Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
It would be worth it.
It would be fucking worth it.
And I wouldn’t go down without a fight.
But there are no trials in Bratva life. Guilty until proven innocent. And rarely, fucking rarely, proven innocent.
I would do it all over again.
Kidnapped by the men hired by Myron, I was beaten and thrown into the James River. Left for dead.
But they underestimated what I would do for Marissa. They woefully, woefully underestimated. They have yet to see how far I’ll go. The risks I’ll take. The vengeance I’ll seek.
My bonds came loose on impact. The fucking pussies didn’t even know how to tie a fucking rope. Though submerged in the depths, and thrown from the bridge above the river, I fought my way back to the surface, removed the sodden black hood that covered my face, and crawled in darkness to a secluded area off the river’s edge.
I don’t know how long I laid on the ground, my lungs constricted and vision blurred, the world distant and hazy as I fought my way back from the dead, breath by brutal, agonizing breath. When I made it to the bridge, they were gone. I knew they would be. But I wasn’t dead, and that was a start.
At first, I assumed the men who took me weren’t properly trained. A bullet to the temple and proof of my death would’ve been a much more efficient way to kill me.
But the loyalty of the brotherhood runs deep, and one does not kill fellow Bratva easily, even for a payout. The men who took me knew who I was.
It’s been three months. Three fucking months. Ninety-one days, to be precise. I’ve counted every one of them in my relentless pursuit to find her, and I will find her.
I gave up nearly everyone who meant anything to me. I had to. A connection to me would jeopardize too much. I let them all believe I was dead—my sister, my brothers. Hell, my entire brotherhood, even Rafe and Laina.
There was only one I trusted—one I risked, and even now, I wonder if I made a mistake.
I bought a burner phone and called my father. And I told him everything.
How Marissa Rykov was sold for auction by her traitorous motherfucking father, one of the most high-ranking members of our brotherhood. My father’s friend, now my lifelong enemy.
How I took her and ran, to save her.
How they found us.
How they tore her from me and left me for dead.
How I escaped.
The sounds of her screaming my name have haunted me since the day they pulled her out of my grasp. The sight of her terror-filled eyes—Khristos.
Sometimes I imagine seeing those eyes in the rows of women brought forward for auction. But none hold the brilliant light that only Marissa owns.
The irony burns. My one job for the past four years has been to protect her, to keep her safe, and now that I’ve done just that, I’m excommunicated from the brotherhood. We can’t even prove that Myron was the one that took her, though his story implicates him. He told my father she was killed in a car accident, and went as far as to fabricate details of the story. Technically, Myron did nothing worthy of punishment from the Bratva. We have no means of proving what he did.
Yet.
And we don’t know how deep his traitorous, despicable behavior runs. He sold her to pay off a debt, that much I know. Selling her meant he was in deep with the Thieves, our rival brotherhood. And if he owed a debt, there was a reason for that. Unraveling the lies that bind this story will be a complicated process.
Under my father’s instruction, I changed my identity. And with his blessing, I pursued Marissa.
I underwent the slow, arduous task of removing the tattoos that marked me as Bratva. The lasers hurt, but I’m used to pain. It was the physical reminder of my death to the brotherhood that ached, that tore the fibers of my heart into pieces, and drove a wedge between my soul and my body. A necessary evil. And I’ve spent these past months deep in the trenches of the human slave trade in America’s underground. Hoping. Searching. I will not give up.
I run a hand across my brow and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“May I get you a refill, sir?”
A pretty young woman on stilettos, wearing the customary tight black skirt and skin-tight white top holds a silver tray by my side.
I shake my head and hold the drink in my hand, dismissing her with a scowl. Kindness is a dead giveaway, but being an asshole makes me unremarkable.
Bowing her head, she walks to the next self-important bastard at the table to my left.
I sip the dregs of my drink, ice hitting my lips, and scan the crowd. I observe every detail. There are clues, but each trail I’ve followed has left me empty-handed. Tonight might be no different, but one day will be. I will not rest until I find her.