Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I wanted to get her away from this mausoleum. Show her the world. Relax the boundaries around our relationship. Wine and dine her. Prove to her that I was a good mate for her.
That I was the right man.
“I have a passport. But it is in my father’s house,” she said, looking wide eyed and nervous. Good. She should be.
I planned to turn her little world upside down.
“We will stop on the way. Bring your violin, if you please.”
“Should I wear my uniform?”
“Yes.”
I said nothing else. We barely spoke to each other these days. I dismissed her from the meal and went to my study alone to drink and set my plans in motion.
Chapter 18
Mishka
The limo rolled to a stop outside my father’s storefront. I hadn’t had to serve today. In fact, I had been served, by the master himself. Coffee and incredible breakfast sandwiches had been waiting for us when we embarked, and Anton had encouraged me to partake.
He even handed me my food, and the incredible coffee the staff always seemed to have on hand.
I was nervous about the journey ahead of me but I could still eat. The food was that delicious.
The driver exited to open the door. I saw that there were two SUV’s full of security in front and behind of us. I had known they were there, of course. A man like Anton had to have security. He was a target. But it still took some getting used to.
Three of the hulking men got out. They asked me for the key to the store. It felt so strange to be there. I waited while they went inside to make sure it was safe, doing my best not to fidget.
“I hope you know where your passport is,” came the low voice from just behind me. I jumped. I hadn’t realized Anton was standing so close. I’d assumed he was still in the car. But he was inches away.
“I do,” I said firmly, though I was not entirely sure. I prayed that it was where I last remembered seeing it. Anton Aslanov was not the sort of man you kept waiting.
His men came out and nodded.
“I will just be a minute. There is no need to accompany me,” I said when my captor followed me inside.
“But I want to, little Mishka. I want to know where you grew up. I know everything about you.”
Shivers went down my spine at his softly spoken words. They sounded like a promise. They sounded like a threat.
I hurried through the shop to the private stairs in the back. It was dark and quiet, but clean. Whoever was running the my father’s store for the Aslanov’s was doing an excellent job. I felt reassured and thankful, suddenly realizing that they hadn’t had to do any of this. They could have killed us both. They could have set the building on fire.
That was the sort of thing the Aslanov Bratva was known for doing. Not for hiring inexperienced maids, forgiving debts, or helping an ailing shopkeeper to keep their business afloat.
Of course, they were profiting from it. I knew that. They must be. But still… it could not be enough to be worth their while. I highly doubted that their empire was built on the backs of shopkeepers and small business owners. Perhaps twenty years ago, when they were boys, but not now.
Something had shifted. I saw things in a new light for the first time, and it changed me. The hardness in my heart against my captor started to shift into something else.
Gratitude. Curiosity. And if I was honest, more than a bit of a crush.
I walked into our beloved little apartment and closed my eyes. The smell of home washed over me, soothing and comforting me. I expected my father to come from the other room with a steaming cup of tea for me. I could almost see a miniature version of myself running through the rooms with her violin until papa scolded me to be more careful with my instrument.
‘Violins do not grow on trees, you know,’ Pap would affectionately scold. He had never been mad at me. Never mean. There were no spankings in our household. No criticism. He had gently nudged me in the right direction, never finding or pointing out fault with me. Not once.
The echoes of the past made me nostalgic, piercing my heart with the arrow of time gone by. My eyes teared suddenly. I missed my father terribly. I knew it would not be forever. I would see him again. His progress was a miracle, and something to celebrate, not to cry over.
Papa was doing well, rallying against all odds. He was stabilized now, if not exactly thriving. He looked small when we Face-timed. Frail. But not as bad as he had looked in Moscow. There was a bit of color in his cheeks again.