Prisoner (Russian Tattoos Book 2) (3 page)

Chapter 4

Mind Game

The aroma of savory soup drew me out of my deep sleep that had lasted hours or maybe even days. I lifted my head to see who was in the room. I was alone, sans a steaming bowl of red soup on the bedside table. I desperately needed to eat, but my wrists were restrained to the side rail with handcuffs.

My previously athletic frame felt bony and frail, and according to my estimated downtime, I hadn’t eaten for several days. The last thing I had in my stomach was the spiked vodka cocktail Boris forced me to drink when he abducted me from the airport.

I was hopeful whoever had brought the food would return. While I waited, salivating, I noticed my IV had been removed, my bed linens had been changed, and I no longer smelled sour from vomit. The lavender blanket I’d gotten sick on had been replaced with a cheerful yellow dotted bedspread, and I had on a floral beachy dress I’d packed for Punta Cana. I pushed the thought away of Boris or the thug taking off my clothes, wiping my body clean, and redressing me—that was the least of my worries.

The door creaked open and Dmitri strolled in smelling like he’d just smoked a cigarette. He held a small loaf of dark bread in his hand. It was the Russian kind Vladimir and I used to nosh on when we drank vodka back home. In my barely conscious stupor the last time I’d seen him, I’d measured how much time had passed by the stages of the bruises on his face. This time, they were light brown and greenish yellow. All in, it takes nine or ten days for a bruise to fade away. I had probably been out another day or two.

“
Dobryy den
.”
Dmitri chatted away as he unlocked the cuffs from my wrists and positioned me into a sitting position. I didn’t recognize any Russian words besides “good afternoon,” but his tone wasn’t mean or rude, more like he was making small talk. Caring for kidnapped women was just another day on the job for a low-ranking member of the
Bratva
.

I rubbed my wrists to soothe the pain and scratched the scabby ligature marks on my wrists caused by the cable ties that had cut into my skin from my initial abduction. “You don’t have to handcuff me. What do you think I’m going to do? Overpower you, bust down the door, and hail a cab to the airport?” Since he couldn’t understand me, I felt empowered knowing I could say whatever I wanted.

Dmitri lifted the soup from the tray and stirred it up. Steam wafted from the bowl, and he blew on it to cool it down. Then he tore off a chunk of bread, dipped it in the broth, and lifted the soggy bite to my mouth.

“I can feed myself.” I reached for the bowl with shaky hands, but Dmitri clicked his tongue and held it out of my reach.

To hell with dignity.
My lips trembled as they parted. I opened my mouth wide like a baby bird waiting for her mom to puke up lunch. Dmitri’s hand hovered under the bread to catch the broth drips and waited for me to take it from him like a stray dog he was trying to win over.

I wrapped my lips around the soggy bread and held it in my mouth to assess the ingredients—beets, cabbage, carrots, potatoes…
delicious.
I chewed and swallowed and opened up when he offered me another bite. I didn’t want to seem eager, but if I had more strength, I would’ve picked up the bowl and slurped the whole blessed thing down. It was unnerving to let him see how desperate I was to eat, but I wolfed down bite after bite after bite. The small loaf was about a quarter of the way gone when I shook my head to indicate I was full. My stomach must have shriveled down to the size of a deflated balloon. “Thank you, Dmitri.
Spasibo
.” Being kind wasn’t in his job description, and I appreciated that he was patient and gentle with me.

His cell phone rang. He set down the soup and tapped the screen. “
Da
.” He listened, ended the call, and extended his hand to help me out of bed. I held out my arms to steady myself. My legs were so weak I could barely stand, but the vertigo that had kept me bedridden had been reduced to lightheadedness and blurry vision. Dmitri placed his arm around my back and waited for me to get my bearings.

I nodded that I was okay to move, and he helped me to the bathroom. I hoped he would just let me go, but he walked me to the toilet and didn’t leave my side. I raised my eyebrows, asking for privacy. He took two steps back and folded his arms. His muscles rippled like a bodybuilder.

I frowned and motioned him out of the bathroom. “
Ukhodit
.” That was what Vladimir used to say to his poodles when they pranced at his feet.

“
Nyet
.”

I shielded my eyes with my hand to convey that he was not to watch me. He turned his head slightly toward the wall. Good enough. As I relived myself, I pulled back the shower curtain to inspect the bath. It was stocked with shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and a pink scrunch puff.

