Scamming the Devil

CHAPTER NINE

IRINA VOLKOV

The statement hung in the air between us. I didn't examine it. Didn't want to.

"As for your debt," Nikolai continued, "I've already handled it."

My head snapped up. "What?"

"I paid Sergei. In full. Plus interest for his trouble. You no longer owe him anything."

I stared at him, unable to process what I was hearing. "You... you paid off my debt?"

"Five hundred thousand dollars. Yes." He watched me carefully. "Consider it another investment."

"I don't understand." My voice was barely a whisper. "Why would you do that?"

"Because now you owe me." His smile was sharp. "And I'm far more patient than Sergei. I don't want you running because you're afraid of loan sharks. I want you here because eventually, you'll choose to be here."

"That will never happen."

"Never is a long time, Irina."

I wanted to scream at him. Wanted to throw something. Wanted to wipe that confident certainty off his face.

Instead, I asked the only question that mattered: "What happens now?"

"Now, we establish a routine. I have work to do—my business doesn't run itself. You have free reign of the penthouse. There's a library, a gym, a media room. Everything you could possibly need."

"Except freedom."

"Freedom is overrated." He moved closer, and I forced myself not to retreat. "You've spent two years running, Irina. Constantly looking over your shoulder. Afraid of Viktor, afraid of Sergei, afraid of being caught. Tell me—was that freedom? Or was that just a different kind of prison?"

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong.

But I couldn't. Because he was right.

"Here, you're safe," Nikolai continued, his voice dropping lower. "No one can hurt you. No one can find you. You don't have to lie or hide or pretend to be someone you're not. You can just exist."

"Except I'm trapped."

"For now." His hand came up to my face, and I flinched but didn't pull away. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they traced my jawline. "But that can change. In time. When I trust you. When you trust me."

"I'll never trust you."

"We'll see." He dropped his hand and stepped back. "I have a meeting this morning. I'll be gone for a few hours. Try not to destroy anything while I'm out."

"No promises."

That almost-smile appeared again. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't at least try."

He moved toward a door I hadn't noticed—presumably his own bedroom—then paused. "Oh, and Irina? Don't waste your time looking for weapons. I've removed anything that could be used to harm me or yourself. I'd rather not have to explain to my doctor why you're covered in self-inflicted wounds."

"How thoughtful."

"I try." He disappeared into his room.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Twenty minutes later, Nikolai emerged dressed in an impeccable black suit, looking every inch the powerful businessman. He stopped by the kitchen where I still sat, nursing my now-cold coffee.

"I'll be back by two," he said. "There's food in the refrigerator. Help yourself to anything."

I didn't respond, didn't even look at him.

"Silent treatment, then. That's fine. I'm a patient man." He paused at the elevator, using his keycard. The doors opened. "Try to get some rest, Irina. You look exhausted."

And then he was gone, the elevator carrying him away with a soft mechanical hum.

I sat in the sudden silence, trying to process everything that had just happened.

He'd paid off my debt. Protected Katya. Given me everything except the one thing she wanted: freedom.

And the worst part — the part that made me feel genuinely sick — was that small, traitorous corner of me that felt something close to relief.

I shut that down immediately and stood up.

I forced myself to stand, to move, to explore my prison properly. The penthouse was enormous—I'd barely seen any of it last night. I found the library first, and despite everything, my breath caught.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, filled with thousands of volumes. Leather armchairs positioned by windows. A rolling ladder to reach the higher shelves. It looked like something out of a period drama.

I ran my fingers along the spines, reading titles. Classics. Contemporary literature. History. Philosophy. Everything organized with obsessive precision.

I pulled out a worn copy of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment and opened it. The margins were filled with notes in neat handwriting.

Nikolai's handwriting.

I flipped through the pages, reading his thoughts, and felt something uncomfortable twist in my chest. The notes were insightful. Thoughtful. They revealed a mind that was as much philosopher as criminal.

It would be easier if he were just a monster. Easier to hate him, to want escape, to see this as black and white.

But nothing about Nikolai Dragunov was simple.

I continued exploring. The gym was state-of-the-art—weights, treadmill, even a punching bag. The media room had a screen that took up an entire wall. His office was locked, but I could see through the glass door: desk, computer, filing cabinets. All the tools of his empire.

Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I approached the door he'd disappeared through earlier. His bedroom.

The door was unlocked. Of course it was. He had nothing to hide from me—I was the one whose secrets he'd exposed.

I pushed it open slowly.

The room was surprisingly austere. King-sized bed with charcoal linens. Minimal furniture. No photographs, no personal items. Just clean lines and empty space.

It looked like a hotel room. Like someone who didn't really live anywhere, just existed.

The only personal touch was a single framed photograph on the nightstand. I picked it up, studying it.

A younger Nikolai, maybe nineteen or twenty, stood with an older man who had the same sharp features. Father, probably. Both were smiling, but there was something guarded in their expressions. Like they'd learned early not to trust the world.

I set the photo down carefully and backed out of the room, feeling like I'd seen something I shouldn't have.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. I tried the windows again (still locked). Tried the elevator (still required the keycard). Searched every drawer and cabinet for anything useful (nothing).

Finally, exhausted from the sleepless night, I returned to the library and curled up in one of the armchairs with a book. I told myself I was just passing time, but the truth was simpler: reading had always been me escape.

When you couldn't leave physically, you could leave mentally.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I must have dozed off, because I woke to the sound of the elevator. Nikolai was back.

He came through the doors and into the library, tie loosened, jacket still on. I registered the blood on his shirt before anything else — a dark stain spreading across the white, too much of it to be incidental.

"Did...did you kill someone?" The question was out before I could decide whether I wanted to ask it.

"One of my associates tested my patience." He said it the way someone else might describe a mildly frustrating meeting. "He won't do it again."

The implication settled over the room like a drop in temperature.

I closed my book and stood. Put careful, deliberate distance between us — not enough to look like running, just enough to breathe.

He noticed. He always noticed. But he said nothing, just moved to the bar cart in the corner and poured two fingers of whiskey, his back to me.

"Sit down, Irina."

"I'd rather stand."

"Sit. Down. I'm not going to hurt you." He turned, glass in hand, and looked at me steadily. "Whatever you just decided I am in that moment — I'm not."

"You just told me you killed a man."

"I told you an associate tested my patience." A pause. "I didn't specify what I did about it."

I held his gaze. "Did you?"

The silence lasted three full seconds.

"Yes," he said. "I did."

I nodded slowly, like this was information I was simply filing away. Like my heart wasn't hammering.

"Thank you for being honest," I said, and I wasn't entirely sure why I said it.

Something moved across his face — brief, unreadable. Then it was gone.

"Go eat something," he said, turning back to his whiskey. "You barely touched breakfast."