Chapter 72 BAIT

Chapter 72 BAIT


The room smells like old metal and disinfectant.

Anya notices it immediately, because fear sharpens everything. The scrape of the chair legs when they push her down. The hum of electricity behind the walls. The faint echo of traffic somewhere far below, reminding her that the city is still alive while she is not part of it.

Her wrists are not tied.

That is the first thing she registers, and it unsettles her more than rope would have.

They want her cooperative.

She sits with her back straight, hands folded in her lap, breathing slow through her nose. Her dress is still intact. Her shoes had been left behind in the apartment. She's been untouched and unbothered. That matters. Men who intend to break you do not bother with politeness.

The door closes.

Not slammed. Just shut.

There are three of them in the room now. All men. All unfamiliar. None of them Russian, not really. Their accents slip when they speak to one another, vowels rounded wrong, consonants too clean. Pretenders.

She'd heard Russian all her life, and knows what the accent sounds like even in her dreams.

One of them leans against the wall, arms crossed. Another stands by the door. The third pulls a chair out and straddles it backwards, resting his forearms on the backrest like they are about to have a conversation over drinks.

He smiles at her.

“You made it difficult,” he says.

Anya lifts her gaze to his face. She does not ask how. She does not ask why. She waits.

Silence stretches.

Good, she thinks. Let them fill it.

“You were supposed to leave the club quietly,” the man continues. “Instead, someone died.”

Her throat tightens despite her effort. Dmitir’s face flashes in her mind, the brief moment of eye contact, the flicker of apology she had not understood until it was too late.

“I didn’t shoot anyone,” she says calmly.

“No,” the man agrees. “But you were the reason.”

Anya nods once, accepting the blame without admitting guilt. It is easier for men like this if she agrees with them. Easier for them to underestimate her.

“What do you want?” she asks.

The man smiles wider, pleased she asked the right question.

“That depends on you.”

Her pulse ticks faster, but she keeps her expression neutral. She leans back in the chair slightly, feigning composure while her mind works.

If they wanted the flash drive, they would have searched her already.

If they wanted information, they would be yelling.

If they wanted Dante, they would already be calling him.

Which means this is a waiting room.

“You know who I am,” she says.

The man tilts his head. “We know who you belong to.”

There it is.

The word lands heavy in her chest. Belong. Ownership implied. Danger confirmed.

She lets her shoulders soften. Lets fear creep into her eyes just enough to be convincing.

“I don’t know anything,” she says quietly. “I was just told to go somewhere and hand something off.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says. “Then this will be easy.”

Easy is never easy.

They leave her alone after that.

Hours pass. Or minutes. Time loosens its grip in rooms like this. There are no windows. No clocks. Just the faint drip of a pipe somewhere and the buzz of the lights.

Anya tests the chair legs with her foot. Solid. Bolted. She exhales slowly and shifts her weight, letting her hands slide down her thighs as if adjusting her dress.

The flash drive presses cool and small against her skin.

She had hidden it instinctively, slipping it into a place that would require intent and permission to search. Men like these would not go there unless they were certain it was necessary. And right now, they thought it unnecessary.

She keeps her breathing steady.

Her mother’s voice floats up from memory, distant and unwelcome. Be polite. Be agreeable. Be convincing.

She almost laughs at that.

The door opens again.

A different man enters this time. Older. Sharper eyes. He does not sit. He circles her slowly, taking her in like inventory.

“You understand why you’re here,” he says.

She shakes her head slightly. “I don’t.”

He stops in front of her. Looks down.

“You were never meant to leave that building.”

Something cold slides down her spine.

“I was meant to deliver something,” she says.

“Yes,” he replies. “And then you were meant to disappear.”

Anya swallows.

“Did you think we would not notice?” he asks. “A woman like you, walking into a Russian operation, speaking the language, drawing attention. That takes confidence.”

Or instruction, she thinks.

“Where is it?” he asks.

She looks up at him, genuinely confused. “Where is what?”

The sound of his palm against her cheek is sharp and sudden. Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to humiliate.

Her head snaps to the side. She tastes copper.

“That,” he says evenly, “was for wasting my time.”

She forces herself not to cry out. Not to recoil. She turns her face back to him slowly, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“I already gave it to him,” she says. “They killed him anyway.”

The man studies her face. He is looking for cracks. For lies.

He finds neither.

“Search her,” he says finally.

Her stomach drops, but she keeps her posture loose as the woman enters the room.

A woman.

Anya exhales quietly through her nose.

Good.

The search is thorough, invasive, humiliating. Hands everywhere. Fingers tugging and patting and probing. The woman’s expression remains bored, professional. When she finishes, she shakes her head.

“Nothing.”

The men exchange looks.

Anya lets herself tremble now. Lets her knees draw together. Lets her voice break.

“Please,” she whispers. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

The older man crouches in front of her, bringing his face level with hers.

“We want him,” he says softly. “And until he comes, we have you.”

Her heart stutters.

He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, intimate and wrong.

“You are valuable,” he continues. “Do not forget that. Valuable things are kept intact.”

Then he stands and walks out.

The door locks behind him.

Anya sits alone in the quiet, heart racing now that she no longer needs to hide it. Her body shakes as adrenaline drains, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

She presses her lips together, grounding herself.

Dante will come.

Not because they want him to.

Because she knows him.

And as the thought settles, something else settles with it. A realization sharp enough to cut through the fear.

She is not waiting to be saved.

She is waiting for the right moment to make herself impossible to ignore.

Anya straightens in the chair, eyes hardening, fingers curling slightly where the flash drive rests hidden inside her pussy

She groans at the awkwardness of the entire situation.
“This better be so fucking worth it Dante Marchetti.” she mutters under her breath.

She schools her features into quiet distress.
Let them think she is just bait
She can be much worse than that.