It had been two weeks since Vlad had brought Jane to his mansion. She was now well into her recovery except for some residual stiffness and becoming easily exhausted. Jane was beginning to find the pampered life to which Vlad subjected her entirely too stifling. She was used to hunting down leads, and if she was lucky, bad guys. She didn’t particularly enjoy lazing around in bed with unlimited magazines and books at her disposal. She had memorized every inch of his backyard, including the guard’s rotation (if Vlad were nice to her she would mention the alarming predictability of his security team). She’d reorganized every single article of his clothing, more for her amusement than his convenience. And catalogued the contents of the bathroom. Twice.
She was over being an invalid. And when Jane was over something, she became cranky, unpredictable and possibly a little stabby.
Vladimir entered his bedroom without knocking. Though she was getting used to his casual invasion of her privacy, it still annoyed Jane. To be fair, when it came to him, there wasn’t much that didn’t annoy her.
She was in the process of picking up her discarded clothes that littered the floor of his room, a task that was made more difficult by the healing hole in her middle. Jane considered it good exercise to carefully crouch down over each item and then push herself gently back to her feet. The prize for her effort was another item of clothing that she folded over the back of an ornate armchair.
She was beginning to lament her slobbishness as she was on her fifth item when Vladimir barged in. She glared up at him, annoyed he was seeing her at a disadvantage. She tried to stand too quickly and gasped in pain when the puckered wound pulled slightly.
“Careful,” he snapped, reaching for her arm.
She rolled her eyes and breathed out in annoyance. “Because I’m definitely being careless on purpose. I would just love to rip open these wounds and bleed all over your priceless Russian artifacts, just so I can stay cooped up in this mausoleum a little longer. That definitely sounds like a plan to me.”
He arched a thick eyebrow and gave her his best Russian mob boss stare. He didn’t deign to answer her sarcastic outburst.
“I’m out of here the moment I can manage it on my own,” Jane said, frustration edging her tones. She was so over him and his implacable attitude toward her.
His stare turned rather deadly. “I think not Jane. You know well that you’ll be staying here, so cease speaking nonsense.” He jerked his arm around in annoyance, indicating the expanse of the room. “You will leave the cleaning chores for the staff to take care of.”
“I can take care of my own dirty underwear, thank you very much!” If he only knew how well her upbringing had driven home the lesson of menial chores, he would probably hire her to do his laundry.
He rubbed a hand over his face. He looked tired. She had the urge to ask him what was troubling him, but remained silent. If she could help it, she wasn’t going to be on conversational terms with the criminal mastermind who was holding her in his home. His next words destroyed any sympathy she may have felt for him anyway.
He dropped his hand, straightened his shoulders and stabbed her with a piercing look. “I have given you a two week reprieve from my questions. Now that you are on your feet,” he looked her up and down disapprovingly, “I must once more insist you tell me who shot you.”
Jane was so surprised by the sudden turn the conversation took that she didn’t mask her features well enough. Vlad hadn’t touched on the subject again during her stay, despite the hours he spent at her side poring over work papers and discussing light topics with her like their shared interest in books. She honestly hadn’t expected him to bring up the subject of her shooter again, since he hadn’t said a word about it in twelve days. She thought maybe he was willing to let it go.
She dropped her eyes and said quickly, “There’s nothing to tell, Vladimir.”
He sighed heavily and flexed his stiff shoulders, rolling them beneath the expensive button-up shirt and took a step closer to her. Though she tried not to back away from him, she was nervous. “You play games with me, Jane. This is not a path you want to explore. Give me the name so I can end this for both of us. The man who nearly took your life cannot be allowed to enjoy breathing for one night more.”
"I don't know who shot me, Vlad!" Jane shouted at the man towering over her.
She was too angry now to be intimidated. She detested being questioned when she had already given an answer, perhaps a remnant from her police days. Though she wore little more than an over-sized shirt to cover her nakedness, she went toe to toe with her terrifying host. She was almost completely healed, but any pressure on the wound low on her belly caused slivers of pain to radiate through her abdomen and legs.
"Try again, Jane," he growled, stalking closer, crowding her against the edge of the king-sized bed. "I allowed you a reprieve while you healed, but no more. You lied to me once, don't do it again."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
His hand shot out and gripped her neck. Her hands automatically went up to snatch at his wrist, tugging uselessly against his hold. He didn't hurt her, but the implied strength in his fingers suggested that he easily could. She stood quietly, glaring up into his cold face. The only emotion he gave away was through the ripple of an involuntary muscle in his jaw that made his scar twitch. He brushed a finger across her forehead, sweeping aside her dark bangs so he could see her eyes properly. The gentleness of the action was strangely terrifying when compared to his grip on her throat.
"Tell me who shot you Jane, or I will make you tell me," he said menacingly.
Her chin went up and she glared furiously at him. She kept one hand locked on his wrist and used her other to push against his chest. Her fingers grazed the hard muscle under his buttoned shirt. The tattoos that flowed up his neck were a stark reminder of his connections. She knew that withholding the information he wanted was probably incredibly stupid. She decided to distract him instead by going on the attack.
