Leverage (23 page)

“You’re a dick, you know that?”

“Conner, come on—”

“No, you don’t get off the hook that easy, because, apparently, and through no fucking fault of my own,
my
life, as I knew it, is over. School, my friends, my future. Gone. All of it. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Because of you. And now you won’t fully explain how my mother and I figure into it? That’s bullshit, and you know it,” he said and paused for effect. “
You
are a dick.”

“Hey, cool it, son. You’ve made your own poor choices and need to take responsibility for that. I didn’t force you to drink, to get your girlfriend pregnant, or gamble with money not your own. Time to man up and stop blaming your parents for your mistakes.”

“First off, I’m
not
your son and you’re
not
my parent. Second, I never would’ve been in the position to make those poor choices if it wasn’t for you and your fucking family.” With that, he pushed away from the counter and sauntered down the hall toward what I assumed were the bedrooms. He disappeared, and a door slammed shut behind him.

Without tearing his eyes from the television, Agent Liam mimicked in a Ricky Ricardo accent, “Looks like you gotta lotta ‘esplainin’ to do, Lucy.” He chuckled at his own joke and glanced at me over the back of the recliner.

“Not if I can help it,” I mumbled then resumed my slow pacing.

Greg ordered me relocated from his den downstairs to a bedroom on the second floor. Even though it was spacious and finely appointed, it was still a prison. The doors were locked from the outside, both here and in the adjoining bathroom. I was once again held captive, far from free, though I realized it could have been far worse. I’d
seen
far worse.

Four years ago, when Dmitri Chernov’s client, the sadistic Mr. Sergeyev, had purchased and locked me away, he’d done so in a filthy storage closet in Dmitri’s warehouse offices, a stained mattress on the floor and a dim light bulb swaying from a thin cord above. I shivered thinking about what had been done to me in those few hours I’d spent in that closet, what I’d submitted to, just to survive.

I shook my head. “Stop thinking about that,” I told myself. But it was hard not to. I associated being locked up with rape and torture. Just because this room was beautiful didn’t lessen that affiliation. I paced around, corner to corner. My bare toes sank into the deep, plush area rug, but only because my shoes had been taken away, another order from Greg, to make me even more vulnerable. But if given half a chance, I’d run regardless, barefoot or not.

To that end, I tested the tall, wood-sash windows, all three of them. Even though I twisted the locks open, they still wouldn’t budge. I stood at one, my hands pressed to the divided glass, and stared at the acres of meticulously landscaped lawn below. With a sigh, I turned back into the room and spied a brick-sized carved-marble box on the dresser. I fingered the smooth, cool stone before I hurled it at the window, closing my eyes and covering my ears in anticipation of breaking glass. But there was none, just a loud thunk as it bounced off the window pane then rolled across the thick rug.
Son of a bitch!

I half-expected, even wanted, some burly henchman to storm into my room to investigate; it might have given me the opportunity to escape. But no one came. Not even when I pounded on the door and screamed for thirty minutes straight. In frustration, I picked the marble box back up and pitched it at the vase sitting on the far nightstand. That did break, in an ear-piercing crash, and pieces of delicately painted porcelain scattered onto the floor, along with the half-dozen flowers inside.

“Great. Now I’ll probably step on it and bleed to death.
And no one will ever know!
” I hollered at the top of my lungs, just to spite them, but still, no one came.

I flung myself onto the bed, and, with my eyes squeezed tight, screamed into the mattress until I was hoarse. When I opened my eyes, I saw the scattered bouquet of peach blossoms on the floor next to the bed. I reached down and picked up one of the woody stems.

What, at first, I thought was real, was actually artificial. I fingered the end of the plastic stem and felt a hard wire poking out, barely, but it was there. It made the stem flexible, bendable. Excited, I sat up on the bed and tried to fold it, but the plastic was too thick and stiff, so I grabbed a piece of the broken vase and carefully stripped the plastic away, exposing the wire within. Then I looped the end over itself, and violà—a makeshift key—a trick I’d learned years ago after Conner had repeatedly locked himself in his room.