While I pulled up my underwear and washed and dried my hands, Dmitri rifled through the contents of the medicine cabinet, set out some toiletries, and motioned for me to help myself. I brushed my teeth and examined my face in the mirror. My wrecked-up reflection was almost unrecognizable. Sallow cheeks, purple finger bruises along my jawline, dark circles around my hazel eyes. What would Vladimir have said if he’d seen me in this condition? In the past he’d been so protective of me, but that was
before
.

I swiped on some deodorant and smoothed some moisturizer over my pale face. Then Dmitri guided me to the closet and opened the door. Not only was my suitcase in there packed with my vacation clothes, but there was a whole new wardrobe stocked with designer dresses, shoes, and accessories that cost more than my college tuition. I opened a drawer and found expensive bras, underwear, and nightgowns. One minute I’m handcuffed to a bed, the next I’m treated to a designer wardrobe.
What kind of mind game is Vladimir playing?

I rebelled by dressing in my own inferior athletic clothes. Once I was put together, Dmitri guided me out of my bedroom into a plush living room, which I hadn’t seen the last time since I’d been blindfolded. It was decorated with modern furniture, books lined the shelves, there was a fresh bowl of fruit at the bar in front of the kitchenette, and fragrant wildflowers graced the center of a small breakfast table. The kitchen was tiny, but it had a refrigerator, a small stove, and shelves stocked with jars of pickled vegetables, fruits, and jams, as well as a row of canned goods.

Dmitri motioned for me to have a seat in the living room. I plopped down on a cold, leather couch and caught a glimpse of my legs. My muscles had disintegrated. I’d lost so much weight, the top of my tropical tank top gaped when I leaned forward. I’d bought it with Kiki on our vacation shopping spree a few weeks ago. She had one just like it in a different color.
Thank God she’s safe.

Dmitri sat next to me on the couch and handed me a plastic shopping bag. I opened it and found a stack of Russian magazines, brightly colored hair ties, lip balm, hand lotion, a nail polish kit, and an assortment of chocolate bars, nuts, and packages of Russian junk food.

“
Spasibo
.” I thanked him and set the bag on the coffee table. I wasn’t ready to play nice with my handler, so I folded my hands in my lap and kept my gaze on the floor as I devised a new game plan. If what Boris said was true, that I would be going home, my goal was to stay alive and not do anything to jeopardize my mental or physical health.

From that standpoint, being compliant and non-confrontational would up my odds of getting out of Russia with a pulse. But if I had an opportunity to outwit Dmitri and escape, I would go for it without hesitation. Being alone on the streets of Russia had to be safer than being trapped in a dungeon with the
Bratva,
but Dmitri wasn’t like the other
patsani
back home. He didn’t
enjoy
terrorizing me.

But until or unless an opportunity to escape presented itself, my plan was to be compliant and not do anything stupid that could land me in the hot seat with Boris. For once in my life, I would do something right. I chose the easy way.

Dmitri shot glances at me but didn’t seem to give a shit that I would rather stare at the floor than paint my fingernails. Every muscle in my body ached and I was shivering from being so cold, but something inside encouraged me to do some yoga poses, stretches, or anything I could manage to help me regain some strength and get air pumping into my lungs.

There was a carpet covering the concrete floor, and I lay down on my back and let the weight of my body serve as my first stretch.
Oh, God. Everything hurts.
Despite my rough treatment, the stress alone had twisted my muscles into knots. I gathered my knees up to my chest and rocked from side to side.

My body cracked and creaked with each swaying motion. I laid my arms out to the side, leaned my legs to the right, and turned my head to the left to stretch my neck and spine. It hurt and felt good at the same time. I inhaled a deep breath and exhaled a tension-dissolving sigh. My state of relaxation was cut short when I had the eerie sensation I was being watched. I opened my eyes and Dmitri was towering over me with his hand extended to mine.

He wiggled his fingers, indicating that I should take this hand. I did, and he pulled me to my feet. He tucked his straight black hair behind his ears and lifted my hands, positioning them like a fighter. Then he pushed down on my shoulders, bent his knees, and put up his dukes.
A
boxing lesson?

I mirrored his stance. He lifted my elbows, repositioned my hands, and turned my shoulders. “
Da
.”

I bent my knees, encouraging his coaching.

He made a fist and went in for a slow motion uppercut while simultaneously moving my right hand to show me how to protect my chin.

I nodded. He took another slow motion shot while I batted his hand away. We did it several more times until I indicated I had it. Back in my ready stance, I gave him the go-ahead. He delivered a soft for-real punch and I blocked it. “Yes!” I pumped my fist.

Dmitri grinned, but when I returned a smile, his expression fell flat. No happy face for the
devushka
. He went on and coached me on the next shot, a jab. I’d half-heartedly learned all the boxing moves in a cardio mixed martial arts class at my fitness club, but I never thought it would actually be useful one day.

