Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
In fact, these fantastically beautiful women fell into my bed almost too easily. I barely had to do any hunting at all. It could be extremely annoying, if I thought about it too much.
A man needed something to work for, or he became fat and lazy. That would never happen in my case, but for others, it was certainly true. I did occasionally long for a challenge, however.
People knew who I was, of course. And women of all ages and socioeconomic status ran towards a powerful man in an expensive suit like pretty little moths to a very dangerous flame. The illegal and violent nature of my lifestyle only added to my allure. None of that surprised me. I was a man of the world, after all.
But so far, no one had held my interest for more than a moment. For more than the time it took to undress them and enjoy what they so eagerly offered.
The only thing these women had in common was their beauty. They were all notable beauties. Every last one.
But even on the rare occasions when women did not know who I was, they still flocked to me. It was quite ridiculous, honestly. I did not understand men who had to pursue, or God forbid, pine for a woman. No female was out of reach to me, or to my brothers. It did not matter if they were famous, rich, poor, married, or otherwise spoken for.
The world was my oyster. But for some reason, I found it all quite boring. My brothers had complained of the same thing in recent years, to the extent that Alexei had given up on women altogether.
Speak of the devil and he will appear.
Both of my brothers loomed over the bed. I realized where I was now, reality crashing in like a rough wave. We were home, in the palatial estate where we had been raised, in the suburbs of Moscow.
We had renovated while traveling to some of our other properties for several months, which is why these familiar walls looked less familiar.
“Get up. We need to handle something,” Alexei snarled.
“What the fuck time is it?”
I rolled over, squinting. The sun was far too bright, I realized as Andrei threw open the heavy velvet curtains. So, not morning. No excuse for this nasty hangover. I prided myself on being able to drink like a fish with zero to little recovery.
I’d rolled out of the club and hit the gym more than once, forgoing sleep altogether. I was trained to be tough. My father had always, and still did, demand it.
The first time he had gotten me drunk was still fresh in my mind. I had been twelve years old. He had forced all three of us boys to drink until we puked. He had done it again and again until we were able to hold what he deemed a sufficient amount of liquor.
Which was a lot.
Drinking had become a way of life. A way to let off steam. And a testament to manliness.
Our manliness was the most important thing we had. Along with our reputation for cruelty. Our power and wealth were secondary.
Even with our monumental wealth, without manliness and the respect of every man, woman, and child who laid eyes on us, we were nothing,
‘Nothing, nothing, nothing’ I could hear my father’s words hammering into my brain.
“Get up, svolach,” Alexie said with a kick. He was the far less considerate brother. Although perhaps, truth be told, I was worse.
I had far less sympathy than he did in times like this.
Or was it empathy? A woman had once accused me of having zero empathy after I told her she could leave after a truly debauched night of love making.
To be fair, I’d climaxed thirty seconds before telling her to ‘hit the curb’, in so much words.
We’d been in New York, though. No reason to assume a woman had tender feelings there. She wouldn’t last long if she did. So I’d told her to leave, and she had. The encounter stuck in my mind. Not because of the fantastic sex, or her beauty, both of which I had zero memory of. But simply because of her reaction to my request for privacy.
And now it was my turn to suffer.
“What is the job?” I asked, showing no weakness as I stood and accepted the glass that Alexie held out to me. Pure vodka, I realized as I swallowed. My hangover was instantly gone.
“A mark who is late on payments.”
“Send someone else,” this sort of task was so far beneath us that it was laughable.
“He’s not just late. He’s a year late.”
“A year? Why is he still alive?”
My brothers shared a meaningful glance. I waited, without any semblance of patience. There had to be a reason. No one was ev r late with payments to the Aslanov Bratva.