5

Camila

My hands are sweaty and damp as I let go of the steering wheel.

Just breathe. In and out.

I bow my head, shutting my eyes, focusing on the slow rhythm of my breathing. It's the third time I've tried this in the last ten minutes. It hasn't calmed me yet, but I can't think of anything better.

I could just drive away instead of meeting Asher face-to-face. The thought tempts me. Relaxing my grip on the steering wheel, I push open the car door. As appealing as disappearing sounds, it would mean losing my only chance to save the studio.

I need to be brave.

I can do this.

Adjusting my jean jacket over my knee-length tan sweater dress, I slip my phone, with my wallet attached, into my pocket. It probably won't help much, but I've set Adriana as my emergency contact, not my mom. If she found out I was in trouble, she'd overreact. And involving the police would likely be pointless.

Adriana, though, would figure something out if I called her in a panic. She'd make Jonah move mountains to help me.

I hope it doesn't come to that.

Locking my car, I stride purposefully in my ankle boots towards Topher's. Unlike last night, there's no crowd of partygoers hanging around outside. That's one less obstacle for me.

Pushing open the heavy front door, I scan the lounge, searching for Asher. I'm a few minutes late for our meeting—I didn't want to seem too eager or desperate by arriving early.

He should already be here. Where is he? He's hard to miss. The man is like a walking refrigerator!

Topher's keeps the lighting low, but it's not pitch dark. Where could he be hiding? And why is it unusually quiet tonight? I count maybe five customers at the bar and one sitting alone in a booth.

"Excuse me?"

Turning, I see the waitress from last night, her hair now styled in space buns. She's dressed the same as before, but there's a twitch in her smile, an edge to her demeanor.

"Oh, hey!" I greet her.

Her smile falters slightly at the corner. "He's waiting for you over there."

I don't need to ask who she means. Following her gesture, I spot the VIP section, cordoned off with a velvet rope. I've never been there before; it's reserved for big spenders who like to flaunt their wealth.

"Thanks," I murmur. "How long has he—" My question trails off as I watch her quickly retreat, almost as if she's afraid of me now. It's unsettling, especially considering how friendly she was last night.

What changed?

--

The nerves from earlier grip my heart again. Steeling myself, I walk stiffly into the VIP area. A thin curtain covers the doorway. Peeking through the gap, I see a large, rounded black leather couch. Asher sits in the center, legs spread wide, arms draped casually over the backrest. His posture exudes confidence and control. Unlike me, he didn't need to psych himself up in his car before coming inside. He's dressed impeccably in ash-gray slacks and a matching suit jacket, his chest adorned in a rich sienna shirt. If someone snapped a photo of him now, it could grace the pages of GQ magazine, earning millions in royalties.

He catches sight of me peering through the curtain. "Hello, Camila."

"Hi," I reply coldly. He chuckles, as if my demeanor amuses him. Letting the curtain fall back into place, I approach him cautiously. "You didn't need to book the VIP section. We're just here to discuss business."

“My mother should know that you change your mind and won’t be buying the studio.”

“That would not be generosity.”

“But it would be to me.”

Eyes narrowed, Asher gave me a curious look. “You would allow your mother to end up on the street? And for what? Your pride?”

I was jerked forward, causing a few drops of champagne to spill onto my dress. “I would never let her end up on the street. You have a big idea of yourself if you think you are our only option.”

“I am your only option,” he said sharply.

My indignation simmers into a full-blown inferno of disgust. “Anyone would be better than a murderer.”

It’s as if all the air has fled the room. Asher is immobile, focusing on me with his eyes so intently that I can feel the angry heat emanating from them.

“Oh, ptichka.” There’s a silky danger in his voice now. “That was the wrong thing to say.”

Not wanting to show any weakness, I push my jaw out defiantly. “Back out of the deal, or I’ll call the cops on you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Clearly.” Settling into the cushions, he takes a swallow from his glass. “But if I am, as you say, a murderer,” he sets the glass down, “then agreeing to meet me in person tells me that you’re either very brave, Camila, or very stupid.”

Something in his demeanor has changed. It seeps from his pores, a black, insidious cloud that fills the room until I’m struggling to breathe. Asher isn’t worried about my promise to call the cops. In fact, he’s practically daring me to do it. Coldness grips my heart. I’m in over my head. Setting the champagne down, I will my legs not to tremble when I rise. “I’m leaving.”

