Scamming the Devil

CHAPTER EIGHT

IRINA VOLKOV

I didn’t sleep. I spent the night pacing my luxurious prison, testing the windows (locked), examining every corner of the room for anything that could be used as a weapon (nothing), and trying to formulate an escape plan (impossible without the f*****g elevator keycard).

His men were stationed down the hall. They weren't standing at my door like cartoon guards; they were simply there, far enough to seem casual, close enough to make the message clear. I wasn't going anywhere.

I wanted to put my fist through the wall.

He took my freedom. Wrapped it in silk sheets and room service and called it hospitality.

A gilded cage was still a cage.

As dawn broke over Moscow, bleeding pink and gold across the skyline, I finally stopped pacing. I stood at the window and watched the city come alive below — people spilling onto streets, heading to work, living their ordinary, unimprisoned lives.

I'd been one day away from joining them. One day.

A knock on the door made me spin around, my heart hammering.

“Irina.” It was Nikolai’s voice, muffled by the door. “Breakfast is ready.”

I didn’t answer.

That devil.

God, why did I ignore my instincts to run when I had the chance?

My greediness led me here.

"I know you're awake. I can hear you moving around. You haven't slept at all." A pause. "Come eat. We need to talk."

"Go to hell," I said through the door.

There was a sound that might have been a laugh. "Fair enough. But the door doesn't lock, remember? I can come in any time I want. So you can either come out on your own terms, or I can come get you. Your choice."

I glared at the door, fury and helplessness warring inside me. I wanted to refuse. Wanted to make him drag me out kicking and screaming.

But that would be giving him power. Letting him see how much this affected me.

I’d survived Viktor by learning when to fight and when to submit. I’d survived Sergei’s threats by staying one step ahead. I would survive this too.

"Five minutes," I said coldly.

"Take your time."

Footsteps retreated down the hall.

I went to the closet an examined the clothes. All expensive. All tasteful. All perfectly my style, which was disturbing. How much research had he done on me? How long had he been watching?

I chose the most practical outfit I could find: black jeans, a simple gray sweater, flat shoes. Armor of a different kind. I washed my face, pulled my hair into a tight ponytail, and looked at myself in the mirror for a long moment.

Survive first. Fall apart later.

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I found Nikolai in the kitchen. An enormous space of granite and stainless steel that looked like it belonged in a cooking show. He was making coffee, dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt rolled up to his elbows, looking far too domestic for a man who'd kidn*pped me.

"Good morning," he said without turning around. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Black," I said flatly, because refusing would be petty and I needed the caffeine.

"Liar." He turned, holding two cups. "You take it with milk and one sugar. You mentioned it in our third conversation."

Of course he remembered. He probably remembered everything I told him, every small detail I used to build Anastasia Sokolova's fictional life.

He handed me a cup, prepared exactly how I liked it, and gestured to the dining table. "Sit. Please."

I sat, not because he asked, but because standing felt exposed. The table was set for two, with plates of food that looked like it had come from a restaurant: eggs, pastries, fresh fruit, smoked salmon.

"I had it brought in," Nikolai said, sitting across from me. "I don't cook. Well, I can cook, but I choose not to. Life's too short for domestic labor when you can afford not to do it."

"How convinient for you."

His lips twitched. "Yes, I suppose it is."

I picked at the fruit on my plate, my appetite nonexistent. But I forced myself to eat anyway. I needed strength. Needed to be ready for any opportunity to escape.

"Are you going to kill me?" I asked abruptly.

Nikolai looked up from his coffee, genuinely surprised. "No. Why would I kill you?"

"Because I stole from you. Because you're a mafia boss and that's what mafia bosses do to people who cross them."

"True." He took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. "But as I said last night, you didn't steal from me. I gave you that money willingly. I watched you take it."

"Nothing is a gift with you. Everything has strings attached."

"Very perceptive." He set down his cup. "You're right. The money wasn't a gift. It was an investment. In you. In this."

"There is no 'this,'" I said sharply. "This is k********g. This is illegal."

"So is fraud. So is identity theft. So is wire transfer manipulation. So is stealing nearly half a million dollars through false pretenses." He leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. "Should we call the police and compare crimes? See whose is worse?"

I glared at him, hating that he had a point.

"What do you want from me?" The question came out tired, defeated. "Seriously. What is your endgame here?"

Nikolai was quiet for a long moment, studying me. Then he said, "I want you to stay."

Huh? And what’s that supposed to mean?

"As your prisoner?"

"As my guest. Initially." He paused. "Eventually, I hope for more."

"You're insane if you think I'll ever willingly be anything to you."

"We'll see." His confidence was infuriating. "You might be surprised what time and proximity can accomplish."

"Stockholm syndrome isn't romantic, it's pathological."

"Who said anything about romance?" But something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe, or challenge. "Though I noticed you used the word. Interesting."

Heat rose to my face. I hated it. "You're twisting my words."

"I'm observing." He stood, gathering the dishes. "Let me lay out the situation clearly, so we both understand the parameters."

He moved to the window, and the morning light made him look almost otherworldly too perfect, too controlled, too dangerous.

"You can't leave the penthouse. The elevator requires my authorization. The windows don't open. Even if you managed to break one, we're on the twenty-third floor. The fall would kill you."

Each word was delivered calmly, almost gently, which made them more chilling.

"Sergei's men ransacked your apartment last night. They've already spoken to your friend Katya."

The name hit me like cold water. "Katya? They went after Katya?"

"She's fine. She told them nothing — because she knows nothing." He said it evenly. "I have people on her now. If Sergei's men go near her again, they won't get a second opportunity."

I stared at him. "Why would you do that?"

"Because she matters to you." He said it simply, like the logic was obvious. "Which means she matters to me."

The silence that followed was different from the ones before it. Something in it I didn't have a name for yet.

I looked down at my coffee cup and said nothing, because there was nothing I could say to that without giving something away.