Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 107608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
My attention is caught by the tail end of Rosalie’s SUV as she turns a far corner and quite happily deserts me. My groin hardens. Again. Her scent swirls around my head, licking through me. Something good and clean and sweet—way too sweet for an asshole like me.
I glance up at the damaged electric sign swinging drunkenly in the light storm. The words ‘the’ and ‘pony’ have died out, leaving only AMETHYST in faded purple letters. A buzzing echoes from the letters. If the sign falls on somebody, the damn thing will probably electrocute them.
Striding toward the peeling red metal door, I shove it open and step inside the darkened interior. Hard-gut whiskey scent instantly assails me, and my stomach cramps in need.
“We’re fucking closed. Get out before you get shot,” a rough male voice bellows from a room beyond the long wooden bar planted on the right side of the structure. A second later, Garik Petrov appears, dark hair ruffled, faded jeans ripped, and irritation cutting lines into the sides of his mouth. “Shit. Alexei.”
“Yeah.” On alert, I stalk closer to the bar, nodding at the bottles lined haphazardly on the cracked glass shelves mounted to the wall.
Garik tosses a box aside. “You don’t want that crap.” He moves toward the bar and reaches below it, his gaze intense and guarded. Like always. He was orphaned young and taken in by an uncle who was a low-level operative in the Bratva. The uncle was killed years ago, and I’m fairly certain Garik gutted the old man.
I tense and then force my shoulders to relax as Garik pulls out a bottle of Beluga Gold Line vodka. My mouth waters. It has been seven long years since I’ve tasted anything for pleasure instead of for simple sustenance. “The front door is unlocked.”
He grabs two somewhat clean-looking shot glasses and fills them to the top. “Yeah. I’m waiting for a shipment of beer in about thirty minutes, and the delivery guy is too scared to go through the alley to the back door. Can’t blame him. Last guy got his head smashed before being robbed.”
Irritation clacks through me and I reach for the shot glass. “Did you make a statement with that?”
“Tried but haven’t found the guy.” Garik secures his own glass. “I don’t have the resources you once shared.”
Having the Russian mob at my back is quite handy. I planned to take control from my stepmother once I finished screwing around, and perhaps I should’ve cut that shit out long before. A mistake I’ll never make again.
“Nazdorovie.” He lifts his glass.
I clink with him. “Nazdorovie.” Then I tip back the drink, and wild spice explodes down my throat to my gut. Heaven. Pure and simple. I place the glass on the bar, and he refills it. “Thank you.” I mean for more than the drink, and he knows it.
“Of course.” He takes his second shot. “You’re my only friend in this world.”
It’s a true statement for us both. I was too young and stupid to realize my vulnerability in life, and the way he has deposited money into my commissary account every week—when he obviously doesn’t have much—ensures I will be loyal to him until the day I die. He could’ve joined the mafia as a low-level thug and made some money, which he has not done. His lineage would make it impossible for him to rise far, but he still could’ve made a nice living—and hasn’t tried. Which makes his dedication all the more powerful. “Who do we have?”
“We have at least eight men.” He names them, and I mask any surprise. “Your brother has made mistakes. Namely with daughters.”
So Hendrix still can’t keep it in his pants. He should be smart enough to stay away from the daughters of his lieutenants, but apparently those sexual drives are too strong. Our father had the same problem. “I’m surprised nobody has taken him out.”
Garik shrugs. “Hendrix has loyal guards and knows how to fight. It won’t be easy for you to retake the helm.”
I study Garik. The seven years took a toll, with two new scars on his neck, but he stands almost to my height, and his torso has remained muscled beneath his worn black T-shirt. His nose holds a bump as if it has been broken in my absence.
Life has never been kind to Garik, from what I can tell. I’ve never asked and had only known that his deceased father was a low-level Bratva drug mule and his mother a hooker who disappeared years ago. I initially opened the bar with him because he can sing and is strong enough to handle problems and toss them out on their asses if necessary. It was one of the many reckless and immature moves in my overly arrogant youth, entered into carelessly.