Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
And the words I wrote in blood, the ones I texted her, the ones I whispered to her, surge into my mind. I’m half blinded by red-hot fury.
Mine.
I watch as she forces a polite smile as if trying to de-escalate the situation, but he doesn’t let go.
I don’t think. I move. Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand is locked around the asshole’s throat, slamming him against the bar. The glass rattles. Conversations stop. Anissa’s eyes widen.
“You’ve got a problem?” I keep my voice calm, even—but there’s no mistaking the threat in it. I press a knife where no one else can see, just below the hollow of his collarbone. He gasps, his hands scrambling at mine, but I don’t let go. I want him to feel it, to understand the cost of putting his hands where they have no fucking place.
“Leave now,” she says. “Before I have to call the police.”
“Why don’t you do that, doll?” I tell her. Interpol’s got a file on her an inch thick, and I’ve already paid off locals. I’ve thought of everything before I came here.
“Let me go,” the guy says, smacking at my hands. I pin him down and whisper in his ear.
“Stay the fuck away from her. You touch her again, and I’ll slit your fucking throat.”
He nods frantically before bolting out of the bar. The room is silent as she watches me, her blue eyes unreadable. I lean in just enough for her to hear.
“You need to be more careful, little ghost.”
I hold her gaze. I have every exit monitored, everything I need on my person.
“Close the bar. Send everyone home.” I lean in. “Do it now.”
Chapter 8
ANISSA
I should be terrified, but it isn’t like it was before. The last time he came for me, I practically ran from the shadows, waiting for him to make his move.
But this time… I can’t even explain it. The moment I saw him at the bar, standing with his bottle of whiskey, I should have felt terror claw up my spine. But instead, something inside me exhaled.
Relief.
As if I needed further proof that I’m fucking losing my mind.
For months, I’ve been running. Forging new names. Slipping through cracks. Changing disguises and burning bridges before they could even be crossed, and it’s exhausting. Always having to look over my shoulder. Never feeling at ease. Never knowing if the next breath is my last—somewhere along the way, it wore me down.
Maybe I got sloppy.
Maybe I did it on purpose.
And now he’s here, Matvei Kopolov.
Yeah. I’ve done my homework.
I outplayed him once before, but he swore he would make me pay.
I’ve thought of him every fucking night since I escaped. I remember the way he looked. The way it felt under the heat of his intense glare. I remember staring at the marks of ink that showed him to be Bratva.
He looks even more raw now, like he just spent six months subsisting on a diet of pure vengeance. He still has an aura of quiet, controlled rage. But there’s something else—I don’t know.
I clench my fists.
I knew he was here. It wasn’t a phantom that stocked my shelves with food.
The bar is still full of people. I could try to slip out the back, but he’ll find me.
And I am so tired of running. So fucking tired.
Even if I escaped him, what next?
He’ll find me.
I have to play along for now.
I’m done trying to pretend that I won’t have to face what I’ve done.
I’ve never been weak, and I won’t cave now.
Even when I escaped him, I did so on my terms. I don’t know what he’s going to do with me, but I know this—I’m not getting away a second time.
So I don’t fight. Maybe he wants me to. Maybe he wants me to kick and scream or force me into submission. Perhaps he wants me to realize there’s no escape.
I know this: He gets off on my fear, so I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, he just tells me to clear the bar.
Of course he does.
I reason with myself… if he were going to kill me, I’d be dead by now. Instead, he meets my eyes…and winks.
Winks.
“Bar’s closed,” I say out loud with finality. I try unsuccessfully to hide the tremor in my voice because I know shit all about what he’s up to next.
I shut off the taps and fold my bar top—indications that I’m done. “Everyone has to go home for the night.”
Some businessman with a briefcase and half a glass of whiskey still in front of him shakes his head. “You don’t close till ten,” he snarls at me.
“We close when she fucking tells you we do,” Matvei snaps. “Get the fuck out of here before I make you.”
I stare at him.
I was never free. I was just delaying the inevitable.