Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
The men close in tighter around her. One grabs her waist. Another tries to force her toward the open back door of the sedan. She resists, but not in any way I’ve seen other women try.
She doesn’t scream for help. She doesn’t look around wildly. She plants her heel and drives it hard into one man’s shin. It hits with a clean impact, like she’s clearly been trained for this. He stumbles sideways, more shocked than hurt.
That wasn’t a lucky shot, she knew where to hit to make it hurt.
The other two move in around her like she’s a feral animal, like she might attack them next. One reaches for her shoulders. The other grabs her wrist. She twists and nearly slips free before the first man recovers and shoves her toward the car again.
I lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing as the streetlight shifts across her face. There’s blood at the corner of her mouth. Her hair falls wildly around her face, like it’s come undone from a well-coiffed style.
And then I recognize her: Anya Malenkova.
I’ve seen her twice in formal settings, always at her father’s side. She never simpered, nor ever played the obedient daughter. She stood straight, watched everything, and spoke only when necessary with some additional spice. I remember noticing that about her. Most daughters raised in this world learn to smile and keep quiet.
She didn’t.
Rumors have been moving for months about a marriage alliance between Malenkov and Grinkov as a way to consolidate Brighton. A way to strengthen their hold against outside pressure. I didn’t pay much attention. Marriage deals are currency in our circles.
Watching this now, I don’t see a willing bride.
One of the men punches her in the ribs. She bends but doesn’t fold. Instead, she snaps her head backward and connects with his nose hard enough that I see blood spray even from this distance.
Still, she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t beg for someone to help her. She knows that only she can help herself. The sight of her undoes something deep inside of me.
The Grinkov reputation is one of fear and intimidation, but they don’t just threaten. They make examples. They carve fear into neighborhoods so deep that people stop resisting before they’re even asked to. Businesses that hesitate get burned. Families that complain lose sons. That’s how they operate.
If this is how they’re handling Malenkov’s daughter, it means something has shifted.
Or something has broken.
The sedan’s driver moves toward his door and climbs inside. The engine turns over. The car inches forward as if momentum alone will solve their problem.
She braces her foot against the doorframe and refuses to be folded into the backseat. There’s pride in it. Stupid pride, maybe. But pride all the same. If she goes into that car, she disappears into Grinkov property. Into a negotiation that won’t include her voice. If she resurfaces, it will be as someone else’s wife. If she fights like this on the street, I can only imagine what she’d do inside a locked room.
Maybe the smaller Brighton families were right to be nervous. If Grinkov can try to force Malenkov’s daughter into submission out in the open like this, no one is safe from being swallowed.
I check the street again. Two pedestrians across the way deliberately avoid looking at the scene. A delivery van sits half a block up. No visible cameras are pointed directly into the alley. There are no police cruisers in sight. It solidifies a decision I’m not ready to voice just yet.
The first man she kicked is back on his feet now. He grabs her by the upper arm again, harder this time. The other two try to lift her body and force her down into the seat. She twists between them and almost breaks free. Almost.
For a second, she’s balanced and ready to run. Then one of them lands another punch and the balance tips. That’s enough. The sedan’s engine revs as the driver tries to ease forward. I don’t wait for them to gain speed.
A voice in my head tells me this is a huge mistake. I don’t want to be involved in this. I don’t need an enemy in the Malenkov camp, and I certainly don’t want to piss off Mikhail Grinkov. Still, I can’t watch this girl struggle anymore. She’s clearly being forced into something she doesn’t want.
If Sergei were here, he’d tell me to keep driving and to mind my business. He’d remind me that getting involved in personal business is a good way to start a war. A war I probably wouldn’t be able to win. My organization is strong, but it’s just as vulnerable to attack as anyone else’s. No one is safe while the Grinkovs are trying to devour Brooklyn.
But I’ve seen enough. I turn the car around and reach for my gun.