.”
“Until we know who we’re dealing with, Sarah, we need to be cautious about what we share,” I explain as I walk over to the coffee machine and grab a travel mug from the cabinet above, though I’m doubtful caffeine is going to put a dent in my exhaustion level. “You know she came from somewhere bad, Sarah. We don’t know what these people are capable of.”
She mutters something else in Spanish under her breath as she walks away, clearly not agreeing with how I’ve handled all of this so far. I understand her anger and frustration. God, do I understand it. But I’ve got a bad feeling about getting the authorities involved until we talk to Emerson. Odds are, whomever Blake was involved with before she moved here and started her life over probably aren’t big fans of the law, and I’d hate to jeopardize her safety by getting them involved if this is something we can handle ourselves.
If it’s money these people want, I’ll pay them whatever they ask. Everything I have. All I want is my sweet girl back. Safe and sound. I just want to hold her in my arms, look into her eyes, and tell her I love her—what I’ve been avoiding saying to her for weeks now. But unfortunately, I think if it was someone just after my money, we would’ve received a ransom note or phone call by this point.
Once the coffee is poured, I glance over at my brother and Jae and pop my chin slightly, giving them the silent ‘Let’s go’. They stand immediately, thanking Sarah for the breakfast they didn’t eat, and move to retrieve their things from the counter. We’ve talked the situation to death; now, we’re all simply hoping we’ll find out something more today.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be home, and I’ll eat out later,” I tell Sarah as I grab my keys and phone, “so you’re free to go whenever you finish things here. If I learn anything, I’ll call you.”
“I’ll be praying,” she replies solemnly as the three of us walk out the back door.
Well, that makes two of us.
Getting into Blake’s apartment is easy, as I still have her spare key and the entry codes from when I came to get her clothes while she was in the hospital a couple of months ago. That was the same day I’d found the envelope full of pictures in her dresser. The same day I stole the old photo of her as a teenager to keep in my desk. Back then, I was curious why she had the pictures hidden away, but today, I’m hopeful she’s got more things stashed in random spots around her home . . . things that could lead us in the direction of finding her.
“All right, I’ll take the bedroom and closet,” I announce once all three of us are inside and the alarm is disarmed. “Jae, you got the kitchen and bathroom, and Easton, start in the living room. Look behind pictures, in drawers, under cushions . . . everywhere. Keep whatever looks like it could help us link her to anyone else or any other place. Mail, notes, anything.”
The two of them nod their agreement and take off on their missions as I stride down the short hallway into her bedroom. Pausing momentarily in the doorway, I inhale a deep breath as I scan the area for anything that catches my eye. The room is damn near spotless. The bed is perfectly-made, not a single wrinkle or lump in the comforter or shams. Zero clutter or personal items are on top of the dresser or small desk, and the laminate wood floors look as if they’ve been freshly swept and polished.
Remembering my comparison of her place to a model apartment the first time I came here, I wonder if she’s always lived like this—in a place that feels so faceless and soulless—and my instincts tell me that’s not the case. Whenever she moved here, it’s almost as if she made a point to not settle in . . . but why? The only sensible answer is in case she needed to
leave abruptly, which only creates a shitload more questions I don’t have answers to.
I blow out an exasperated sigh and run my fingers through my hair, deciding to start in her closet. That’s where I keep most of my valuables and personal documents, and I’m hoping she may do the same.
Removing all of the clothes from the metal rod, I dump them on her bed to give myself better access to the small rectangular space, but unfortunately, all that leaves is an empty nook with a few pairs of shoes neatly lined up against the baseboard. No file cabinet. No hidden safe. Nothing at all.
My next spot is under the bed, but it’s clear and free of any objects as well. Cursing under my breath, I begin to rummage through her well-organized nightstand, when I hear Jae call out with alarm, “Madden! Come here, quick! Take a look at this.”
Dropping the tube of ChapStick and package of tissues, I slam the drawer shut and sprint out into the living room, where she and Easton are hovering over a stack of papers spread out on the kitchen table.
“What?” I demand, pushing my way in between them to have a better look. “What’d you find?”
“It’s her lease for this apartment, but look here,” the petite Asian woman urges, pointing about midway down on the typeset page. “There is no job listed, nor any previous rental history. It seems odd that they would’ve approved her without all of this information completed.”
Easton picks up another sheet, narrowing his scrutinizing gaze. “Do either of you know an Owen Doherty?”
“No,” Jae and I reply in unison as we transfer our attention to the paper he’s holding.
“Well, he’s listed as her only emergency contact. Do you think we should call the number?”
Staring down at the black letters, the name Owen Doherty runs through my mind over and over in rapid succession as I try to place it, but I continue to come up blank. It doesn’t ring a bell at all. She’s never mentioned anyone by his name before. I’m sure of it.