Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
If I’m not willing to spill her blood or bruise her body, it’s a fairly benign way to go.
Still, I can’t make myself do it.
I’m cocking this thing up. Big time.
I cocked up letting her into the building, and now I’m making things worse. I’m the head of security at the Kremlin, and I’ve allowed this slip of a woman to plow over me to get into the building.
Especially because I already decided I’m not going to Ravil.
I can’t let them torture her. I know the kinds of things they’re capable of. I’ve been there. Witnessed what happens down in the basement where blood can be washed down a drain and concrete floors can be bleached.
So I pile a plate high with the food, and I carry it over. I stand in front of her and assemble a piece of buttered toast with a heap of scrambled egg on top. Take a large bite and chew it slowly.
She watches me.
I turn the piece of toast around to face her and offer her a bite.
Her bite isn’t dainty. She almost bites off as much as I did and chews quickly.
I chuckle. “You were hungry.”
“Being tied up burns a lot of calories.”
I grin. “Get used to it, Valkiriya. I like having you tied to my chair. I might not ever let you go.”
I take another bite of toast. “Why were you searching my desk? What did you hope to find?”
“I was looking for a pen.”
She’s full of sass this morning.
I try to think from her perspective. What would she think a doorman had?
“You wanted a list of the occupants of the building.”
I can tell I’m right by the way something closes off behind her eyes. Like she put up a shield.
“Who are you after? My pakhan?”
It occurs to me I haven’t searched her suitcase yet. I give her another bite of toast then open her suitcase on the coffee table in the living room and take every item out. There’s nothing in it. Clothing. A few cosmetics. I search the lining of the bag for a hidden compartment.
Nothing.
I find her purse and search it again. This time, I notice the lining is ripped by the handle. No–not ripped.
It’s been neatly cut. I sweep my hand along the bag, feeling for what might be under the lining and touch some kind of card.
I yank the lining out of the purse and pull out the object.
It’s an ID card.
“You’re Russian police.”
Her chin lifts, a stubborn set to her jaw.
I consider the implications. She can’t be here on official business. The bratva owns the police in Moscow. Besides, if she were here in an official capacity, she wouldn’t have come alone. She would have a partner. But it explains why she seemed trained to fight. She’s a complicated mix of transparency and intrigue, vulnerability and edge. She’s hiding something, and all of our lives may hinge on it. On me figuring it out.
I read her name again. Koslova.
Cold ice washes over me. No. Koslova is a common name.
It’s a coincidence.
My mouth has gone dry. I pick up my phone and text Dima. He lives a few hours away in the small town where his girlfriend Natasha is studying to become a naturopath. He might do this favor for me without alerting Ravil.
I need a favor, I text. Could you get me any information you pull on Kira Koslova? She’s Russian police, from Moscow. I enter her passport ID. Specifically, I’d like the names of her parents and what division of politsiya she works in.
Dima texts back immediately. Give me a few hours.
Thank you. Also, could we keep this between the two of us for now?
He texts back with a thumb’s up emoji.
I saunter back to her side, my mind spinning. I offer her another bite of toast as I consider her. “You’re here on some vendetta.”
I catch the surprise in her expression before she suppresses it and know I guessed correctly.
Blyad.’
Could she be related to the man I killed all those years ago? The murder required to admit me as a full member of the bratva?
Does she know I’m the one who pulled the trigger? Is she here to kill me?
The thought sobers me.
I’ve lived with the weight of that murder for more than half my life. For some reason, it haunts me far more than killing my own father.
I scrub a hand across my face to erase the images that rise to my mind. His pleading eyes. The stench of fear.
I feed the rest of the toast to Kira, my own appetite suddenly lost.
I should let her go. If she craves revenge, I’m willing to give her a shot at it.
But no. She would have killed me in my sleep the first night. Unless she’s not sure it was me.
No…she either doesn’t know who killed him, or she’s really here for the nephew, or she just wants revenge for her sister.