Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
"And how do you know his information was reliable?" Gregor's eyes narrowed to slits.
"I called Roman. Had him handle it cleanly. That's what pulled me from Alina in the first place."
Artem stood and paced a few steps away from the table, then returned, leaning forward on rigid arms and pressing his knuckles onto its surface. “You what? We do not call Roman unless there is absolutely no other alternative."
"There wasn't one." I shrugged, though unease began to creep up my spine. "It needed to be done fast and done right. He sent confirmation."
I pulled out my phone, forwarding the message to their burner devices.
The image showed Solovyov appearing almost peaceful in his bed—if not for the crimson gash across his throat and the blood-soaked sheets.
Beside him lay a young blonde still asleep, unaware of the horror awaiting her waking moments.
"Fuck," Gregor muttered, tossing his phone onto the table.
Artem set his down with deliberate control, inhaling deeply through his nose.
I recognized that expression. The “I'm restraining myself from strangling my brother” look I'd seen countless times.
"Do you understand why we didn't call Roman?" he asked, voice deceptively calm.
"Because his poor excuse for a human being and more than slightly bigoted grandmother believes he's Satan incarnate and not truly an Ivanov since he's only half-Russian?" Damien suggested, attempting to defuse the tension with sarcastic levity.
"No," Artem replied, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Because once he's involved, there's no controlling the situation?" I ventured. "But the job's complete, so—"
"No," Gregor interrupted, gripping his glass with white knuckles. "Because Solovyov wasn't intelligent enough to orchestrate this campaign against us himself. He lacked the resources to withstand our pressure for this long from that distance. Someone else pulled his strings, and now that trail has gone cold."
My stomach twisted as realization dawned.
"We'll discuss this later," Artem declared, his tone indicating the conversation was far from over. "For now, what's your plan regarding the girl? She’s a loose end.”
I rolled my shoulders, irritation transforming into darker intent. “I’m not going to fucking kill her if that is what you’re asking.”
Damien leaned back in his chair. “Christ, Pavel. We don’t kill women. You should know that.”
I did, but there were exceptions to every rule.
Like when a woman who wasn’t part of our mafia family witnessed a murder and then ran off into the night…with the fucking murder weapon.
I reached for the vodka bottle. It was a small blessing that they didn’t know the gun she took was that particular gun. Or none of them would be sitting around this table playing cards and joking over shots.
This was my mess. I would clean it up.
I'd made a critical error because, yet again, Artem and Gregor had withheld crucial information.
Now we faced an unknown enemy, and I had a witness on the loose.
"I'm going to find her," I stated simply.
"And when you do?" Kostya pressed.
A slow smile spread across my face as I collected my cards. "I'll teach her the true cost of stealing from an Ivanov."
CHAPTER 8
ALINA
Ididn't go straight home. I couldn't.
Every time I considered heading toward my dingy apartment, a man would get on the bus and eye me a little too hard, or the skin on the back of my neck would tingle in warning.
Was it Pavel having me followed?
Or was he watching me?
Was he lurking in the shadows, waiting until I was trapped in my apartment?
Were his goons hiding in the shadows instead?
Waiting for me to head home. Then they'd send word to their boss?
My skin crawled, and my heart pounded so hard in my chest I thought it was going to crack one of my ribs.
I got off the bus and headed to the Metro.
First, I took the yellow line down into Virginia.
Then I took the blue line back up into DC just to switch over to the red to take me to Maryland.
For hours, I rode that line back and forth until I got on the green and took that through DC again, connecting back to the red.
Over and over I got off at random stops and switched at different lines, crossing state lines through Maryland and Virginia back and forth seven, maybe eight times.
I wasn’t sure.
The count disappeared somewhere between the clammy heat of subway platforms and the numbing exhaustion seeping into my bones.
Every time I thought I might have been safe, I doubled back.
Dodging between train cars, I slid between doors at the last minute and then switched cars.
When I found an empty car, I stood in one of the cramped corners so I couldn't be seen through the windows.
I never sat down.
I never stopped looking around me.
Men like the Ivanovs didn't give up easily.
Thankfully, I knew the management office didn't have my real address. The second they told me the pay, and that I was not to see or hear anything, I knew I was taking a risk.