I hopped off the bed and knelt down in front of the bedroom door. Inserting the looped end into the lock, I bent the other end of the wire into a handle and turned, gently jiggling the wire as I rotated it. When the wire proved too flimsy, I doubled it up to make it more rigid. After a couple more minutes of fiddling, the wire finally turned and the knob along with it.

With my nerves screaming, I cracked the door open and peeked through, scanning what little of the hall I could see. I turned my ear to the opening and listened for any sounds—talking, a TV, anything that might indicate someone was nearby—but there was nothing, only silence. I slid the door open and stuck my head out, peering first to one side, then the other. The coast was clear. No one was about.

Glad now to be barefooted, I tiptoed into the hallway. The door to my room was slightly more than halfway down. There were four doors to the left and five to the right, all staggered on both sides, with white painted wainscoting set in between. With a deep breath, I slinked down the lushly carpeted hall an inch at a time, my back to the wall, fingers skipping along the wainscot as my head swung back and forth, up and down the passage. When the floor creaked beneath me, I stopped and held my breath until I was sure no one had heard it. I pressed a little faster the farther down I got, but at each open door, I halted and stole a quick glance before passing on to the next.

Only one door remained, and maybe ten feet beyond that were the stairs, with elaborate, wrought-iron balusters and a glossy dark-stained wood rail. That was my route of escape. I’d been escorted up those stairs on the way up from Greg’s den. They landed in the entry foyer below, a massive hall with polished marble floors, an enormous multi-tiered crystal chandelier, and towering double doors carved from the darkest piece of wood I’d ever seen, and topped with a stately palladium window easily twelve feet wide.

I was so close, I could taste freedom. Trouble was, that last door right before the stairs wasn’t pushed wide like the others. It was cracked open by about three inches, and I thought I heard a voice coming from within. I stepped to the same side of the hall as the last door and pressed my back to the wall as I slid ever closer, inch by inch, until I could touch the frame. I stuck my head closer and listened over the wild thrashing of my heart.

At first, I thought I might have been mistaken, but then, there it was, a woman, anxious and crying. Though I hadn’t known her for long, I instantly recognized her voice. Katy. And she wasn’t alone either. I heard another voice hissing at her as he passed from one end of the room to the other. Pacing. Obviously angry, but under tight control.

Dammit!
This was my only way out. I had to pass this door to get to the stairs. My heart told me I couldn’t just leave knowing Katy was there and in trouble. But my head told me to run, as fast as I possibly could, no looking back. Just get the hell out. That was the smart thing to do, and I decided I would do just that, but first, I needed to see that Katy was all right. Then I’d run and get help. So I stuck my head out and leaned toward the crack in the door, taking a careful step so I could see who else was in there. When I poked my face closer and tipped my chin up, I could see Katy sitting along the foot of a king-sized bed.

Her knees were pressed together as her legs jittered up and down, and she was wringing her hands while her body rocked back and forth. But it was her face that twisted my insides all around, making me question whether I should leave without her. Tears stained her bright pink cheeks, her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and she was gnawing on her bottom lip. The girl looked a nervous wreck, and when the person with her passed by the door, I realized why.

I froze, my eyes riveted to the man determined to destroy my family. Greg stopped pacing and stood in front of Katy then stooped down to look her in the eye.

“How could you be so stupid, Katya, to let yourself get pregnant? Are you fucking mad?” he asked. “Do you even comprehend how high the stakes are here? I’ve waited years. And after that fiasco with your father last year, another bloody delay… This is a complication I’m not prepared for. There’s no way you can finish your job now.”

When Katy began sobbing again, Greg stood up and resumed pacing, one arm crossed over his ribs as he nibbled thoughtfully on his thumbnail. “I’ll have to salvage this somehow, but… Wait,” he said as he stopped and spun around, obviously struck by an idea.

He looked at Katy and smiled then leaned back and laughed as he smacked his thighs with his palms. Confused and overwrought, Katy stared at him like he was crazy.

