Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
As the engines start, my fingers close around the paper and I press my fist to my heart while watching my family leave.
When I see them again, I’ll be the pakhan, the most powerful man in the Bratva.
Anastasia
Hanging the laundry, the autumn sun barely registers as it warms my skin.
The brick mansion behind me has been my prison ever since I returned to Russia.
There was no arranged marriage. My grandfather took one look at me and told my mother to remove me from his sight, or he would put a bullet in me.
Instead of being a bargaining chip for the great Fedorov family, I’m a disgrace. Not a day has passed where they’ve let me forget it.
“The guests will arrive soon!” Ms. Fedorova shouts angrily from the back door.
Right after my grandfather rejected me, she told me never to call her mother again, because I haven’t earned the right. I have to address her as Ms. Fedorova, as she took back her maiden name after my father was killed by the Cosa Nostra a few years ago.
I glance in her direction, and seeing the hateful expression on her face, my muscles tense with apprehension.
Here we go again.
“You better start preparing dinner, tolstukha. I swear if you embarrass me tonight, I’ll… I’ll…” Her temper spirals out of control, and she storms toward me.
Just like every other time she’s hit me, I’m unable to cower or beg for mercy. Instead, I stare her dead in the eye even though I know it will anger her more.
You’d think after five years I would’ve learned pissing off my mother never ends well for me. I can’t help myself.
Although she calls me ‘fatso’ every chance she gets and abuses me daily, there’s a stubbornness that’s taken up residence in my chest, and it refuses to bend the knee.
The sounds of the slaps as her hand connects over and over with my cheek echo across the backyard while the sharp burns seep into my skin and force my head to the side.
A thousand comebacks gather on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to keep from saying any of them and digging a deeper hole for myself.
Dropping the wet towel in the basket, I begin to walk to the house so I can prepare dinner, but my feet instantly halt when Ms. Fedorova shrieks, “Are you fucking stupid? Finish hanging the laundry!”
Letting out a heavy sigh, I turn around and bend to pick up the towel again.
Suddenly she grabs me by the hair and yanks me backward. I instinctively grip hold of her arm, my gaze connecting with hers.
“Stop testing me, tolstukha,” she hisses as she leans down to get in my face. “You’re only alive because you’re of some worth to me as a maid.” The sharp smell of vodka on her breath wafts up my nose, telling me she’s started drinking early today.
Just bloody great. It’s going to be a long night.
The more she drinks, the more violent she gets.
After I was ripped out of the UK, everything went wrong all at once. The family rejected me. My father was killed. Mother became worthless to Grandfather because the Irish were dismantled, so he banished us to this house in the countryside.
That’s when she started drinking. It’s especially bad around her birthday and the holidays when she hosts elaborate parties. Afterward, the silence sets in again, reminding her that her life is empty and she’s not the Bratva queen she’d hoped to be.
When I just stare at her, it once again makes her volatile temper explode.
Letting out an enraged shriek, she yanks wildly on my hair while her other hand delivers slap after slap. I try to grab her wrist but trip over the basket and fall on my butt, losing a fistful of hair in the process.
“Ms. Fedorova,” a guard calls from the house. “The first guests have arrived.”
Like a switch is flipped, she straightens up and pats over her hair and dress with trembling hands. She shoots me a hateful glare, and lifting her chin, she walks back to the house.
Climbing to my feet, I gingerly rub the sore spot on my head before I continue hanging the laundry. Once the basket is empty, I take it inside and wash my hands so I can get started with dinner.
I’ve already prepped everything yesterday and will be serving racks of lamb with garlic and rosemary alongside beef tenderloin in rich red wine sauce for the main course. The sides are all Ms. Fedorova’s favorites. Honey-glazed baby carrots, green beans with butter and toasted almonds, cauliflower in creamy cheese sauce, and roasted potatoes.
Once I have the meat in the oven, I open the fridge and remove the three charcuterie boards with cured meats, cheeses, olives, and crackers. I make two trips to the dining room and place the boards on the large rectangular table where Ms. Fedorova is chatting happily with Polina Belov, one of her cousins, who’s recently become a widow herself.