Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“That’s right, baby, I don’t feel like waiting.” He pins the girl up against the wall and starts mauling her breasts with both hands. She yelps and gives him the most absurdly fake moan I’ve ever heard.
I swear, she rolls her eyes as he starts to dry hump her leg.
“Hello, Edgar.” I walk over to the happy couple and the girl’s eyes go wide as I step into the thin strip of street light that makes it down this dark alley.
“Fuck off,” Edgar mutters, burying his face in the girl’s fake tits.
“Hey, asshole,” she hisses at him, trying to shove him away. “Are you an idiot? This guy looks serious.”
“Edgar,” I say and grab him by the hair. “You should listen to your date.”
“What the—”
Edgar tries to twist around, but I yank him back hard. He screams in sudden pain, and I kick him hard in the knee, snapping it sideways. He cries out, gasping as the agony hits him, and he drops down to the wet pavement in a heap and clutches at his mangled joint.
The girl’s eyes are wide with terror.
“Go,” I tell her.
She turns and runs for it.
“You motherfucker,” Edgar growls. He reaches for something in his waistband, and I kick him easily in the ribs before kneeling down on his chest. He struggles, but I overpower him, and pull the gun out before he has a chance to draw it himself.
“Pathetic,” I say, tossing the weapon aside. “Fucking pathetic.”
“You’re Valentin Zaitsev,” Edgar says, his throat rasping. He’s in his late forties, portly, with dark hair and a black beard. He’s wearing a piece of shit black suit and white fucking sneakers like he’s a teenager going to prom. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’m here to talk.” I punch him once in the mouth, just because I feel like it, and stand back up. He moans and rolls onto his hands and knees, blood dripping onto the pavement. “You know Aram Sarkissian.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Edgar snarls.
I kick him hard in the rib again. He sprawls onto his back, gasping for breath.
“Don’t fucking lie to me.” I walk around his prone body. He squeezes his eyes shut and spits blood to the side, narrowly missing my shoes. I kick him again for that. “I know who you are. You think I haven’t been studying your piece of shit Brotherhood for years now?”
“I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”
“You already said my name.” I draw a military-style knife from a sheath at my hip and kneel down on Edgar’s right wrist. He tries to curl his hand into a fist, but I pry his pointer finger loose and hold it steady. “Who is responsible for the fire at Miriam Sarkissian’s house?”
“Aram’s sister? The traitor fucking bitch? I don’t—”
I slice off the finger. It’s a clean cut, lucky him. Blood spouts out as I grab his chin and force his mouth open.
“Tell me or I’ll shove it down your throat.”
“I don’t—I don’t—”
I jam the severed finger into his mouth. He tries to fight it off, but Anton kicks him until his jaw finally relaxes, and he gags once he tastes his own blood dripping down his throat. I force him to chew once, twice, before stepping back.
He gags and spits the finger out then vomits on the pavement.
“Next one, I’ll make you swallow. Tell me who did it.”
“Please,” he says, coughing and spitting. “Please, I don’t know.”
I grab his wrist. He screams and fights, but I don’t even bother giving him another chance. I cut off his middle finger and grab him by the hair.
“You have eight more fingers, and I have all night,” I say to him calmly. “Tell me who.”
“It was Arsen,” he gasps, squealing when I drag the finger’s bloody end down his cheek like swiping him with a marker. “Aram’s oldest son, it was fucking Arsen.”
I glance up at Anton. He only shrugs like that’s entirely plausible. From what I know, Aram’s two sons, Arsen and Tigran, are both very much involved with the Brotherhood, and are typically used as enforcers.
It wouldn’t shock me if Miriam’s own nephew is the one that nearly killed her.
“Where can I find him?” I press.
“He manages a restaurant,” he says, tears streaming down his face. “It’s called the Pomegranate House. He’s got an office in the back.”
“How often is he there?”
“I don’t know! Most nights. Please, I don’t know anything else.”
“Edgar,” I say, patting his cheek. “You’ve been very useful. I understand why Aram made you one of his trusted men.”
“You’re not going to win,” he says, thinking this is over. “The Brotherhood is stronger than you realize.”
“Maybe,” I say and jab the edge of my knife against his throat. “But you’re not.”
I saw his neck open. It’s ugly and grisly, and he bleeds like a fucking pig, but once he’s dead, I feel a little bit better.