Dirty Collateral

THE COLLECTOR

( Emilia's POV)

3:17 AM.

The knock came like the first strike of a funeral bell.

Not the impatient, meat-fisted banging of Mr. Kowalski demanding rent three days late. Not the drunken fumbling of the frat boys in 4B who couldn't find their keys after last call. Three deliberate, measured raps-boom... boom... boom-that vibrated through the flimsy apartment door and straight into my chest cavity, each impact resonating through my ribs like the toll of a death knell.

I froze mid-sip of cold ramen broth, the styrofoam cup trembling in my hands. The apartment's usual soundtrack-the radiator's metallic groans, the persistent drip from the kitchen faucet I could never fully tighten, the distant wail of sirens that served as New York's lullaby-all faded into white noise beneath that sound. The noodles I'd been chewing turned to paste in my mouth, their artificial chicken flavor suddenly cloying.

Every survival instinct I'd honed through twenty-three years of scraping by fired at once in overlapping commands:

Look through the peephole first.

Grab the butcher knife from the block by the fridge.

Run to the fire escape right now.

But my traitorous body moved anyway, bare feet sticking to linoleum worn thin by decades of tenants. My pinky toe caught on a raised nailhead I'd been meaning to hammer down for weeks, the sharp pain barely registering. The deadbolt's scrape was obscenely loud in the predawn stillness, the chain lock rattling like a prisoner's shackles as I slid it free.

The December air that rushed in carried the bite of impending snow and something else-something clean and dangerous, like gunmetal and bergamot cologne and the faintest hint of expensive leather. Then, him.

The man dominated the doorway, his tailored black wool coat swallowing what little light seeped in from the hallway's flickering fluorescents. Snowflakes dusted his shoulders but didn't melt, as if the cold itself answered to him. Up close, he was even more wrong for this place-his shoes alone probably cost more than everything I owned. The left one had a barely perceptible scuff near the toe, the only hint that he might be human after all.

But his face-Christ, his face was a study in controlled violence. High cheekbones that cast knife-edge shadows across his pale skin, a jawline sharp enough to draw blood, and those eyes-pale gray like the Hudson in winter, utterly devoid of warmth. They tracked over me with clinical precision: my threadbare NYU sweatshirt with its stretched-out neckline, the bleach stain on my sleep shorts from a disastrous laundry day, the goosebumps rising on my bare legs.

"Emilia Hart."

His voice was smoke and velvet, the Russian accent wrapping around my name like a noose. The consonants curled in ways that made my full name sound foreign even to me.

My fingers dug into the doorframe hard enough to leave crescent moons in the peeling paint. The wood grain pressed familiar ridges against my palm-I'd traced them countless times during sleepless nights. "Who the hell are you?"

No reaction. Not so much as a blink. His eyelashes were unfairly thick for a man, I noted absurdly. "Pack your things."

The casual command, the utter certainty that I'd obey, sent a hot rush of anger through my veins that burned away the last dregs of sleep. I barked out a laugh that sounded more unhinged than defiant. "Get the fuck off my porch before I call the cops."

Movement behind him drew my eye-two more men in suits that screamed "custom tailoring and concealed weapons." The one on the left had a healed gash bisecting his left eyebrow, his expression as blank as a doll's. The other cracked his knuckles with a sound like snapping chicken bones, his wedding band gleaming dully in the bad lighting.

The leader-Viktor, Scarface would later call him-lifted a single gloved hand. They froze instantly, the obedience so absolute it made my stomach clench.

"You have ten minutes." His gaze swept past me, cataloging every pathetic detail of my studio: the thrift-store armchair with stuffing leaking out like innards, the mattress on the floor with its mismatched sheets, the peeling wallpaper that smelled of mildew when it rained. "Clothes. Passport. Nothing else."

My pulse hammered in my throat, the rhythm syncopated and uneven. This had to be about my father's debts-it always was-but the sheer finality in his tone made my stomach drop like I'd missed a step in the dark.

I lunged for the baseball bat leaning against the wall. The wood was sticky with old soda residue near the grip, the familiarity of it almost comforting.

He moved faster than anything that size had a right to. One second I was swinging for his temple, the next my spine hit the wall hard enough to rattle my teeth. His forearm pressed against my windpipe-not cutting off air, just demonstrating he could. The wool of his coat scratched my cheek, smelling like snow and something indefinably expensive.

