Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
As far as my crew is concerned, there isn’t much difference between tracking down terrorists and taking out crime lords. Or bumping off whoever gets in our way. We’ve all lost whatever passes for conscience and morality ages ago.
“Heading out?” Anton asks, closing the laptop when I get up and put on my jacket. “Going to be with her all night again?”
“Probably.” I pat my jacket, making sure my weapons are well concealed. “Most likely.”
Anton sighs and stands up, leaving the laptop on the couch. “You know this is nuts, right? If you want her so much, just fucking take her and be done with it. I’m tired of these local ten-grand gigs; the stupid thugs don’t even put up a fight. If we don’t have another real job before Mexico, I’ll go out of my fucking mind.”
“You’re always welcome to strike out on your own,” I point out, and suppress a chuckle when Anton gives me the middle finger in reply. Even if we weren’t friends, he wouldn’t leave the team. My connections are the reason we get all this lucrative business. In the process of obtaining the list, I’ve ventured deep into the criminal underworld and gotten to know many of the key players. As skilled as my guys are, they wouldn’t be half as successful without me, and they know it.
“Have fun,” Anton calls out as I head for the exit, and I pretend not to hear as he mutters something about obsessed stalkers and poor tortured women.
He doesn’t understand why I’m doing this to Sara, and I’m not inclined to explain.
Especially since I don’t understand it myself.
Chapter 26
Sara
The mouthwatering smell of buttery seafood and roasted garlic greets me when I walk into the house, my handbag hanging casually over my shoulder. As I hoped, once again the dining room table is set with candles, and a bottle of white wine is chilling in a bucket of ice. Only the food is different today; it looks like we’re having seafood linguini for the main course, with calamari and a tomato-mozzarella salad for the appetizers.
The setup couldn’t be more perfect if I tried.
Act normal. Stay calm. He can’t know what you’re planning.
“Italian night, huh?” I say as Peter turns from the kitchen counter, where he was chopping up something that looks like basil. My heart is thumping erratically in my chest, but I succeed in keeping my tone coolly sarcastic. “What’s tomorrow? Japanese? Chinese?”
“If you wish,” he says, walking over to the table to sprinkle the chopped basil on the mozzarella. “Though I’m less familiar with those cuisines, so we might have to order in.”
“Uh-huh.” My gaze falls to his hands as he brushes the remnants of the basil off his fingers. A warm, shivery sensation curls through me as I remember how those fingers touched me with devastating pleasure, making me unravel in his arms.
No. Don’t go there.
Desperate to distract myself, I focus on his outfit. Today, he’s wearing a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and my throat goes dry at the sight of his tan, muscular forearms, the left one covered by tattoos all the way down to the wrist. Inked guys aren’t normally my thing, but the intricate tattoos suit him, emphasizing the power flexing under that smooth, hair-dusted skin. I’ve always been drawn to strong, masculine forearms, and Peter has the best I’ve ever seen. George worked out, so he had nice arms too, but they were nowhere near as powerfully cut as these.
Ugh, stop. Self-disgust burns in my throat as I realize what I’m doing. At no point should I be comparing my husband, a normal, peaceful man, to a killer whose life revolves around violence and vengeance. Obviously, Peter Sokolov is in better shape; he has to be, to kill all those people and evade the authorities. His body is a weapon, honed by years of battle, while George was a journalist, a writer who spent most of his time with his computer.
Except… if I were to believe Peter, my husband wasn’t a journalist. He was a spy operating in the same shadow world as the monster puttering around my kitchen.
Bands of tension loop around my forehead, and I push all thoughts of my husband’s alleged deception away, focusing on the rest of my stalker’s outfit: another pair of dark jeans and black socks with no shoes. For a second, it makes me wonder if Peter has something against wearing shoes, but then I recall that in some cultures, it’s considered disrespectful and unclean to wear outside shoes inside the house.
Is the Russian culture like that, and if so, is the man who tortured me in this very kitchen showing, in some very roundabout way, that he respects me?
“Go ahead, wash your hands or whatever you need to do,” he says, dimming the lights before sitting down at the table and uncorking the wine. “The food is getting cold.”