The basement smells of wet rust, old urine, and something metallic I know exactly what it is: blood that hasn't dried properly.
My breathing comes in short clouds, even though the air is still. The cold from the concrete floor creeps up my bare legs, but I don't shiver. I won't give them that satisfaction.
The ropes around my wrists are too tight to be loose by accident. Someone knows what they're doing. Someone who's tied people up before—and who enjoys watching the skin tear slowly.
I clench my teeth and twist my wrists slowly, the way Noah taught me once when I was nine and cried because the rope cut deep.
"Pain is just information, Darya. Use it before it uses you."
Information: the rope is thick nylon, probably from a boat. The knot is double, but sloppy on the last loop—haste or arrogance.
I start working it with my thumbs, ignoring the hot blood trickling down my forearms and dripping onto the floor. Each drop sounds like a clock.
Heavy footsteps descend the metal stairs. Two sets.
The door creaks open and Dimitri Tival enters first, the same bald man with the crooked scar, now wearing a smile that looks sliced open with a knife. Behind him comes a shorter man with broad shoulders, tattoos climbing his neck to his ear—one of the thugs I saw in the black van.
Dimitri lights another cigarette. The flame lights his face for a second, highlighting the wrinkles of someone who laughs too much at things that aren't funny.
—Still awake, little Blackwell princess? — He blows the smoke in my face. —I thought you'd have passed out from fear by now. Girls like you usually break fast.
I lift my chin. The cut on my lip reopens and blood runs down my chin.
—Girls like me don't break. We break you.
The thug laughs, a thick, wet sound. Dimitri slaps the back of his head without even looking.
—Shut up, Pavel. She still thinks she's tough because she has five fathers and seven asshole brothers. — He crouches in front of me, so close I can smell cheap vodka and nicotine on his breath. —You know what I find funny? Your twin brothers, Yakov and Vasily… they're triplets with you, right? Same face, same birthday, same whore mother. And still, none of them have come to get you yet.
He grabs my chin hard, forcing me to look at him.
—Maybe they're busy counting the money they'll make selling the territory after you turn into a newspaper headline. "Blackwell daughter found in pieces in the Hudson River." Pretty, huh?
I spit in his face. Blood and saliva mixed.
He doesn't blink. Just wipes it slowly with the back of his hand and smiles wider.
—Good girl. I like it when they bite. — He stands and nods to the thug. —Show her what happens to girls who bite.
Pavel steps forward. He's big, but slow. I see the punch coming and turn my face at the last second—the fist hits my cheekbone instead of my nose. Pain explodes white behind my eyes, but I don't scream.
Instead, I laugh. Low. Hoarse.
—Is that all? My dad Lohan hit harder when I missed the target at ten years old.
Dimitri tilts his head, assessing.
—Maybe we need something more… creative. — He pulls a knife from his belt—not one of Zedekiah's pretty ones, but a dirty utility knife with a cracked rubber handle. —Let's start small. A finger. The left pinky, maybe. To match the ring your mother wears on her left wrist. Five tattooed names… five fewer fingers. Poetic, don't you think?
He grabs my bound left hand and presses the cold blade to the base of my pinky.
I feel the metal bite into the skin, but I don't close my eyes.
I stare straight at him.
—If you cut it, you'll have to explain to your men why a seventeen-year-old girl made you piss your pants when my parents arrive.
He hesitates. Just a second. But I see it.
Then he laughs again, puts the knife away, and steps back.
—You're funny, Darya. Let's see how long that humor lasts. — He turns to the thug. —Leave her there a little longer. No food, no water. When she starts begging, let me know. I want to be the first to hear it.
They leave. The door slams. Silence returns, heavier than before.
I close my eyes now.
I breathe between heartbeats, slowly.
I think about my brothers.
Yakov and Vasily arguing over who would shoot first in training. Aleksei carrying me on his back when I pretended to be hurt just to annoy him. Nikolai teaching me how to breach systems without leaving a trace. Sergei telling bad jokes while wiping blood off his hands. Dimitri lighting matches just to watch the flame dance.
And I think about Mikhail.
He was in the van.
He saw everything.
And he did nothing.
Or did he?
I squeeze my eyes tighter.
No. He's new. He's weak. He's just a skinny boy who showed up with a beat-up backpack and eyes that don't blink enough.
But then why, when Dimitri mentioned my brothers, did I think of him first?
The pain in my face throbs. The blood dries, sticking to my skin.
I keep working the knot.
Slowly.
Because if I stop, I start imagining things I don't want to imagine.
Like the sound of five pistols racking in unison.
Like the smell of gunpowder and cigarette smoke that comes with them.
Like Mikhail's face when he picked up that unloaded pistol and held it like he already knew exactly where the trigger was.
I press harder.
The rope gives a millimeter.
And I smile in the dark, even with my torn lip.
They think they're breaking me.
But they're just giving me time to remember who I am.
And when I get out of here…
I'll remind every single one of them.