Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Nothing happening is thanks to me. It is all because of the money Maksim tossed into his medical care—money I am now skeptical came from real estate owned by Ivanov Industries.
I lied when I said I’ve done nothing but savor my grandfather’s alertness. It was very much still on my mind while I researched the name the detectives tossed around as regularly as insinuations on Dr. Muhamed’s Ivanov Industries–owned laptop, but it didn’t have my utmost devotion.
My multifaceted search unearthed a legacy almost as impressive as the Ivanov name, but with a heap of murky undertones.
Maksim’s father is the head of an Italian syndicate similar to the group that claimed my mother’s life. Even reading about him in print couldn’t alter my opinion of his personality. He is a tyrant of a man who ruled with an iron fist and not an ounce of repent.
Or should I say, he was.
He was killed eighteen months ago, and the young bride he wed mere hours before his death was in the process of being prosecuted for his murder when she vanished without a trace.
Part of me hopes she is still alive, but I’m doubtful. Bastian had many enemies, but he was protected under a law that has governed countries far longer than democracy.
He was sheltered under mafia law, meaning even if Maksim wanted to seek revenge for the numerous bruises and broken bones his childhood hospital records indicate were not accidental, he couldn’t. He had to accept the unfair blows of life like the rest of us—by pretending they never happened.
I can’t help but wonder if things changed because he took over his father’s reign. It makes sense as to why he believes he can trial, convict, and penalize anyone in his realm. Low-ranked gang members can get away with murder—my mother’s death is proof of this—but if they so much as give a papercut to someone high up in the underworld, there will be hell to pay.
Maksim’s mother’s time at Myasnikov Private was more damaging than a superficial wound. Do I believe the injustice deserves a murder sentence? I want to say no, but if you’d rather I be honest, I’ll need more time. Alas, I’m too exhausted for a basic excavation, let alone the mammoth undertaking required to unravel a mafia entity cloaked in centuries of criminal activities.
After closing Dr. Muhamed’s laptop, I place it on the makeshift nurses’ station at the side of my grandfather’s room and then twist to face Dr. Muhamed. “I’m going to call it a night. If anything—”
“Changes, you’ll be the first I call,” he interrupts before farewelling me with a chin dip.
He probably hates my extended visits. It is hard to do anything when you have a colleague breathing down your neck. My grandfather’s last practitioner refused to let me sit in on their consultations. He spouted off the same excuses as Dr. Abdulov, saying that he was a professional with years of experience and didn’t need the guidance of a second-year medical student.
Although we followed the medical plan he designed, I replaced him as my grandfather’s practitioner shortly after that visit. I want to say I’ve given my grandfather the best medical treatment possible, but now I’m skeptical. Money is a prominent factor in any health care—regretfully—but perhaps if I hadn’t always been so tired, I could have provided the same level of service as Dr. Muhamed.
I already hate myself, so you can imagine how bad my self-loathing becomes when I automatically hit the button for the floor below the penthouse instead of contemplating where to rest my head for a couple of hours for more than a brief second.
Maksim made it obvious in the elevator that I wouldn’t get far if I decided to run, but I can’t pretend nothing happened. He openly admitted to hurting three people, and he did so without remorse. I can’t sweep that under the rug.
The elevator doors open barely a second before I jab the close doors button and then select the foyer level. Several men watch me when I detour through the foyer to the basement apartment I once shared with my grandparents, but none utter a word.
I’m reminded just how damp the conditions are when it takes me ramming my shoulder into the front door to get the lip unstuck from the doorjamb.
Mold and mildew engulf my nostrils when I enter. It is closely followed by a chill running down my spine. It is freezing in here.
“At least they kept the lights on,” I murmur to myself while walking toward the lit-up nook in the corner of the living room I once called my bedroom. Since my grandfather was bedridden and my grandmother forever used her favorite recliner to sit at his bedside, I haven’t made up the lumpy sofa bed in over a year.