"For all I know, it was you who shot me!" she snapped furiously, trying to suppress a quaver that threatened to ruin her plan. "You've been threatening me for months, trying to push me away from the truth. You had me kicked out of the police force so you could get me in your bed. I bet it was you lurking in the shadows, just waiting for your chance to shoot me. You said yourself all those months ago you’d take sick pleasure in hurting me and now you’ve brought me here so you can keep me under your thumb. You're just sick enough to do it, Sitnikov!”
Stupid Jane, she thought, accusing the kind mob boss who’s hosting me in his home of nearly killing me.
The only indication he gave that her words scored blood was through the stiffening of his fingers. They flexed against her throat. Not tightening, but definitely threatening her wellbeing in an elemental way. He stepped closer into her space until his body was flush against hers. She didn't know how it was possible, but her body – the part that craved his – sat up and took notice. He dropped his head until his lips nearly brushed her forehead. She inhaled deeply, taking in his scent of cigar and vodka.
"Is this really what you believe?" he asked chillingly. "That I would hurt you in such a cowardly fashion?"
She had to fight not to cower from the icily menacing look he gave her. She imagined the men who had crossed Vladimir Sitnikov being treated to the coldness in his voice right before they died horribly.
She licked her lips and stood her ground. "Isn't that how Dennis Yankovich died – a man who from all accounts was supposed to have been your friend for years? If that’s how you treat a friend, I can easily imagine you shooting the policewoman who pursued you with relentless determination. You ended my career with barely a thought, why wouldn’t you put a few bullets in me too?"
His body tensed from head to toe, as though he fought with himself not to strike her. She knew she was pushing him in a way that would mean instant death to anyone else. But she couldn't allow him to get to the truth. She had a right to investigate her own attempted murder and to confront the man that shot her. She knew if she gave up the information Sitnikov wanted that she would never be allowed to have that chance. He wanted to hide her away, to protect her. She had no choice but to refuse that protection, even if it meant lashing out at the beast that lay so close to his civilized surface.
"You know nothing of Dennis," he bit out.
"I know what I saw, Sitnikov," she snapped back. "And that was one hell of a grisly crime scene. Why shouldn't I fear for my life? You threaten me and kidnap me. You keep me here against my will. What have you done to make me think you don't intend to kill me eventually?"
"I have given you every luxury!" he snarled vehemently.
"Except my freedom!"
He ignored her. “And this is how you repay me? I have treated you with a delicacy I have given no other. I have given you a safe place from which to recuperate. You are pushing me woman, and you will not like the consequences. I will teach you to respect the freedoms I allow you."
She glared angrily up at him. "A jail is a jail, Sitnikov. Whether it has bars on the windows or silk sheets on the beds."
"You think so?" he asked in such a way that she knew she had finally managed to push him too far.
He dropped his iron hold on her neck and reached for her hand. Jane cried out as he turned abruptly and dragged her out the door. She had to run to keep up with his longer strides, an exercise that was particularly undignified in her current state of undress. She nearly lost her footing on the stairs down to the lower level, but Sitnikov's bruising grip kept her from tumbling head first down the hardwood steps.
Boris stood at the bottom, looking at them impassively. He didn't so much as raise a brow to indicate something out of the ordinary was happening, but he did speak in rapid Russian as they approached. Sitnikov grunted a short answer in the same language. Boris' sharp reply had Sitnikov halting. Jane tripped into his back, but he refused to let go of her hand. He turned and looked at Boris with such chilling intensity that Jane gasped out loud. What had been said?
"You do not question me, ever," Sitnikov said with such quiet intensity it felt like the entire room held its breath in anticipation of an imminent bloodbath.
Boris stared hard at Sitnikov and then glanced at Jane. "She is injured still, boss. It would not be fair to punish her for careless spoken words."
Jane held her breath. Boris was trying to stop his boss from doing whatever it was he planned on doing to her in retaliation for accusing him of being the shooter. She wanted to thank the giant Russian, but decided his life was safer if she stood silently and studied the ceiling. The intricate architecture of the entire mansion was really quite absorbing.
"You continue to question me, brother?" Sitnikov asked, almost conversationally. The occupants of the room knew he was feeling anything but casual. He stepped closer to Boris, as he had done earlier with Jane. He was nowhere near as massive as the huge bodyguard, but the Boss had an air of deadly intensity that was enough to make even the most feral of beasts back down. "You wish to take your rightful place in the Bratva, become my opponent perhaps, take this corner of the new country from me?"
“Nyet," Boris replied quickly.
"Then you will never again question my actions, especially in regards to my woman." Sitnikov stepped back and Boris visibly relaxed his stance. It should have been laughable that the massive boulder of a man was concerned about anyone beating him in a fight. The fact that he feared Sitnikov didn't fill Jane with confidence.
Sitnikov turned away. "She will learn her rightful place."