His breath was warm against my ear, mint and expensive whiskey. "Listen carefully, kotik." The Russian endearment slithered through me, at odds with the threat in his tone. "Your father signed you over to settle his debt. The paperwork is filed. The transfer is complete. You belong to me now."

I spat in his face.

The glob of saliva slid slowly down his cheekbone, catching on the faint stubble there. Behind him, Scarface actually took a step forward before catching himself, his hand twitching toward what was probably a concealed weapon.

Viktor didn't flinch. Just smiled, slow and terrifying, like a wolf who'd finally cornered its prey after a long hunt. "Hard way it is." He nodded to Scarface. "Get her ready to travel."

-----

I sank my teeth into the first wrist that grabbed me until iron flooded my mouth. The man-Scarface-snarled something vicious in Russian, his grip loosening just enough for me to wrench free. The taste of his sweat was bitter, tinged with gunpowder and cheap aftershave.

I made it exactly two steps before a fist tangled in my hair and yanked. Pain exploded across my scalp, bright and white-hot. Tears blurred my vision as my knees hit the floor, the impact vibrating up my shins. A loose floorboard dug into my kneecap-I'd been meaning to fix that too.

"Don't mark her!" Viktor's voice cracked like a whip from somewhere near the door.

The backhand came out of nowhere, snapping my head sideways. Starbursts exploded behind my eyelids. My tongue throbbed where I'd bitten it, copper flooding my mouth in a warm rush.

They dragged me down three flights while I screamed myself hoarse. My bare feet scraped against concrete steps, the cold seeping into my bones. Each landing smelled different-second floor reeked of cat piss and curry, third of stale beer and Febreze. "HELP! SOMEONE CALL THE-"

A meaty palm clamped over my mouth, the skin rough as sandpaper. No doors opened. No TVs turned down. The building might as well have been empty, though I knew Mrs. Rosenbaum on the second floor never slept through the night.

Winter air slapped me awake as they hauled me toward the idling black SUV. Its windows were tinted so dark they reflected my terrified face back at me-wild eyes, snarled hair, a trickle of blood at the corner of my mouth where my lip had split. The vehicle's engine purred like a contented predator, exhaust curling into the predawn air.

I twisted violently, my pajama top tearing at the shoulder seam with a sound like ripping skin. Viktor watched from the sidewalk, his expression unreadable beneath the orange glow of the streetlight. Snowflakes caught in his dark hair like stars in a night sky.

"Please," I sobbed, the word ragged. "I'll get the money. Just give me-"

A sharp prick at my neck. Cold spread through my veins like spilled ink.

Then nothing.

---

I came to with a gasp, my stomach lurching violently. The air smelled wrong-too clean, too sterile, with a faint hint of lemon polish and something floral underneath. Not my apartment's familiar cocktail of mildew, ramen, and the vanilla air freshener I bought in bulk. Not anywhere I knew.

Blinking against the glare of overhead lights, the reality crashed over me in waves: I was on a plane. Not a commercial flight-the cabin was all cream leather and polished walnut, the kind of luxury that made my thrift-store life seem even more pathetic. My wrists were cuffed to the armrests with what looked like actual police-issue restraints, the metal cool against my skin.

Across the aisle, Viktor scrolled through his phone, his jacket gone to reveal forearms sleeved in Cyrillic tattoos. A crystal tumbler of amber liquid sat untouched on his tray table, condensation painting wet rings on the wood. The ice had mostly melted.

He glanced up as I struggled against the cuffs, the metal biting into my skin. "Where are you taking me?" My voice sounded wrecked, my throat raw from screaming.

"Kazan," he said, like that should mean something.

It took three heartbeats for the geography to click. Russia. He was taking me to Russia.

"You can't do this!" I yanked at the cuffs until the metal bit into my skin, leaving angry red marks. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, making my stomach lurch again.

Viktor reached into his coat and tossed something into my lap. My father's signet ring-the one he'd worn every day of my life, the one I'd begged him to pawn a hundred times. The gold felt heavy in my palm, still warm from Viktor's pocket. The Sokolov family crest stared up at me, the eagle's wings spread in flight.

"The only question," he said, leaning close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his pale eyes and the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow, "is whether you walk off this plane on your own..." His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering on the split lip. "Or I carry you."