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I turn back toward them. “This isn’t the right woman.”

The two men standing near the door shift nervously. Good. They should be afraid. I’ve lost my patience for fuckups, and after Alexei this morning, I have none for these men.

I switch to Russian, not bothering to hide my anger now. "How did this happen?"

The two men look at each other. “Is this not…” They pause, still speaking in Russian. “We were told the Volkov girl wouldbe leaving an exercise class at the time that this one did. Same building, same class. Blonde. She fits the description?—”

I draw in a slow breath through my nose, my teeth gritting together. “Did you not look at the photos of Katya Volkov?”

The younger one speaks up, his voice cracking with nerves. “We did! This looks like the girl?—”

“Platinum blonde hair. Almost white.” I glance back toward the woman tied to the chair. “Does that look like the right hair color to you?”

Both men go silent. I blow out air through my teeth, resisting the urge to shoot them here and now. I need answers before violence, at least for now.

I turn back to the woman. "What’s your name?"

She hesitates, and I can see her mind working, calculating whether to answer and, if anything, what to say, how much to reveal. She’s smart. Most people in her situation would be crying or begging by now, without any thought to the consequences or what they should or shouldn’t say.

She twists in the chair, trying to get a look at me. She can’t turn around far enough, and I walk around in front of her, hands on the edge of my desk as I lean back against it. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes me in. I don’t know what she expected, but I don’t think it’s the man standing in front of her. If we were in any other situation, the brief expression of shock on her face would almost be gratifying.

Then it disappears, the fear taking over again. “Your name,” I repeat.

"Liesl," she says finally. Her voice shakes slightly. "Liesl Baumann."

The name means nothing to me. I look at the two men standing at the door. The older man looks nervous now, and the younger has gone pale white. I reach for my phone and dial Viktor.

He picks up immediately. “Da?”

“Look up someone named Liesl Baumann for me. Get me any information you can on her.”

“Right away, boss.”

I shove my phone back into the pocket of my suit trousers and study the woman in front of me. She's scared. I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her fingers curl slightly against the armrests, scratching at the leather… but she's holding it together. She must be absolutely terrified, but she’s trying not to be.

"I don't know what you think I did," she says suddenly. There’s a surprising hint of defiance threading through the fear in her voice. "But I'm sure this is a mistake. If you let me go, I won't say anything. I won't go to the police. I just want to go home."

One of my brows rises. She’s quick to catch on that there’s something wrong here, but she also seems horribly naive.

I shift forward, and I see her try not to flinch, and fail. "You think it’s that simple?" I ask. "You think I just let you walk away?"

"I think keeping me here is more trouble than it's worth." She tries to sound reasonable, logical. "I'm nobody. I don't know anything. I can't hurt you."

She's wrong about that last part. She's already hurt me by being here—by being the wrong woman and creating a complication where there should have been none. It’s not her fault, but in this world, that hardly ever matters. But I find myself almost impressed by her attempt at negotiation. I would have expected her to break down by now.

“She’s seen our faces.” The older man at the door speaks up. “And yours, boss. She might’ve heard some things on the ride over. We should kill her. Too dangerous to let her live.”

He says it so easily, like this woman, who has been grabbed because of a mistake that they made, has no right to live now. Like she can be tossed out like so much trash, when even the woman I meant for them to kidnap was not supposed to be harmed.

Killing a woman—hurting one seriously, even—feels like crossing a line. But I know for my father, it wouldn’t have been. For a lot of my men, it isn’t. And now I’m caught between the respect I’m fighting for with them and what I can or can’t bring myself to do to this girl.

Her face has gone bloodless. After hearing that, her lips parted as if she wanted to beg but couldn’t find the words. I can see her chest starting to heave. She’s on the verge of panic.

Killing her is an easy solution. She can’t cause any more problems, then. And a captive causes problems of their own. I asked for Katya to be brought to me for a reason, one that was worth the complications. I doubt this woman is worth anything.

“Please—” she manages to gasp the word, and I hold up a hand. She falls silent, but I can see her eyes have turned glossy, as if she’s fighting back tears.

Before I can make a decision, the door opens, and Viktor walks in. My second takes in the scene immediately—the wrong woman in the chair, the tension in the room, my barely controlled anger.