After we went through all the moves, Dmitri patted my shoulder, satisfied with my progress. I was proud that he thought I did a good job, considering his profession was beating guys up. His exotic green eyes were gentle, thoughtful. I didn’t understand why Dmitri was helping me, but if improving my self-defense skills might up my odds of surviving, I would take whatever training I could get.

Chapter 5

The Dungeon Suite

“Thank you, Dmitri.
Spasibo
.” I held out a closed hand to initiate a fist bump. I wasn’t sure if this kind of celebration was a universal thing, or if it was an American ritual.

Dmitri smirked and lightly reciprocated my knuckle-knock. It was way more tolerable to be locked in the dungeon with him rather than Boris—and a zillion times better than being trapped down here with Vladimir.

After my boxing lesson, Dmitri guided me to the couch and motioned for me to lie down. A nap sounded good. I did what he said, and he covered me up with a throw blanket. He sat beside me in an overstuffed chair and pulled a notebook and a pencil out of his bag. When Boris was charged with babysitting me in America, he meticulously recorded things in a notebook too. Maybe it was a
Bratva
thing.

Boris had probably ordered him to fill out a daily report about me, keeping him updated on every detail of my imprisonment and tracking every move I made. What clothes did I choose to wear? How many bites of soup did I take? Did I allow him to help me in any way? Had I become docile and compliant to his commands?

Boris would use that information against me. How could I have been so stupid? As I worked my brain into a self-deprecating tizzy, I realized Dmitri wasn’t writing, he was drawing. I shook off my paranoia and peeked over at him to see what he was working on. He busted me staring and glared at me until I closed my eyes.

I waited a moment and then squinted to watch him incognito. I couldn’t tell what he was drawing, but the notebook was well-worn, and the pace and fluidity of his strokes suggested he knew what he was doing.

He let out an exaggerated sigh when he busted me staring again.

“Are you an artist?”

Dmitri closed his eyes and made a snoring sound, reminding me I needed to sleep.

I sat up and craned my neck to get another glimpse of his work. He closed the notebook and set it on the floor. Since my abduction, my emotions had bounced around from mortal fear, hopelessness, anger, paranoia…but at that moment, I was overcome with loneliness. I needed another human to talk to. It was naïve to believe I would ever go back home, but Boris had no reason to lie. If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead. If Vladimir wanted to seek revenge, then I would be locked down here with him instead of Dmitri.

“Do you speak any English? I only know a few Russian words, but I could learn more if you want to teach me.”

He clicked his tongue and gestured for me to lie back down.

“Can I watch you draw?” I patted the seat on the couch next to me and pointed to his notepad. “Please?
Pozhaluysta
?”

Dmitri tapped his pencil on the notepad, then he got up from his chair, walked around the coffee table, and sat beside me on the couch. He flipped to a blank page and started drawing. First, he sketched the outline of a woman’s face, added in some long hair with a braid down one side, then added in her facial features. He was drawing
me
.

The scene was set in the woods, and I was crouched down next to a cat with its mouth open, like it was telling me a story. The sound of the pencil scratching across the paper was relaxing. I yawned and rested my head on Dmitri’s shoulder. His body was warm and his black, stringy hair smelled like cigarette smoke. He momentarily stopped drawing, as if contemplating whether or not he was going to shove me away, but after a beat, he kept going.

The pencil strokes got longer and darker, morphing into a heroic black wolf standing guard beside me. His eyes were intense, menacing but not evil. Obviously a self-portrait of him in wolf mode. He surrounded our characters with trees and little woodland creatures gathered around us, creating a surreal scene in an anthropomorphic setting.

The world came alive like an enchanted forest. All the animals’ eyes were set on me, and even the trees and flowers bent toward me as if my character was the leader of their world. Dmitri spoke as he sketched, seemingly to explain the scene, but I had to rely on his art to tell their story. Watching the pages come alive kept my attention all afternoon.

He even taught me a few Russian phrases so we could communicate better. “
Ya khochu”
meant “I want.” Then he taught me Russian words for things like food, drink, bathroom, and blanket. By the end of the afternoon, I had learned quite a few new words and phrases—more than Vladimir had taught me the entire time we were dating.

Once dinnertime came around, Dmitri said, “Boris
uzhin.”
He mimicked shoveling food in his mouth and curled a strand of my hair around his finger. Then he pointed to the bathroom. I understood our new language. Boris was coming for dinner and he wanted me to get dolled up for the evening.

“
Da
.” I nodded.

