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)
This isn’t about revenge.
This isn’t just about ownership.
This is about legacy.
This is about continuation.
I am his future.
And I can’t bear children.
Chapter 26
MATVEI
We walk into the smoky, dimly lit pool hall like we own the place.
Because we fucking do.
The moment I step inside, a ripple of awareness spreads through the room. Men like me don’t walk into places like this. I don’t belong here. At least, that’s what they think.
Conversations die. Cues hesitate mid-shot. The air is thick with the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke, but beneath it is something far sweeter.
Fear.
Rodion winks at me, and I nod.
For once, he doesn’t bother with theatrics. Good. I want to get this over with. He steps up to the bartender, leans in, and wordlessly rips up his short sleeve, exposing the unmistakable mark of the Kopolov Bratva.
The bartender doesn’t hesitate.
His eyes go wide—too wide. His hands tremble as he looks at me.
I nod and roll up my own sleeve.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, making the sign of the cross.
Then he slams his towel onto the counter and nods once.
"Clear the room."
It reminds me of the time I cleared the bar for Anissa, only this won’t be as sexy.
Men abandon their games. Drinks are left untouched. Laughter dies in their throats. The smarter ones don’t look back as they hurry for the exit.
The dumber ones hesitate.
They want to see if it's worth finishing their drink.
Rodion sighs and winks at me before drawing his gun. He cocks it, aims at the ceiling, and fires.
Bang.
The last stragglers run, pushing and shoving like rats in a flooding tunnel.
I narrow my eyes at Anissa’s attacker. “Not. You.”
Within seconds, only one man remains.
Yaroslav Solov.
The fucker barely looks up from his drink.
He’s about fifty years old. His bald head gleams under the single beer-stained overhead light. So heavy he has no neck, his beady eyes set deep in his thick, doughy face.
This is the bastard who hurt my woman.
And this is the fucker whose life is going to end tonight.
"What the fuck is this?" he sneers, rolling his shoulders, affecting an air of authority he doesn’t have. "Do you know who I am?"
I approach slowly, rolling my wrists and stretching my fingers. A man about to get to work.
"I know exactly who you are."
He scowls. "Then you know you just made a fucking mistake."
I grin, laughing darkly. "That’s what you think."
I tilt my head, my voice quiet and deadly.
"Anissa Laurent."
He freezes.
A beat of silence.
Somewhere behind the walls, I hear mice slithering and squeaking.
"What about her?"
"Funny thing," I murmur, stepping closer. "She’s mine now. And I know what you fucking did to her."
He blinks. His confidence wavers.
"I don’t know what the fuck—"
"And you," I say, my voice low and cruel, my vision blurring with hatred, "are the motherfucker who hurt her."
He stands too fast. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Rodion snorts, pulling out his phone and flipping the screen toward him. It shows his three guards, knocked out cold and locked out of the bar.
Yaroslav's face pales. "What the fuck?"
I grab a pool cue off the table and smash it across his face.
The crack of wood against bone is deafening.
But no. That’s not enough.
I toss the broken cue aside and reach for a glass bottle instead. He tries to deflect, but it’s useless. With a swift, brutal motion, I bring it crashing down onto his skull.
Blood sprays.
He stumbles back, clutching his jaw.
I sigh, shaking my head, almost disappointed.
"You’d think they’d learn by now," I murmur to Rodion. "Just shut the fuck up."
But they never do.
They always have to say the same fucking thing.
And I always get to break them for it.
Yaroslav spits blood on the floor. His chest heaving, he tries to reach for me. “You fucking—"
I don’t let him finish. I grab his collar and slam his face into the table. Once. Twice. Three times. And still, my need for blood is barely sated.
He fucking hurt her.
I can almost hear her crying, screaming, begging for forgiveness. This motherfucker is gonna hurt.
The wooden table is slick with blood when I finally let him go, letting him crumble to the floor, groaning and disoriented.
Round one. I win.
I kneel beside him, my voice smooth and calm. “Did you hit her first? Did you have one of your men do it? Or did you just grab her by the throat like a fucking coward?”
He moans something incoherent, blood bubbling at his lips.
Rodion doesn’t wait. He walks over and gleefully kicks him in the ribs. Hard.
This isn’t the first time we’ve beaten the shit out of somebody together. Somebody who deserved it.
Yaroslav chokes on a scream.
“I asked you a question,” I snap in a too-calm voice.
He curls in on himself, must’ve already figured out he’s a dead man. But still, he has the fucking audacity to say what he says next, a dying man’s last words. “She was a whore—”