His smile is cruel. “Are you?”

Whirling around, I throw the curtain aside. I’m moving with purpose, but internally, I’m frantically making plans. Don’t look back, don’t scream, just get out and go to your car. From there I can call the police … warn my mother to go somewhere safe until this is all handled. Asher is dangerous; I knew it from the start.

And he’s right about one thing. I was stupid for coming here.

The hair on the back of my neck rises as I walk. Something’s not right. The only sound in the lounge is the music piping from the speakers. I look around and suddenly realize that it’s empty. Where is everybody? There were at least people—customers drinking and waitresses walking about—when I walked inside. It can’t have been more than a few minutes. And I know Topher’s doesn’t close this early.

“You didn’t know, did you?”

Spinning, I back up at the sight of Asher looming over me. His hands are folded behind his jacket, while that same handsome, predatory grin flits across his face.

“Know what?” I demand.

He turns to the right, gesturing grandly at the ceiling, then at the curved bar. “This is my establishment. I own it, Camila. Just like I’ll own yours.”

The revelation is a gut-check. This city has bred corruption longer than I’ve been alive. But to learn that a place I’ve used as a sanctuary to let my guard down, to let loose with friends, is owned by this wretched man … It’s too much. What else does he control? How far do his hands reach?

And when will he stop?

The last wall holding my fear at bay crumbles. Inching my heel backward, I take a second step, then bolt toward the exit. Adrenaline leaves my tongue tasting like battery acid. It makes me faster than normal too, and I burst through the exit with my calves straining. I don’t see the wall of men until it’s too late.

Screaming in shock, I stumble into the chest of the man right in front of me. His hands wrap around my upper arms, digging in, holding me still.

“Let go of me!” I shriek, wrenching from side to side. He laughs, a few of his companions joining in. All of them are big, though none would rival Asher. Twisting violently to escape, I throw my elbows, searching for something to hit.

“Look at her fight,” one of them chuckles.

“A wild one,” another agrees.

The man gripping me gives me a hard shake. I lose my balance, and he takes the opportunity to yank me against his rough peacoat, forcing my breasts into his body. He lets loose a disgusting groan, indicating he’s enjoying the contact. Horrified, I stare up at his face. His head is shaved. I notice, in my hyper-awareness brought on by fear, that there’s a small raised scar on his left temple.

“Calm down.” His breath smells like rank pickles. “You’re not going anywhere. When Asher Volkov wants something, he gets it. Ponimayesh?”

Hearing Asher’s name lights another flash of defiance in me. With renewed strength, I drive my boot heel sharply into the man’s ankle. He shouts, jumping as he releases me.

“You bitch!” he roars.

His companions cackle at the display. “She got you good, Kostya!”

He swipes to grab hold of me again. Dodging aside, I sprint blindly away from the group. Where do I go? How do I get away? I’m spinning, tangled in a tornado of mocking faces who all want to harm me. I run to my right, but I’m blocked. To the left is another row of hands snatching for my body. The men have created a funnel that forces me back toward the lounge. Unable to go elsewhere, I dart at the front doors.

This time, I hit the biggest blockade of all.

Asher clutches my wrists in a single hand. With his other, he cups my cheeks, manipulating me to gaze up at him.

“What a shame,” but now, he’s no longer smiling, “that you won’t be changing your opinion about me, Camila.”

His fingers reach into my pocket, dig around like a second home, and pull out my keys. He dangles them in front of my nose before tossing them to a man nearby. “Move her car. It’s parked around the corner.”

Sucking in breath after breath, I almost miss the crunch of tires pulling up on the curb. Asher looks over my head. My gaze follows him, and a glossy black Cadillac Escalade pulls up.

“What’s happening?” I ask shakily.

Ignoring me, he thrusts me toward the men. Two of them hold me by either arm, being extra careful this time not to let me attack them.

“Put her in the back seat,” he commands them.

Panic seizes me when I realize what’s about to happen.

“No! Let me go! Stop, please! Someone help me! Someone, help! HELP!” My voice echoes around the empty streets. Asher isn’t fazed. He watches calmly as I’m pushed into the vehicle.

I know there are people in the area. It’s impossible for nobody to hear my desperate pleas. I can see them peeking through window cracks to witness what’s happening to me, but not a single one intervenes. Nobody is willing to stick out their neck and get involved.

I yell again, shrieking until my throat is raw, but it’s pointless.

No one is coming to save me.