Greg pointed his finger at her and shook it. “Brilliant! Absolutely bloody fucking brilliant!” He raised both hands, palms up. “Just a slight shifting of the pawns.” He laughed once more. “Oh, yes, quite brilliant, indeed!”

Katy’s expression turned to disgust. “It’s not a pawn!” she objected. “It’s a baby! My baby.”

“And now
my
problem, thanks to you.”

She stood from the bed. “Jesus, how can you be so callous?”

“Me?” Greg replied, a hand to his chest. “It was your bright idea to undergo a beating just to convince your boy-toy not to kick you to the curb, even though you knew you were pregnant.” He pulled his chin in close. “And you call me callous.”

I covered my mouth with both hands.
What the hell?

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Katy approached him, her hands out—shaking, yes—but beckoning him, calling him near. This was not a woman afraid, at least not of him. No, the way she called to him, the way she needed him…this was a woman concerned, a woman worried about what she might lose. “Greg, please, I’m not part of your game. You know this baby could just as easily be yours.”

Even more stunned, I stumbled into the door with a gasp.

It swung wide, and they both spun around and saw me.

I moved away from the door, into the hall, my heart lodged in my throat as I backed into the far wall. Greg stood in the middle of the bedroom, staring at me with a disappointed frown. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep sigh, and he shook his head, as if he were about to scold me. Instead, he stomped across the bedroom toward the door, Katy chasing after him.

“Greg, wait,” she called out, her hand at his arm.

He simply tore himself free as he dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell. That was my cue to run.

I looked both ways then dashed for the stairs. I heard Greg’s voice close behind me. Grabbing the wood rail with one hand while wrapping my other arm around my belly, I tread down the first few stairs carefully, but when I heard Greg on my heels, barking orders into his phone, I bolted as fast as I could. Then I felt his fingers graze my shoulder, and I twisted away, teetered to one side. One foot caught the other, and I pitched forward, still five steps above the midway landing.

I tried to keep my hand on the rail, to stop myself from plunging face-forward onto the small mezzanine, but my center of gravity was too far forward, and all I could do was reach out and hopefully catch my fall. My inertia pounded me into the landing, and I rolled onto by belly, shrieking as a sharp jolt of pain shot through me. I skidded across the carpeted landing and came to a halt just before tumbling down the next step.

Panting through the pain, I looked over my shoulder and saw Greg stalled halfway down the first set of stairs, his brow low and his mouth mashed into an angry fissure. Again, he shook his head in disapproval. I swung my legs over the step and reached for the railing, pulling myself up as I moaned. But I couldn’t even stand up straight. Doubled over, I limped slowly down the lower set of stairs, my hands squeaking over the rail as I held myself up.

Sweat beaded across my forehead, trickled down over my temples, and dripped between my swelled breasts. And just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, it slicked my palms to the point I could no longer keep hold onto the railing. My hand slipped away, and I fell to my knees on the cold tile floor, panting in pain and exertion. I groaned aloud. The sound echoed across the cavernous entry with its high ceiling and polished marble floor.

With both arms curled around my middle and my eyes pressed tight, I sucked a loud breath through my teeth. I started to pant, quick and shallow, as the contraction ratcheted up for a good thirty seconds. It clamped down on my belly and stretched across the small of my back. Then it slowly eased, receding in short waves as my muscles quivered and began to relax. With one last cleansing breath, I sighed and opened my eyes then swung my head around so I could locate Greg.

Before me were two of his burley-chested, thick-armed goons, their eyes pinned on Greg, silently questioning what they were supposed to do with me, an eight-month’s pregnant woman, obviously injured and now in labor. Behind me, Greg sauntered unhurriedly down the last few stairs. He tsk’d me with a churlishly clicking tongue as he shook his head in reproach.

“What is it with you Karras women?” he asked with disdain. “Always so reckless with your unborn children.”

I sat back on my heels and glared up at him. “This is
your
fault.
You
did this.”

