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)
She’s much quicker to react than her captors, though. She lunges forward over the fallen man’s body and grabs his gun with both hands, pointing it at me.
Her grip is steady and sure. She isn’t just a scared girl grabbing the first weapon she sees. She’s trained and practiced. Her hands don’t shake even a little as she points the gun at the man next to her.
I catch her wrist before she fires.
She twists instantly, trying to roll the barrel toward me instead, without even flinching. She doesn’t know who I am yet, and that doesn’t matter to her.
“Let go,” she says evenly.
Her pulse is steady beneath my fingers.
“He’s dead,” I tell her. “Don’t waste a bullet.”
“He’s still breathing,” she argues.
Her finger tightens on the trigger without hesitation. There’s no panic in her face, no wildness.
I take the weapon from her hand and toss it onto the front seat. She shoves against my chest immediately, aiming an elbow toward my ribs. I shift my weight and absorb it without reacting.
“Don’t touch me,” she seethes.
I release her and step back half a pace. She climbs out of the car on her own once she unties the rope binding her feet.
She straightens her spine, rolls her shoulders once as if resetting a joint, and scans the streets.
“Who the hell are you?” she asks.
There’s no gratitude or relief in her question. She’s pissed, and all her anger is now directed toward me. She’s completely unafraid, which I find fascinating. She just watched three men murdered in front of her, but her priority is to interrogate me.
“Does it matter?” I ask seriously. “Those men tried to hurt you, and now they’re dead.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“You’re full of shit,” she responds. “You didn’t just interfere with the most notorious man in Brooklyn to save a stranger. You an enemy of Grinkov?”
“Honestly,” I say slowly. “The less I have to deal with that tvar, the better.”
“Which family are you from?” she demands. “You’re clearly Bratva.”
“That’s not your concern,” I shoot back. “Though there’s no need to ask who you are, Anya Malenkova. Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for a wedding?”
She studies me without blinking. I can see calculation behind her fury. She has questions she needs answered, but first she has to assess her chance of getting out of this. If I’m a threat, she’s got one more fight. If I’m a savior, she gets to walk away scot-free. It’s almost exciting watching her try to piece together who I am. I decide to let her stew in the mystery.
I walk to the last man and check for movement. He’s bleeding out slowly, eyes wide with shock. I kneel down and finish him off cleanly, putting him out of his misery. When I stand back up, she’s still watching me.
Most people would look away from that part. She doesn’t.
“Would you have preferred I save him for you?” I ask sarcastically.
“Viktor Kovalev,” she says my name almost like a whisper. “They call you The Enforcer. I recognize you now.”
“And do you like what you see?” I ask cheekily. “Careful, I wouldn’t want Mikhail getting jealous.”
“Mikhail can rot in hell for all I care,” she nearly growls. “You’d better get out of here before his men find you.”
“And what will you do?” I can’t help but ask her.
Where does she go from here? She clearly wanted to get away from Mikhail, otherwise his men wouldn’t have dragged her into a car kicking and screaming. What’s her endgame, I wonder. How is she going to play this unexpected moment of potential?
“That’s not your business,” she says defensively. “And it isn’t Mikhail’s either.”
I glance at the street once more. There are no witnesses around now, but drunk people have a way of wandering into places they don’t belong. The scene on the street will be discovered, but not immediately. By then we’ll be gone.
“You can’t stay here,” I tell her. “And there’s nowhere for you to hide on your own.”
She steps toward the mouth of the alley as if testing that statement. I move into her path without touching her.
“Move out of my way,” she demands.
“Or what?” I challenge.
Her jaw tightens. She knows she’s trapped here. She has no car, no weapon, and nowhere to hide. But I do.
As soon as the thought forms, I know I can’t leave her here. Worse, and most troubling, I don’t want to leave her here.
I look at her wrists. They’re raw and red and already swelling from the rope. She’s no victim, of course. She won’t complain about a little pain.
“You’re coming with me,” I tell her, definitively, grabbing at her wrist, above where the welts are forming.
She twists against my grip, trying to break free. She’s strong, but I’m much stronger. Her eyes narrow at me, and hate fills her rich, brown eyes.