Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
“We don’t have a few minutes,” I snap as I climb into my Lamborghini.
An unfamiliar feeling lodges deep in my gut like a tightly coiled spring. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Something foreign and dark and unsettling.
Fear.
This is what it feels like.
Cold and unbearable.
And beneath the weight of it, I feel fucking helpless.
Fuck.
If he hurts her…
There is a screech of tires as we roar out of the underground garage and burst onto the busy afternoon street.
“Jerry, I need those addresses now.”
I know unleashing my murderous tone on Jerry and breathing down his neck when he is trying to get me the information isn’t going to get me those property addresses any quicker. But I have to do something. I have to release the buildup of panic inside me before it explodes out of me in a dark rage.
“I’ve got one,” Jerry says. “Where are you now?”
“Coming toward the bridge.”
“Okay, he’s got one about forty minutes away from the city.” He gives me the address.
“No, that’s too far away. He’ll want to get off the street. There has got to be somewhere closer.”
Feliks looks at me. “What if he’s going somewhere that he doesn’t own?”
That’s when it hits me.
Six months ago, I outbid him on a real estate deal.
An abandoned warehouse five minutes away.
“I know where he’s going,” I mutter, my heart pumping a venomous black rage through my veins.
I hang up on Jerry and give Feliks the address to the warehouse.
“Fuck, the mudak has some nerve,” Feliks spits with disgust.
I grit my teeth. “For a dead man.”
48
LEV
The abandoned warehouse is a derelict structure beneath an overpass in Brooklyn. We drive into the desolate parking lot filled with garbage, debris, and graffiti, and through the smashed timber wall of the warehouse, I can see what looks like a body hanging from the rafters.
Brooke.
I’m out of the car before Feliks even pulls it to a stop and move quicker than I’ve ever moved in my life to reach her.
I’ve seen a lot in my life, most of it bloody and gruesome, so it would be safe to say I am desensitized to a lot of things. But seeing Brooke strung up and beaten to a bloody mess in that abandoned warehouse is not one of them. It’s not one of them by a long fucking shot.
She’s out cold, her swollen eyes closed, her mouth slack. “I’m here, zayka. I’ve got you.”
The mudak has tied her with rope and not chains, which is a relief for me because it means I can cut through it with the knife I keep on me. But Vlad’s choice of rope over chains would not have been a relief for Brooke when he was torturing her. He chose rope because rope burns the skin, and the more the victim struggles, the more the rope will cut deeper into the layers of flesh.
Wave after wave of rage flows over me, colliding with the overwhelming fear that she’s not going to make it.
The blade of my knife slices through the rope like butter, and Brooke falls against me just as Feliks runs in.
“Call an ambulance,” I yell at him.
“But, Pakhan, the police—”
“I don’t give a fuck about any of that. Call the fucking ambulance. We’ll deal with the police later.”
He reluctantly makes the call. I understand his hesitation. The EMTs will have a duty to call the police. This will become a crime scene. In my world, when the police start sniffing into anything you’re involved with, it can lead to a lot of complications. Interests get piqued. One discovery leads to another. The situation can snowball, and before you know it, what started as just a parking ticket gets you twenty years for murder. But I don’t give a fuck. Getting Brooke to a hospital and receiving the treatment she needs far outweighs the mess I will have to clean up afterward.
I slump to the floor with Brooke in my arms, my heart breaking when I see exactly what Vlad has done to her beautiful face. It’s swollen, and I can see the cut from the ostentatious diamond ring he wears on his little finger, and I know I am going to cut that damn ring off his hand and shove it deep into one of the many bullet holes I put in his body.
“I’m so sorry, zayka,” I whisper, holding her bruised body and praying for the first time in my life, asking God to let her live.
I notice the old wooden chair on its side on the damp floor, rope tied to the armrest. What did they do to her in that chair before stringing her up?
The thought is complete and utter agony.
“It’s going to be okay,” I cry into her hair. “I promise you I will take care of this.”
The EMTs arrive in a piercing hail of sirens and lights, and when they see how broken she is, they are quick to load her into the back of the ambulance.