Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
From my left, the sound of knuckles hitting flesh made my lip curl.
“Calm down, Sim,” I ordered. “I told my daughter I’d give the Marine a chance to speak for himself.”
An uppercut proceeded my brother Simeon’s growl. “I didn’t.”
I laughed. “You know what? The second the girl he took awakens, Cutie Pie will bring her down for reckoning. If Jordyn sees him spitting up blood, I’m not gonna hold my baby back from you. You won’t either.”
My brother didn’t say another word. He’d gone soft too. Where it counted. Family. The Resnov Bratva. He’d dismantled all the Resnov Castles he’d once owned before marrying Anastasiya. The evil in him, too.
Simeon slunk over and took my bottle off the glossy coffee table where I rested my feet. He choked the neck, swigging down the vodka.
I kicked him.
He firmed his hands, the flesh underneath pink from a few minutes with that big Scot. Kid could’ve gone the Ultimate Fighting Championship route like me. It was better for me to hunger for UFC belts since I never wanted to take over for that piece of … my father. Anatoly is dead. I no longer hated him, so no need to piss on his name.
Anyway, this dude could’ve made a real life for himself. A real, good, clean life for himself. Nyet. He claimed women. Stole them.
“Just admit it, Vassili,”—Simeon pointed a finger at me—“the only person you fear more than your wife is that little girl upstairs.”
I took on Natasha’s condescending tone, which she slung in my direction way too many times. “ ‘Ugh, Uncle Sim, I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m eighteen—nineteen. Uh, twenty.’ ” I grimaced with a laugh, realizing how old she was. Maybe I did baby her too much?
“Twenty.” Natasha slowly walked down the west side of the basement steps, farther away. The girl we saved at her side.
Ugh. This basement had too many entry points. “I know, Cutie Pie.”
“Don’t call me that anymore, either. I’m too old for it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I rolled my eyes.
“Where’s Jamie?” Her friend gazed around the room.
They were facing the left side of the basement—toward our captive. Why the trick question?
Simeon turned around and expired a breathy “Oh?”
My glare slid to the left. The wire swung slightly from underneath the top of the staircase. Jamie MacKenzie no longer swung from it. The soldier had vanished.
“I think we have a problem.” I removed the gold-plated custom MP-443 Grach from the back of my suit pocket.
“A very big problem,” Simeon agreed.
“Wait,” the girl croaked.
I gave her a look—Who are you? Of course, I knew who she was. Natasha had begged us to save her after seeing her on television. I had my enforcers on the job, and just for kicks, Simeon and I got them once a goon found them at a restaurant in Lakewood. Paid the server to give them laced mimosas too.
But did Jordyn know who she was? Many assault victims weren’t right in the head. Maybe all the hits. Should I hold it against her? Nyet. I’d had numerous concussions when tight-fisting my heavyweight UFC belt. And I was wearing my favorite Vicuña today. So, no need to get my hands dirty or my suit. Be honest with yourself, Vassili. You’re a forty—okay, maybe a forty-something Russian bull, and this dude’s half your age.
Nyet. I didn’t need to be honest with myself because I still received requests to enter the octagon on occasion. Okay, that wasn’t honesty. That was pride.
But as I glanced around the room, turning slowly, Jordyn begged me to put the gun down. Like hell.
A voice grated, bitter and rough, from somewhere in the over 5,000 square feet of basement. “You shouldn’t have tied me up.”
I sniggered. Who did this Jamie think he was, the Terminator? I’d heard more crap talk the day before fight night.
My Grach aimed around the cement pillars. Simeon had pulled his own weapon. In fact, two. Guns fisted in both hands. We grinned, ready for the fun we hadn’t allowed ourselves to have in ages. Thankfully, my Zariah and his wife, Anastasiya, were in Jamaica. Then I saw him. Jamie erupted like a blur of muscle and rage. He tackled me. The force made the gun fly from my hand. We slammed to the ground, tangled in a fight. A fight I’d win.
Down to the clinch, Jamie was on top of me. Fists rained everywhere. Brutal precision—not calculated. His breaths came in wild gasps. I took a hit to the chin and traded him two of my own.
Thud. A hook rocked my head against the glossy marble floor.
“Dad!” Natasha screamed.
Jordyn gasped. “Jamie, please—”
I chuckled, blood spurting from my nose. My turn. I pressed my hips up the way my coach, Vadim, taught me years ago. Once, Jamie road me like a bull. I wasn’t proud of that. Twice got him off me. I twisted until I had him from behind. Like a viper, my thick arm slipped up and around Jamie’s neck, and I tugged him against me in a rear naked choke. As his consciousness began to slip, he braced his feet.