Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 89090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“So he’s taking us there because…?”
I leave my question open, hopeful Vasily can answer it better than I can.
I’m disappointed when all I get is a shrug.
Upon hearing my sigh, he shouts, “I told you, Polly, I don’t know what the fuck he’s up to.” He snaps his narrowed eyes to me before attempting to pile his angst onto my shoulders. “Are you sure that kid didn’t rat us out? He was pretty fucking pissed when I got down on one knee.”
“Yev isn’t a snitch.” He isn’t a kid, either. “And quit calling me Polly. You need to earn the right to give me a nickname.”
Vasily scoffs. “I’m your fucking fiancé.” He grabs my arm hard enough to leave a mark. “And you want to sure as fuck remember that when we go in there.” He nudges his head to a warehouse coming up. Mercifully, despite the late hour, it is lit up. “Or you won’t be just worrying about a missing kid. Your entire fucking existence will be on the chopping block.”
It already is, my head murmurs to myself when the car stops at the side of the warehouse.
The noise that pummels into me when I exit the cab of the sedan on the same side of Vasily is shocking but relieving. This can’t be a hostage situation. Not even a man with half a brain would be stupid enough to conduct negotiations in a warehouse packed with people.
I school my features when Vasily pulls me into his side like he does anytime we’re in public. The scene we walk in on is similar to the one a week ago. The who’s who of Russia are mingling with scantily clad women and affiliates of several crime syndicates. The air is littered with cigar smoke and stale whiskey, but the atmosphere is electric.
As Vasily guides us toward his father seated two rows back from the action, I stray my eyes to the ring. The fighter Yev took down in the first round last week is once again fighting a man half his size. He is winning this time.
“Mr. Cabanow. Good evening.” I lean in to press a kiss to his cheek, noticing how cold it is even with him wearing a winter coat. “Is there a reason you asked us out tonight? I’m still zonked from last night.” I flatten my hand on Vasily’s chest. “We are still zonked.”
He doesn’t smirk at my dainty laugh. He doesn’t even grimace. He keeps his eyes front and center before signaling for his driver to throw in the towel for the current match.
The crowd is not impressed. They boo and hiss, certain they’re not getting their money’s worth. Their logic only changes when the next fighter is announced.
Feo the Flatliner.
My stomach is already in my throat, but it only becomes a choking hazard when I realize how fumbling Yev’s steps are. He can barely stand, and his eyes are glazed over and fully dilated.
“I guess you’re not the only one who went a little too hard on the drugs last night,” Leon mutters to his son, his tone scornful.
“He doesn’t use.” Anymore.
A week is barely a dent into the years he plans to mark his sobriety on, but I don’t for a minute believe Yev’s uneven footing and clueless nature is because of drugs. If the urge became too much, he would have come to me like he did last night. He would have sought solace with me.
My eyes snap from the ring Yev’s opponent is entering to Leon when he snatches up my wrist. He knew I was going to run before his son, except he doesn’t solely use threats to pull me into line. He jabs the muzzle of a gun under my ribcage, confident it will keep me at his heel better than a snarled warning that he’ll rip up my father’s visa application before the end of the day.
“Let’s see how this plays out first.” His words are only loud enough for me to hear. “There’s no better way to test loyalty than putting two snakes in a box and seeing which one bites first.”
He only drinks in a smidge of my anger before the hissing shock of the crowd draws his focus back to the ring. Yev is slow on his feet, which leaves him at a disadvantage to a man not drugged out of his mind. He remains standing for his opponent’s first three hits and gets in two of his own, but he’s on his back after a fourth whack to the head, and then his opponent contorts his arm back in a painful hold.
As Vasily mutters something under his breath about Yev getting a taste of his own medicine, I beg his father to have some compassion. “Stop this, please. He’s been nothing but respectful in your presence.”