Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Fifty-five years old. Silver in my hair, violence in my eyes, and twenty-six years of vengeance carved into every scar.
I was paid five million to erase Markom Ivanov, the man who filmed my mother dying when I was seventeen.
I walked into his palace ready to paint the walls with his blood.
Then I saw her.
Anya.
His twenty-three-year-old daughter.
Icy-blue eyes, ivory skin, and a pulse that beat faster the closer I got.
One look and the death in my veins became useless.
I took her instead.
Now she’s naked and my captive. She was meant to be my revenge. She’s becoming the only thing I’ve ever been afraid to lose. But I’d never let her know. I’d never let her see that weakness.
I’ll hunt her if she runs. I’ll burn Moscow to ash if anyone tries to take her from me.
Because the monster hired to kill a king just stole his princess, and a man like me didn’t let go of the one thing that finally made him feel humanThey call me The Death Dealer.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Dmitry
Iwalked through the side door of the gutted cathedral at three in the morning and felt the Moscow wind slice straight through my coat.
Fifty-five winters in this frigid city had taught me the cold wasn’t an enemy anymore. It was the only thing that still felt honest.
Snow hissed against the broken rose window, against the saints whose faces had been shot out by drunks or soldiers or both. One candle burned on the cracked marble altar, throwing weak gold designs that didn’t reach the corners.
That was where Viktor Lebedev waited. He didn’t turn when my boots crunched over shattered glass. He wore a black cashmere coat, collar turned up, and had his gloved hands clasped behind his back like a saint who’d traded salvation for sin.
He finally turned and faced me. The scar that split his face from his right ear to the corner of his mouth caught the candlelight and looked even more distorted.
“Ty opozdal,” he said without looking. You’re late.
“Ya nikogda ne opazdyvayu,” I answered. I’m never late.
He laughed, low and harsh. Viktor was sixty-two years old and still hungry enough to kill for a bigger throne. He took two steps toward me and held out a photograph.
I looked at the man staring at the lens, face stoic, bloodlust in his eyes.
Andrey Ivanov.
Fifty-eight. Fat jowls, beady black eyes, and the same shark smile I’d memorized the year this man’s daughter was still in diapers.
“Pyat' millionov amerikanskikh. Polovina segodnya perevodom. Polovina kogda on perestanet dyshat',” Viktor said. Five million American. Half today by transfer. Half when he stops breathing.
I didn’t touch the picture. I’d carried that face behind my eyes for thirty-eight years. I knew every pore, every wrinkle. I knew the stench of rot that clung to him like cheap cologne. It was the same rot that had filled that basement all those years ago.
“Ya ne delayu tselyye tela,” I told him. “Ya delayu chasti. Vyberi chast’, kotoruyu khochesh’ v podarochnoy upakovke.” I don’t do whole bodies. I do pieces. Pick the part you want gift-wrapped.
Viktor’s scar twitched, but other than that, his expression remained still as stone. “Khorosho. Yazyk, togda. On lzhet slishkom mnogo.” Fine. The tongue, then. He lies too much.
I almost smiled.
They’d called me The Death Dealer since I walked out of a basement with five dead men’s fingers lined up in a cigar case.
Thirty-five years of taking souvenirs.
“Prezhde chem ya soglashus’,” I said, “ya khochu koe-chto.” Before I agree, I want something.
“Ty ne v polozhe—” You’re in no—
“Ya vsegda v polozhenii, chtoby uyti.” I’m always in a position to walk.
Viktor’s eyes narrowed, calculating. Finally, he took the drive and pocketed it and the photograph. “Chё tebe nado?” What do you want?
“Ya ego zamochu za tebya, no informatsiya tol'ko u nego. Mne nado vytyanut' yeyo pered tem, kak ub'yu, tak chto mozhet zatyanut'sya dol'she tvoego dedlayna.” I'll kill him for you, but I need information that only he has. I have to get it out of him before I take him out, so this might take more time than your deadline.
The words came out flat. Just facts, like reciting a grocery list written in blood.
Viktor studied me for a long second before he responded. “Ladno. Glavnoe, chtoby delo bylo sdelano, delai s nim chto khochesh'.” Fine. As long as you get the job done, do with him what you want.
I nodded once. Viktor was old school and produced the contract. It was on thick cream paper, already signed in Viktor’s spidery Cyrillic. I took my knife and sliced the pad of my thumb, pressing it to the paper in a perfect, bloody print beside my name: Dmitry Myasnikov.
But to the world, I had no legal name. I was known to those unfortunate to have heard of my reputation as just The Death Dealer.
My cell buzzed with the first wire transfer. I’d get the rest once the job was done.
“Gala zavtra vecherom,” Viktor said. “Rublyovka dacha. Chornyy galstuk. Ya organizoval formu ofitsianta. Okhrana strozhe, chem pizda devstvennitsy, no ty proskochish’.” Gala tomorrow night. Rublyovka dacha, Andrey’s estate. Black tie. I arranged a waiter’s uniform. Security’s tighter than a virgin’s cunt, but you’ll ghost through.
I said nothing after his crude instructions, and turned to leave.
“Yeshchyo odno, Dima.” One more thing, Dima.
The nickname dug deep. I paused under the broken arch.
“U Andreya yest’ doch’. Zoya. Dvadtsat’ tri. Simpatichnaya shtuchka. Izbalovannaya. Esli ona vstanet u tebya na puti—” Andrey has a daughter. Zoya. Twenty-three. Pretty little thing. Spoiled. If she gets in your way—
“Ya ne ubivayu zhenshchin.” I don’t kill women.
“Ya i ne prosil tebya,” he said, smiling thinly. “Prosto ne day yey sdelat’ tebya glupym. Krasivyye veshchi tak vliyayut na muzhchin tvoyego vozrasta.” I wasn’t asking you to. Just don’t let her make you stupid. Pretty things do that to men your age.
Fifty-five years old and the words still landed like a boot to the ribs. Pretty things. Just like my mother when they broke her on camera. I walked out without answering.