Stolen by a Sinner (Sinners #3)(11)

As if I’m not here, Dr. Bayram shows her how to change my bandages and what to look out for in case of infection.

Either these people fear Gabriel, or he pays them well.

Crap. How am I going to escape?

“Has your appetite returned?” the doctor asks without bothering to look at me.

“I’m being held captive. Do you really think I can eat under the circumstances?” I snap at him.

It’s weird. I wouldn’t dare speak to Tymon in that tone, but since I woke up in this foreign bed, it’s as if I can’t stop.

Maybe it’s because my sixth sense tells me I won’t get out of here alive, so I might as well fight with everything I have.

“Eat, or you won’t regain your strength,” the doctor mutters, then he leaves the room with the woman following right behind him.

He showed her what to do. Maybe that means she’ll check in on me from tomorrow. If I can talk to her alone, I might be able to gain her sympathy.

Just as my muscles start to relax, the door opens again. This time Gabriel comes in, and it has me moving to the side of the bed. I’m ready to jump off the mattress should he try anything.

Not that I’ll get far with the chain that’s bolted to the bed.

My eyes are glued to him, every movement from him making me feel more on edge. He walks to the window and stares out of it until the silence grates against my nerves.

God, he’s intense.

Suddenly his deep voice breaks the silence. “How old are you?”

I swallow hard on my frayed nerves. “Twenty-two.”

“And you’ve worked for Mazur since you were twelve?”

“Yes.” The single word is nothing more than a whisper, my eyes burning from not blinking as I cautiously watch him. Every muscle in my body is wound tight.

He’s tall, firm, and strong. I won’t stand a chance against him in a fight. He’d kill me in seconds.

The hopelessness of the situation is starting to sink in, making me feel like a caged animal.

“How did you end up working for the Polish mafia?”

I hesitate, not wanting to share my personal life with this man.

Gabriel turns around, and locking eyes with me, he raises an eyebrow. “Are you related to Mazur?”

God no. Not wanting him to think something so awful, I give in and answer, “My mother worked for him. Mr. Mazur brought us over from Poland after I was born.”

“You don’t sound Polish.” Gabriel tilts his head, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “Your mother works for him too?”

“No.” My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips. I lower my eyes to the bedding. “She’s dead.”

“How did she die?”

Shaking my head, I frown at him. “Why are you asking me personal questions? It won’t help you find Mr. Mazur.”

“Just answer me,” he orders, his tone clearly stating I better comply if I know what’s good for me.

Letting out a sigh, I mutter, “She died of bronchitis when I was twelve.”

Gabriel nods, then gives me one of his unnerving stares that has a tendency to rattle me. “What did your work entail?”

My fingers fist the covers, and I wrap my other arm around my waist, hoping to lessen the pain.

“I cleaned the mansion, prepared beverages, and got Mr. Mazur’s meals for him.” I really don’t understand Gabriel’s line of questioning.

“Were you the only one who took care of his meals and beverages?”

The frown deepens again on my forehead. “No. Agnes, another maid, would sometimes help.”

“So just the two of you touched his food and drinks?”

The apprehension thickens in my chest. “Yes.”

Gabriel nods, his piercing gaze cutting right through me. “Mazur trusts you.”

Shit.

Now I understand the line of questioning, and I’ve stepped right into the damn trap he set up for me.

Desperately wanting to get myself out of the hole I’m stuck in, I say, “Mr. Mazur doesn’t trust anyone. I just did my job so he wouldn’t kill me.”

His eyes narrow. “How much did he pay you?”

“Nothing.” I swallow hard on the fear this man makes me feel. “We got food to eat and a bed to sleep in.”

“Are you legally in America?”

I nod quickly. “But my personal documents are at the mansion.” Along with the only belongings I owned.

Gabriel walks to the chair, and when he takes a seat, my heart sinks. If he’s getting comfortable, it means the interrogation is far from over.

After he unbuttons his jacket, he settles his arms on the armrests. His fingers lightly tap against the upholstery.

Everything about this man feels calculated.

Our eyes lock, his light brown irises filled with intelligence.

He inhales deeply, then asks, “Have you traveled with Mazur?”

“Rarely,” I whisper.

Giving in to my thirst, I reach for the glass next to the bed and take a couple of sips, savoring how the cool liquid soothes my mouth and throat.

“Where have you traveled with him?”

I set the glass down. For the millionth time since I woke up, I glance around the room, unconsciously looking for anything I can use as a weapon.

“Only to Poland.”