He put a hand to his chest. “No, no, no, not I, Mrs. Karras. I’ve gone above and beyond to make sure you were safe and comfortable.”

I scowled at him, shocked and utterly outraged. “You are a very sick young man.”

He crossed one arm over the other and drummed his fingers impatiently above his elbow as he studied me. “I fear you misunderstand me, Hannah. May I call you Hannah? Mrs. Karras seems so…formal,” he explained with a swish of one hand. “And you and I are about to become rather…close.” He smiled, but it was chilling, evil, and I couldn’t help but shudder as another contraction seized me.

I rocked on my knees, my arms tight around my belly, the muscles rippling beneath my fingers. “Please,” I ground out harshly. “I need to go to the hospital. My baby!” I begged.

Greg stooped low to the floor, put his hands on my arm, and stroked it. “Yes, you need a doctor, and I have just the thing.” Looking up at his men towering above us, he snapped his fingers and directed one of them to my side. “Grab her arm,” he ordered, then directed his attention to me. “Let’s get you more comfortable first, shall we? Come, back into the den. There’s a cheery fire burning, and you already know how comfy the sofa is. Please, let us help you,” he said as they stood me up.

In defiance, I wrenched free of his guard, but Greg held firm. With a sharp jerk, he turned me around to face him squarely, both hands on my arms.

“You don’t
want
to lose your baby, now do you, Hannah?”

He looked deep into my eyes, and I saw and felt an evil so dark and abhorrent, I began to quake all over.

“I didn’t think so,” he added with a hint of a grin. Then he spun me around slowly and walked me through the entry foyer, down a dark hall, and back into his den.

As he sat me down on the sofa, another contraction tore through me, and, God help me, I was relieved to feel Greg’s hand rub small circles along my lower back. He looked over his shoulder and barked, “Summon Dr. Jelavich immediately!” to his man in the doorway. “I want him here right away. We’ve a child to save.”

I turned my face into the sofa and sobbed.

Twenty excruciating minutes later, an old man, easily in his late seventies, bustled into Greg’s den. He was slight, stooped, and bald with just a few wispy hairs combed over his shiny head. Gold wire-rimmed glasses sat perched at the end of his thin nose, covering gentle, blue eyes that sparkled with energy, belying his advanced age and the incensed set of his narrow lips. He didn’t look very happy at being summoned here, but when he caught sight of me rocking along the edge of the sofa, Greg at my side with my hand involuntarily in his, he hesitated for a brief moment then fixed a reassuring smile on his face. He rushed over to join us, placing his worn, black bag on the coffee table before offering his hand to my host.

“Dmitriev,” he said by way of greeting. He added a curt nod as he shook Greg’s hand.

With a pat to mine, Greg stood and gestured toward me with a swing of his arm. “Stepan, I’d like you to meet Hannah. Hannah?” he said, turning back to me, “This is Dr. Jelavich. He’s an old family friend and trusted physician. I believe the good doctor has delivered his fair share of newborns, so he should prove to be quite useful during your stay. Doctor, Hannah, I leave you to it.” Greg bowed slightly, turned, and started to walk away.

The doctor turned and spoke gruffly in Russian. Greg came up short just as reached his desk. He spun on his heel, his brow raised, and an impatient grin tightening his mouth.

“I’ve done
nothing
, Stepan. Hannah just had a slight tumble down the stairs and has been experiencing a few…twinges. I thought it best she be examined and called you. Now, if you would please see to my guest, I would be most appreciative, and—ah, ah, ah,” he said when the doctor tried to interrupt him, his finger raised in warning. “Stepan? Do your job. Clear?” he asked, but it felt much more like a warning than a question.

It looked as though the doctor was yet another soul under Greg’s thumb. He gave Greg a long, hard stare then bowed his head in deference. Greg returned the gesture before he swung back around and slumped into his desk chair. With a sigh, the doctor turned his attention on me as I continued to rock, moan, and pant my way through another contraction.

He motioned toward the sofa. “Please, Hannah, lie back. Try to relax,” he commanded in strongly accented English.

