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)
Wait...it was only eight in the morning. How did he get these here so early? Either he had access to some personal shopper service for the ultra- rich that delivered within hours...or he’d called up the manager of some store downtown and scared them into opening early for him. Neither would have surprised me.
There were skirts and summer dresses, some of which were actually really pretty. But nothing I could ever wear. I looked down at my ruined leg. Not his fault. He’s only ever seen me in pants. The boxes contained shoes in three different sizes. The heels were far taller than I’d ever wear, but there were a pair of leather ankle boots that were badass. I opened up the leather bag and found it was stuffed full of toiletries: everything from toothpaste to shampoo. He’d even thrown in some tampons and pads.
I took a long, hot shower and dressed, choosing some black jeans, a white blouse, and the ankle boots, then went to investigate breakfast. I found my way back to the staircase and then downstairs. The maid who’d brought me the clothes was polishing the banister, and I thanked her again and asked her name: Milena.
I followed the smell of food and found the dining room...and Gennadiy, sitting at the head of the table, sipping coffee. Both of us froze, unsure how to play things. “Thank you for the clothes,” I said at last.
“I’m glad they...fit.” His gaze traced over my hip, following the tight denim so closely it felt like a caress. I’m definitely not imagining that. But then he tore his eyes away guiltily. What’s going on?
I sat and, immediately, a man in chef’s whites appeared from the kitchen. “What can I bring you for breakfast?” He had the same heavy Russian accent as Milena.
“Umm…” How do you order when there’s no menu? “Anything. Whatever’s easiest.” The chef looked blank. “Uh...what do you have?”
He blinked at me, almost offended. “Everything! Pancakes? An omelet? Bread, cold meats, cheeses? Porridge with honey, or chia seeds, or goji berries? An English muffin? Poached eggs? Scrambled eggs? Eggs Benedict? Pastries, fruit? You’re American: waffles with maple syrup? Bacon and sausage? Steak?”
I gaped at him. “Um. Could I get half a grapefruit and some toast, please?”
“Right away.”
I looked at Gennadiy. “All your servants are Russian? Because you don’t trust outsiders?”
“Yes, they’re all Russian. And I don’t trust anybody.”
Just a few moments later, my breakfast arrived, and it was amazing, the grapefruit juicy and deliciously sour, the toast sliced thick and with just the right blend of crunchy outer layer and fluffy middle. I was on my last mouthful when I heard voices in the hallway. Male voices, and one sounded bad-tempered.
My stomach dropped. I trusted Gennadiy—mostly. But his brothers were something else. I was about to be outnumbered, behind closed doors, on their turf, and I didn’t have the protection of being an FBI agent anymore. “Do we have to involve them?” I asked quickly.
“Radimir is my Pakhan,” Gennadiy told me firmly. “I’ll try to convince him to help you. But if I can’t…” He shook his head, worried.
The door flew open, and suddenly I was staring up into the cold gray eyes of Radimir Aristov. He was even taller than Gennadiy, and the family resemblance was obvious: the same sharp cheekbones and hard jaw. But where Gennadiy was all fire and anger, Radimir was pure ice. A man who’d built his billion-dollar property empire through ruthless deals and broken fingers. In his tailored three-piece suit, he looked like a Wall Street banker, and he was meant to be the legitimate face of the family, letting the others do the dirty work. But I had no doubt that he was capable of snapping my neck himself if he chose to.
Radimir stopped in the doorway, blocking everyone behind him. “What’s going on?”
Gennadiy took a deep breath. “This is Alison Brooks. She’s an FBI agent. She’s...the FBI agent.”
“The agent who’s been on you,” said Radimir coldly.
“Yes,” said Gennadiy.
Radimir’s eyes bored into me. “The one who confiscated two hundred thousand dollars of our money?”
I prayed for my chair to sink through the floor. It didn’t.
“Yes,” said Gennadiy, head bowed.
“The one who impounded four million dollars' worth of supercars, and ended one of our most profitable businesses?”
“Yes,” breathed Gennadiy.
“Then I only have one question,” said Radimir. He tugged his waistcoat straight. “What the fuck is she doing at your breakfast table?”
“Please, brother…” Gennadiy’s voice was gentle. He used his foot to push out one of the chairs. “Take a seat. Hear what she has to say.”
“Sit down with one of them?” Radimir looked genuinely concerned. “Gennadiy, what’s the matter with you?” His eyes went to me, then Gennadiy, then flicked upwards, towards the bedrooms upstairs. His eyes widened. “Are you—”
“No!” said Gennadiy and I simultaneously, both of us flushing.