Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 17724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 89(@200wpm)___ 71(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 89(@200wpm)___ 71(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
“You are,” I say passionately. “You’re the most interesting woman I’ve ever met. You did the right thing, coming home for your mom. I know it must’ve been hard. But you did it. And you’re doing the right thing again.”
“I don’t have much choice.”
“But you do, Rose. People make bad choices all the time. It only seems like you’ve got no choice because doing anything else doesn’t even fit into your head.”
I love you.
I should just say it.
It was true the moment I laid eyes on her.
I open my mouth. The words are almost out.
Then my mistake slams into me with brutal force. A deadly slip-up that has my hand twitching for my gun … holstered under my suit jacket. Ready to start shooting at a moment’s notice.
Nikolai Dubrov has men everywhere. I should know. I was one up until recently.
Oleg swaggers over to the table. A tall man with a flat face and a twice-broken nose.
“Alexei,” he says with fake warmth in his voice. His beady eyes scan me then flit to Rose.
If they linger for longer than a second, I’ll snap his neck.
I don’t care if he probably has backup in Echelon. Bratva men tend not to go anywhere alone. At least, most do. Braver in gangs. I was never like that.
He offers me his hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you. How long has it been? A month?”
I stare at his hand. Don’t take it. “You’re interrupting, Oleg.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets. Smirks at me like he’s trying to make me afraid of what he might pull out. Gun or knife, doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.
I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands if he even thinks about hurting Rose.
She’s got her hands wrapped over her middle. She’s a smart girl, can sense the atmosphere. Can sense my dis-ease or the sudden taste of near violence in the air.
“I feared something may have happened to you,” Oleg says.
“People have been trying for years. So far—no luck.”
“So far,” Oleg repeats. “I shall leave you and your lovely lady to your meal.”
I watch him go. Work my jaw.
Then leap to my feet and take Rose’s hand.
“Where are we going?” she demands.
“Away from here.”
She tries to yank her hand away. I spin on her, ignoring the glares from the nearby tables.
“If we don’t leave, somebody might try to hurt you. I’ll turn this place into a bloodbath before I let that happen.”
She looks at me as though I’m a stranger.
Stupid thought, because that’s what I am. Technically.
Finally, she lets me lead her out the back entrance. I climb into my car and start taking a nonsensical route back to the suburbs. Lefts and right that have no rhyme or reason, constantly checking the rearview. Making sure we’re not being followed.
Rose says nothing. Hugs herself tightly like she expects no comfort from me—like she doesn’t want the likes of me touching her.
When we get home, I quickly drive into the garage.
No tail.
Nobody knows where Rose lives.
“We’re going inside,” she snaps, climbing from the car and slamming the door. “And you’re going to give me some answers. No more games.”
8
ROSE
We sit at his kitchen table. The curtains closed. Only a lamp lit as though he wants to keep the light low in case that intimidating man somehow finds us.
He looks dashing in his suit. Collar loose to show the tattoos spiraling up his neck. He’s hunched over, muscles bulging like he’s ready to tear free from his suit.
“I’m an enforcer,” he says. “For years, I’ve worked for the Bratva.”
I’m not surprised—part of me guessed this—well, not the Bratva bit–I’ve never heard of Bratva, and yet it’s still hard to take.
“You hurt people?” I whisper.
He nods.
“Who? Women? Children? Whoever they told you to?”
He shakes his head. Looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’ve always had a code, Rose. I only hurt men who are part of the life. Who have chosen this world over the regular one. For twenty years, I’ve stuck to that rule. I’ve never let them sway me. And I never would.”
His tone is firm. Certain …
Truthful.
An instinct in me pulses, a voice whispering that I don’t even have to ask if he’s telling the truth. Somehow, I can tell that he is. Somehow, I just know.
That’s what love does to a girl.
I bury the notion. But not deep enough.
“So what changed?” I demand.
“Nikolai Dubrov—the Pakhan of the Bratva—he finally had enough. Said I was making him look bad by refusing to carry out his orders. He told me I had to kill a boy. The son of one of his rivals. Said I had no choice. His head or mine.”
He grits his teeth, stares into space as though seeing the past.
“I told him I’d do it …”
My breath catches.
“But then I took the boy and got him and his family away from the East Coast. I helped them to forge false identities. When Nikolai found out, he put a ransom on my head. I fled here because it’s the sort of place nobody would ever think to look for me.”