Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
We’d stopped in to handle some business and were now seated in a booth at the rear of the bar, tossing back a few drinks before we needed to go home to our girls.
Right now, with all the shit of our world weighing down on us, we needed the noise and the vodka. The heavy bass of the music was a tangible thrum in the background. I downed my drink in one go, the burn of the alcohol doing little to ease the fire inside me.
I slammed the glass down, the sound sharp and final in the dimly lit room. Dmitry glanced over at me, his own glass clutched tight, but he didn’t say a word. We both knew words were useless right now.
An MMA match was on, and both of us focused on the fight as we drank. It wasn’t long before Sly found us. He approached the booth with a look on his face—one that said the task we’d given him had been successful. He had information for us.
And judging by his expression, the news wasn’t going to be good.
I met Dmitry’s gaze, seeing the same readiness reflected in his eyes.
“Bosses,” Sly said, leaning in close so only we could hear him.
He was one of our low-level men who worked the streets. He wasn’t part of the Bratva in an official sense. He wasn’t even Russian. But he was fucking scared of us, and that made him loyal as hell.
“I’ve got news about Tatiana’s attacker.”
I felt Dmitry tense beside me, and I leaned forward, the air between us crackling with anticipation. When we first found out about Tatiana getting hurt, we sent out several of our men to get information that would paint us an entire picture so we could handle it accordingly.
“Well?” Dmitry growled, his patience hanging on by a thread. Just like mine.
Sly looked nervous as hell, which made me nearly snap at him to just fucking tell us already. He swallowed, and I could see him weighing his words and how to say what needed to be fucking said.
“You found out who killed him, didn’t you?” my brother prompted. I felt my need for blood rise.
Sly nodded and ran a hand over his sweaty face.
“Jesus Christ. Spit it out before I slit your throat,” I finally seethed.
“The man who killed the person who hurt your sister was Gio Bianchi,” he said in a rush, his voice shaky. He took a step back, clearly sensing the darkness coming from the two of us. “Without a doubt. He’s the one who took the bastard out.”
For a breath of time, everything went still. I let his words—the identity of the man who killed my sister’s attacker—sink in real deep.
“He might try and hide his identity, but people know. And they were afraid to say anything to me because of who he is. But when they found out both of you wanted to know, they had loose lips.”
And then it all peaked. The fury I’d been holding in check snapped. There was this low rumble, and I realized it came from not only me but Dmitry as well.
I grabbed my glass, my intent to shoot back the last of my vodka, but before I knew what I was doing, glass shattered in my hand as I slammed it down on the table. Shards exploded up and outward, scattering across the booth and onto the floor.
Although I sensed a silent heaviness filling the room, patrons and employees knew better than to gawk and got back to work.
I locked my focus on Dmitry. He didn’t need to say a single word. I could see the shock and betrayal in his eyes. No doubt, the cold fury I saw in his icy expression matched my own.
“Leave us,” I spat at Sly, and he was gone a second later.
“That motherfucker,” Dmitry snarled and finished his drink.
I looked down at my hand and saw a few pieces of glass lodged in my skin, blood dripping from the open wounds and falling onto the tabletop.
I picked out the glass, wrapped my hand in a paper napkin, and said in a seething voice, “Let’s go.” My tone was like a knife slicing through the tension. I was already on my feet as soon as the words left my mouth. Dmitry was already right behind me as we strode out of the bar and toward the waiting Mercedes just outside the door.
Once in the car, I sat there, my hands curled around the steering wheel as I stared straight ahead.
“Are you thinking about what to do?” Dmitry asked in a low, deep voice that didn’t hide his anger. “Do you want to talk about what the fuck we should do?”
There was nothing left to discuss. And although we had yet to fully discuss what the fuck was going on with Maksim’s death, we were well past giving a shit.