Eva woke choking on rope.

Rough hemp dug into her wrists, arms stretched overhead until her shoulders screamed. Her boots barely brushed the concrete, her body hanging like butchered meat. Every breath scraped her throat raw.

She knew this. Not this exact warehouse — this one reeked of mold, rust, and ammonia — but the posture, the pain. The Ivanovs had always loved their knots.

And then came the laugh. Low, nasal. Cruel.

“Oh, look at you.”

Katerina Ivanova sprawled in a cracked leather ...