He opened his bag and rooted around, pulling out a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. He put the stethoscope to his ears and warmed the chestpiece with a long, hot breath.

“May I?” he inquired politely, to which I nodded. He listened to my heart, front and back, then took my blood pressure, mumbling “Good, good,” after each procedure.

With a brief glance toward Greg, he looked back down at me with kindness and sympathy, resigned to his impotent role of caretaker. “So, you fell then, eh?” he asked.

I simply nodded.

He tightened his mouth. “Hannah, do not fear me,” he whispered. “Whatever has happened here, I am now your physician. You can trust me to act in your best interest. I will help you, regardless of what my…of what Grigory has done. You are safe with me, I promise.

I nodded once more, and the doctor smiled warmly, genuinely.

“Good. Now, tell me, have you had any other children?” he asked, and I confirmed. “Live births?” I raised a finger. “Good. Then tell me, how far apart are your contractions?”

“They’re…intermittent, sometimes sharp, not like a regular contraction.”

He held up his stethoscope. “May I listen?” he asked, his hand on my belly, and I nodded yet again.

Careful to preserve my modesty, he slipped the disk under my dress and listened intently with his eyes closed, moving the disk all over my swelled abdomen for what felt like a full five minutes. When I started to moan and clasped my hands over my belly, he pulled back and straightened my dress into place as I rocked my head from side to side.

“Any spotting?” he inquired, his brow scrunched in concern.

“I…don’t…know,” I panted in clipped, shallow breaths.

It was his turn to nod, adding another reassuring grin, however forced and insincere. He patted my arm and rose then approached Greg, who stood and leaned back against his desk.

“Well?” Greg asked.

“She needs to be admitted to the hospital where she can be monitored,” he answered.

Greg raised his brow and shook his head. “That’s not going to happen, Stepan. You are her only hope, I’m afraid. So do everything in your power and see to it both mother and child survive. That’s an order.”

The doctor huffed in frustration. “Fine. I suppose I can administer something to help stop labor, but it’s not a definitive solution. It might not work.”

Greg clapped the doctor on his shoulder. “Then be prepared to deliver the child.”

I choked on a sob at his words.

“Dmitriev!” the doctor bellowed then softened his voice. “Grigory, please, we must take this woman to the hospital immediately. I insist.”

Greg smoothed his face over in feigned patience. “Stepan, I am deeply offended that you would consider disobeying a direct order.”

“I am not your employee, Dmitriev, and therefore do not take orders from you.”

“Oh, but you do, Stepan. After all, that was the arrangement you had with my father, was it not?” Greg asked. “I can surely check the records, but I’m rather certain your deal was to do whatever Dmitri asked, and, in turn, my father would make sure you stayed out of prison. As always, I am honoring that arrangement.”

Greg offered an amused grin, and the doctor snapped his mouth shut. He walked back to his bag and pulled out a vial and packaged syringe, filling the chamber with a specific amount of the clear medication. After disinfecting a spot in the crook of my elbow, the doctor tapped the syringe then carefully injected the drug into my arm.

“She’s going to need an IV drip,” the doctor warned as he peeked up at Greg. “And she should be resting in bed, not here on this couch.”

“I’ll take care of the bed,” Greg agreed. “You handle the IV.”

Doctor Jelavich patted my hand. “You’re in good hands. I’ve handled many deliveries.”

I offered a smile in gratitude, but I was very apprehensive, and I’m sure my expression spoke volumes to that end.

“I’ll be back soon with everything necessary, just in case. Don’t you worry.”

I snorted. “How can I not? You’re leaving me in the care of a madman.”

With a sympathetic look, the doctor gathered his bag, tipped his head at Greg, and left. Greg leaned his head through the door and snapped for one of his men who immediately appeared before him.

“Danill, gently carry Hannah back up to her room.” His man nodded and closed the distance between us while Greg turned his gaze on me. “And you, my dear Hannah, might consider reining in that tongue of yours, or I might be tempted to show you just how mad I truly am.” With that, he smiled and left.