Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“Nat…” Nikita’s rumble of my name trickles up the stairwell. “Did you find it?”
“Yeah.” I enter the room next to the walls of portraits, grab the first ream of cotton I find, then hotfoot it back downstairs.
I operate on autopilot mode, too shocked to absorb anything. I don’t even dry retch when Nikita threads the needle and cotton through her stomach before requesting I assist her with suturing her back. I pretend her skin is leather and that Polina is finally giving me a chance to be a designer for the day.
“Is that okay?” I show Nikita my skills with a large shard from a broken mirror.
“You did great.” She swigs on the now half-empty bottle of vodka. “So good.” With her words more slurred from alcohol than pain, I grant her a final chug before removing the bottle from her grasp, downing a large gulp myself, then placing it back on the shelf.
Once I have her resting on the shelf with her jacket covering her like a blanket, I ask, “What else can you tell me about Matvei’s father?”
She peers at me curiously but remains quiet, not as willing to narc since alcohol has increased her pain threshold.
“Matvei told me how his father abandoned his family when he was eight and that he left the family business because he didn’t want to end up like him, but he never mentioned anything about his parents still being married.”
“They’re not married anymore. Bastian filed for divorce so he could remarry, but since Irina signed a severely unfair prenup, everything earned under the Ivanov name during their separation belonged to Bastian as well. He almost wiped them out for the second time.” Her words are as shaky as the pain raking through her body. “Maksim was so mad. He wanted to kill him.” She drifts in and out of consciousness a handful of times before murmuring, “But Matvei beat him to it. He shot him through the open window of his honeymoon suite and framed his father’s new bride.”
The world spins around me as my reply tumbles from my mouth. “What?”
I shake her when she fails to answer me. I don’t just need answers. I need her to stay awake. Even a novice in the medical world knows falling asleep could end disastrously for her.
“Nikita?”
Shit! She’s unresponsive, and the flutter in her neck is nowhere near as pulsating as mine.
“Hold on, okay?” I don’t care how rattled my mind is, I can’t sit by and watch someone die. She could be as innocent in this as me.
“Fuck!” I throw down the first cell phone I snatch up when it announces it has no service.
“Car…”
I sling my head toward the faint voice. Nikita is back, but only just.
“Satellite… phone… in the car.”
A movie plays through my woozy head as her words sink in. It reminds me that Maksim slid into the driver’s seat of Matvei’s car, so his own car could still be parked out front.
“I’ll be back,” I declare while climbing the stairs again. I’m exhausted and out of breath like my lungs were punctured by bullets instead of shocking truths, but I make it outside faster than sweat can dot my brows.
I push aside a gun and a box of Magnum condoms in the glove compartment of Maksim’s ride before switching my hunt to the middle console. My insides tap dance when I find the phone Nikita mentioned. It has an antenna and is the weight of a brick, but the instant I dial nine, the number pad lights up.
I freeze when I recall the emergency number is different in Russia. Saka drilled in the emergency contact details for each country we visited, so it only takes me a few seconds to remember the correct number, but it is seconds Nikita can’t afford to lose.
“One-one-two, how can I direct your call? Police, fire, or ambulance?”
“Ah… ambulance?” I almost say police until I remember they can’t save Nikita.
“Dispatching you through now.”
As the trill of our call connecting sounds down the line, another muffled murmur steals my attention. It is coming from the back of the car. From the trunk.
Mindful we’re in the midst of a mafia war, I grab the gun from the glove compartment before slowly making my way to the trunk.
“Dispatcher, what is the address of your emergency?”
Chunks of concrete crunching under my feet is the only response I give. The murmurs are getting louder, and they sound human.
“Ma’am—”
“Shh,” I beg, not wanting anything to startle me into accidentally firing the gun. “There’s someone in the trunk.”
A keyboard being punished sounds down the line. “Is the vehicle yours?”
“No.” I breathe out some of my unease about being falsely accused again. “But a woman driving in it has been shot. She needs help.”
“Okay. What’s your location?”
“I don’t know.” I grimace more about the trunk not opening to my gentle tug than my daft reply. “The trunk is locked.”