Fly, fly, fly, little birdie-fly away while you still can. The day is coming when you will no longer be able to fly because I'm going to clip your little wings and lay them on the altar of my vengeance.
Chapter Six
Kathleen hated it when trouble rumbled on the horizon, threatening all she loved. The foreboding fear that went along with being the wife of a gangster was something she would never get used to. When you loved as deeply as her family did, a piece of you died every time you thought about something bad happening.
No matter how brave or strong you were, in this lifestyle fear was a constant companion. Sometimes it was off in the distance, whispering, easily drowned out by the sounds of life and love around you. At other times, the roar was so loud nothing could obscure it.
But at times like these, when fear breathed raggedly down her neck and her inner demons whispered hot accusations in her ear, she easily assumed the cool, composed façade of a Bratva wife. Impervious to outside influences; supremely confident in the power she wielded at her husband's side. She knew well how to go through the motions flawlessly, regardless of the chaos unfolding around her. She didn't really do it for herself, though; she did it for them. To show fear was to expose her loved ones to doubt, and where confidence waned … death was inevitable.
But no matter how impeccably she maintained her outer demeanor, her intuition was raising a red flag, demanding to be heard. The personal nature of the recent attack was unprecedented, and everyone was reacting to it in their own way. For her husband, it meant facing down inner demons that hadn't seen the light of day in years. His methods for dealing with them were … unconventional, but not altogether unpleasant, she thought with a satisfied sigh. But for her? It meant an unexpected and persistent dash of paranoia. At the oddest moments, when she knew perfectly well that her privacy and safety were assured, she felt like she was being watched. Silly, really. There was no way that someone could infiltrate Glazov's compound, which was the equivalent of a fortress in terms of security. And yet …
No. She was imagining things. That, or she was more sensitive than usual to her husband's discreet yet utterly obsessive eyes on her every move. She never asked him if it was him watching her because she knew what he would say. The answer was always the same: I'm watching you, Ptichka … always watching. She had resented those reminders in the early days with him, but now the words soothed her nerves and helped put her mind at ease. And yet, the hair on the back of her neck still prickled for no reason.
Of course, her fears were not totally unfounded; after all, Glazov had put the Bratva cell on high alert and she, for all intents and purposes, was on lockdown. She had managed to slip out briefly that afternoon, but had been diligently herded back to the compound like a wayward sheep. A glance in her rearview mirror confirmed that the black SUV containing her contingent of Bratva guards was stubbornly ensconced behind her car.
Maybe Glazov was right; she needed to be able to fly. It was the reason he called her Ptichka-his little bird-it was also the reason he had clipped her wings just enough to keep her close.
She ignored the goosebumps on her arms and the prickly sensation at the back of her neck as she passed through the gate and proceeded along the driveway. As she parked, she noticed there were no cars out front, which was unusual. So was the eerie silence as she stepped from her car. Glazov must have insisted that the cars be parked neatly in the garage, which he did sometimes. To say the man was OCD was an understatement.
As she neared the landing at the top of the front steps of her home, she turned to wave off her security detail, but they were nowhere in sight. Strange. She unlocked the front door and crossed the threshold into the foyer, preparing to take the grand staircase to the suite of rooms she shared with her husband.
As she turned to close the door, a massive hand clamped over her mouth and she was pulled back against a massive wall of muscle. She clawed at the hand only to have another hand pinch her nose closed, cutting off her air. Before she had time to panic from the lack of air, her attacker pressed his thumb against her carotid and then … blackness.
When she awoke, she was kneeling precariously on a stool, her wrists restrained above her head. She was nude, her wrists shackled to a heavy chain that was fastened to the basement ceiling-the same basement Glazov used as a fully functional dungeon, complete with iron shackles bolted to the walls, a long table with cuffs dangling from each corner -- and, last but not least, the enormous meat hook in the center of the ceiling, which was the source of her current predicament.