I went to the bathroom and dusted on some powder, swiped mascara on my lashes, and dabbed on some lipstick. Then I picked up a hairbrush and faced the mirror. I removed the hair tie from the bottom of my braid, and as I let down my hair, I had difficulty standing upright. I hated that my body was still weak. Dmitri tugged on my elbow, led me to a chair across from my bed, and motioned for me to sit. I was grateful to oblige.

He perched himself on the arm of the chair, parted my hair, and brushed one side across one shoulder and the other half across the other. When my bare back was exposed, he traced his fingers over the scar on my neck from the bite mark I’d suffered on the night Vladimir had fed me to his human wolf pack.

“
Patsani
, America.” I tucked my hand under my leg when my body began to tremble from the memory. It had been months since the attack, and I still couldn’t sleep soundly through the night. The wound had healed, but the imprint of my attacker’s canines remained. The emotional scars were still there too, but only I knew about that. I kept my end of our bargain with the Russians and never ratted them out to the cops, my family, or even Kiki.

I wondered if Boris had told Vladimir everything that had gone down that night. I doubted he told him
that
. Maybe he did. It was hard to figure them out. Vladimir had lost his entire family when he was young, and Boris had stepped in and raised him like his own son. Boris’s job was to protect the boss by any means necessary, and from experience, I knew that meant not telling him things that would fire him up.

Vladimir had no right to be angry at anyone other than himself for what his boys did to me. He had laid his hands on me that night too. Haunted by my memories of my nightmare, Dmitri startled me when he caressed my shoulder. I lifted my shoulders and squirmed.

“I don’t hurt girls,” Dmitri said.

“What? You speak English?”

“I handcuffed you so you wouldn’t try to get out of bed.” He tapped his head. “I had to heat food, didn’t want you to fall.”

“Why have you only spoken to me in Russian?”

“Boris says no English. Why did Alexander bite you?”

Alexander must’ve been Playboy’s real name. I had never been formally introduced to the lowlife, so I’d made up a fitting nickname for him. “I didn’t do what he said.”

Dmitri eyed me suspiciously. “What did he want you to do?”

I decided that, given my track record of doing every imaginable thing completely wrong, the best thing I could do was shut my mouth.

When I didn’t answer, Dmitri went back to working on my hair. He French braided the front section out of my eyes and left the rest down to hang in natural waves. Then he guided me to the closet and motioned to the beautiful dresses. I shrugged, indicating I didn’t care. He picked one out and set it on the bed. The overall color was nude, and it had a row of black beaded flowers down the sides. Vladimir had exquisite taste, but in my macabre state of mind, it looked more like a silky coffin liner than a classy cocktail dress.

Dmitri turned slightly so I could change without him gawking at me, then he pulled a pair of stilettos out of the closet and set them down for me to step into. I held onto his shoulder and slid on one shoe at a time. He checked me out to make sure I was put together and then held out his elbow to escort me to dinner. I wrapped my hand around his man-o-steel bicep and mentally prepared to face Boris.

Wait. The make-up, the hair, the dress—Vladimir is here.

I squatted to the floor, dug my heels in, and skidded on the concrete floor as Dmitri pulled me forward like I had on roller blades with no wheels. “No, no, no.” I stared at the door like I had x-ray vision and I could see who was waiting on the other side. “Vladimir is out there.” I pointed a shaky finger at the door.

Dmitri eyed my trembling hand and shook his head. “
Nyet.
Only Boris.” He lifted me back to my feet. “No one will hurt you.” He swept his arm forward, suggesting I should walk ahead without being dragged.

“Why should I trust you? You’re one of them.”

He paused as if trying to decide whether to tell me something or not. “I have entered into a contract with the
pakhan
. I get you home safely to America, and in return, I get out of Russia. I take my little sisters to New York and find good job. Your life is my freedom from the
Bratva
.”

“What did Boris mean when he said if you fail you’re a ‘dead man’?”

“My job is to protect you—
with my life
. If bullet comes, I take it. Bad guys try to steal you, I fight them to my last breath. If I fail to protect you, is because I am dead. I am your bodyguard. No one will harm you as long as I am breathing.”

“You believe they will set you free? Me too?”

Dmitri planted his hands on my cheeks and locked his gaze on mine. “On the lives of my sisters, I will get you home to America. Trust me.”

Trusting a Russian gangster was what got me here, but Dmitri was different from the others. He had shown me compassion, and I could sense his good nature—and he was risking his life to get out of the
Bratva
and save his sisters. How he was going to get us home was a mystery, but his deal with Vladimir was working to my advantage.

Trust?
Nyet
. Play the odds?
Da
.