Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
The old traditions were dying.
And in their place?
These dicks.
Did they really have no idea the chaos it caused? When the oldest Family in Italy handed over the reins to a half-Russian? To Italian-Americans?
“Do this for me,” Andrei spoke up, handing me a glass and grabbing the whiskey from Phoenix, pouring heavily. “Do this for me, and I’ll forget this conversation even happened.”
“And if I walk away?” I asked, even though I knew what would happen.
Blood. Death. After all, did I really think I was going back to Italy after making this trip here? I knew it was either life or death. I knew I wouldn’t be getting back on a plane.
Andrei leaned back in his chair and pressed a red button on the wall behind him.
Heavy black curtains swept away from a glass window, revealing a concrete room, and in the middle of it, two men hung by their hands, dripping blood onto the floor, and on that floor were two fucking tigers.
The men were lowered while the tigers jumped and chewed, and then the men were pulled back up like a sick game for the cats.
“The last men who told me no.” My boss grinned. “Do we have a deal?”
I grit my teeth and clicked my glass against his. “You’re psychotic.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.” Phoenix shrugged like it didn’t matter that a sociopath was calling the shots, and then a black folder was dropped onto my lap. “Try to make it quick.”
“I don’t have to try. Death is my middle name.” I downed the rest of the whiskey and had a sinking feeling that rather than sealing my fate in being able to walk away—I’d just taken a deal from the devil himself—or in this case, devils.
CHAPTER TWO
“You can get much further with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone.” —Al Capone
Katya
He was dead.
His eyes were open, lifeless.
My brother.
My best friend.
My twin.
Was dead.
And I couldn’t cry. He deserved tears, a funeral, he deserved wailing, and justice. At the very least, he deserved recognition. He was a warrior.
Instead, I just sat there and stared at him after our captor left the room. The sound of the lock echoed throughout the dark, wet hell.
The monster left me alone with my brother’s dead body. I couldn’t stop staring at his lifeless form, pouring all of my mental strength into sending him love, praying to a God that never listened when I begged for rescue. My sole protector, the only one in my life who cared.
Had given himself up for me.
And now I had nothing.
No brother, no protector but myself. I was alone in the world and in that dark space, and I knew it was just a matter of time before that evil man came back and got exactly what he wanted. Yet, killing myself seemed to spit on my brother’s sacrifice.
Did my brother know? Know that his sacrifice saved me from getting raped? At least today? Did he know that I would have rather been killed than see his lifeless blue eyes staring back at me, his head ajar at an odd angle, his body bloody, beaten—just broken.
I wasn’t even cold. I was numb. So numb that I knew if someone came in and broke a finger, I wouldn’t feel it—my heart was too consumed by the vision in front of me, of the only love I’ve ever known, struck down from this world in an effort to save me.
The metal door opened again, and two men scrambled in and kicked him just to be sure. They laughed in a language I didn’t know, as if this was a normal occurrence to them, dead bodies, sacrifice, blood.
The door shut again, the lock turned.
And I was blanketed again in cold, terrifying silence, just waiting for the sound of footsteps.
Footsteps that would lead here.
It was strange that something so unassuming, like footsteps, could make you turn into someone you don’t even recognize. I used to think footsteps sounded foreboding, but now I knew. Footsteps should be feared because they almost always led from a bad place to a place you didn’t want to go, at least in my experience.
I wondered if I would ever hear my own footsteps again?
Stupid, but I’d always stopped by department store windows and stared at the pretty outfits, the beautiful colors, lavish long coats, and high heels. I almost stole a pair once just to see what it felt like to slide my foot inside something so fancy.
I promised myself I’d steal a pair, take two steps, then put them back.
I never did; no matter how bad things got, I couldn’t bring myself to steal expensive shoes. Stealing food was survival; stealing shoes was greedy.
And I never wanted to be greedy. As a little girl, I had this stupid notion that I was born to be something greater than the streets I grew up on and that one day someone would come and save me.