Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I dealt with it. Right?
19
GENNADIY
I’d only been passing by the restaurant. It’s one of our legitimate businesses and turns a good profit: it’s the secret gambling den upstairs that I was there to visit. But then I’d seen Alison and that...that pridurok.
I’d never thought about her fucking anyone else. Now I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Her tossing that long, silky hair back over her shoulder and leaning in to take his cock between her lips—
All the feelings that had been building for months boiled up inside. She was...she was…
She was mine.
I barged through the double doors into the kitchen. Inside, it was the usual pandemonium. Giancarlo, the chef, was ranting at his underlings, half in Italian and half in English, and eighty percent of it cursing. They were scuttling to wash, chop and broil, wincing every time he bellowed.
Then one of them noticed me. “Chef?” she said quietly, pointing in my direction.
Now it was Giancarlo’s turn to go pale. He waddled over to me, wiping his hands on his apron. “Mr. Aristov! What—”
“The couple at the table in the corner. The dark-haired woman and the idiot with the blond hair. Where is their food?”
Giancarlo assumed they must be honored guests. “Coming right now, sir!” He waved at the plates. “They both ordered the same thing, the linguine.” It looked and smelled amazing. “On its way!” Giancarlo waved frantically to a waiter, who grabbed both plates.
I put a hand on the waiter’s chest. “Wait.”
I reached into my jacket and took out the little bottle I always carry. I twisted off the cap and dripped exactly three drops onto the plate on the right. Guns and bombs are for amateurs. In Russia, dispatching one’s enemies is an art form.
I gripped the waiter’s chin between finger and thumb. “This one is for the man,” I told him, pointing to the food I’d doctored. “This one. Get this wrong, and you won’t see morning. Do you understand?”
He nodded as best he could, sheet-white with fear. I released him, and he hurried off with the food.
20
ALISON
The food arrived, and we started eating. The linguine was delicious, with a velvety red sauce rich with tomato and lobster. And Edgar was great. Good looking, gentle and polite...
But there was something missing. There was no charge, no spark. My pulse was stuck firmly in idle. What’s the matter with me? He’s a perfectly nice guy.
“Do you want dessert?” I asked as we finished our pasta.
Edgar shook his head. He’d started to look a little pale.
I was suddenly stubbornly determined to make this work. “Or we could maybe go to a bar, or—”
Edgar shook his head again. I looked closer at him: he was sweating.
“Are you—” I began.
Edgar slid off his chair, and before he’d even hit the floor, he was throwing up. I jumped back out of the way, then ran around and knelt down to help. He was groaning and apologizing, and I rubbed his back and told him it was okay. What the fuck is going on?
Then I saw a familiar pair of legs across the restaurant. Gennadiy was standing watching us.
There was a slow, horrible moment of realization. For a second, I fought it. He wouldn’t. Then: it’s Gennadiy, of course he would.
I stormed across the room, ignoring all the people staring at me. I grabbed his big hand with my smaller one and towed him into a quiet corner. “You poisoned him?!” I hissed.
Gennadiy glowered down at me. “It’s nothing, he’ll be fine in a few hours.”
I stared up at him in disbelief. “Why would you do this?”
Gennadiy adjusted his cufflinks. “He’s not right for you,” he said dismissively.
The anger rose inside me like black, boiling oil. “You don’t get to decide that! I decide who’s right for—”
He leaned down to me. “I didn’t like the idea of you sucking his cock.”
My face flared hot. “You—You don’t have any say in whose—” I swallowed and glared and tried to ignore how my pulse had skyrocketed, how being this close to him made me feel almost drunk. “What are you going to do, murder any man who looks at me?”
He leaned even closer and pointed to the water outside the window. “It’s a big lake. Try me.”
I searched his face, but he was stone-cold serious. It should have scared me: it did scare me. But there was another feeling, like strong arms locking protectively around me. I realized I’d been waiting for this feeling my entire life, and that scared me even more.
This is crazy. He’s a gangster. No different from the men who’d murdered my parents. So why did it feel like I was...tumbling? And his cold gray eyes were flaring, switching between anger and something else entirely. He feels it, too.
Both of us leaned in…
Then I shook my head and managed to clear it, and reality crashed back in like a freezing wave. What the hell am I doing? He’s my target, I’m meant to be putting him in jail!