Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Her best friend Isabella was back in Colombia with Lev, and everything she reported back to us corroborated what Renata had told me thus far: her brother worked alongside Isabella's brother Javier to destroy our Bratva, Javier was dead, and Carlos was as well. Neither woman showed a shred of remorse about their brother’s deaths, solidifying what I knew to be true—there was no love lost between them.
Renata sat by the window, her long, thick, dark hair catching the light like strands of chocolate silk. Her fingers danced absentmindedly over her thigh, her serene expression masking the storm I knew raged inside her—the storm I was desperate to calm. How could I, a man who straddled the line between life and death, bring peace to a woman like her? Still, I couldn't help but watch her, mesmerized by how beautiful she was. I held myself as motionless as I could, as if moving too fast or breathing too deeply would break the peace.
Finally, I cleared my throat.
"Renata," I said softly, not wanting to break the spell. But I had a job to do, and we had more to discuss.
She turned to me, her eyes wary, always on guard. "What is it?" she asked, her voice steady and sharp. If she were on her feet, she'd be ready to take a fighting stance. I fucking loved that about her.
I walked over and sat beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body and smell the fragrance of vanilla and warmed cinnamon.
"Where do you want to go from here? Have you given it any thought?"
"From here?"
Mikhail had suggested a warmer line of questioning, something friendly to build trust. "Talk about her future, hopes, and dreams," he had said with a sardonic grin. "Let her believe you actually give a shit."
Problem was? I did.
She gave me a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "I haven't given much thought to the future. So far, it's been wildly unpredictable. I'm more of a live-in-the-moment kind of girl." She swallowed. “I’ve had to be.”
If that wasn't something I fucking loved about her. I was forced to be a live-in-the-moment kind of guy, and I didn't like it either. It was exhausting, never having a promise of tomorrow. Dreaming of the future was a luxury we couldn’t afford.
I reached out and took her hand in mine. I expected her to pull away or, at the very least, recoil, but she did neither. She stared at our hands. "If I were to think about it," she began hesitantly, "I might think about a time when… all the violence and bloodshed is behind us—me,” she corrected, looking away from me. Maybe she didn't mean to include the two of us together.
I loved that she did.
“I could just be… normal. Maybe have a little home somewhere quiet, away from main roads or noise or… everything. A quiet place to sit. Maybe with a little deck or rocking chair. Somewhere I could just think and not have to answer to anybody. I grew up in the city. I grew up with a lot of money. I don't want that anymore."
"You grew up with a lot of money?"
She corrected herself quickly. "According to my father, earning money was the best thing he could do for anybody, the best thing any of us could do. What bullshit," she said, shaking her head.
"Your mother?"
"I didn't have a mother." She gave me a sad smile. "When I was little, before my father became completely corrupt, he would tell me the story of how I grew in the garden next to the cabbages."
She paused, thoughtful. "Eventually, I found out the truth, of course, that my mother did have me but died in childbirth. I wondered for a time if my father blamed me for her death, but he never did. My maternal grandmother, though, she was another story."
I'd have to keep that one in mind.
"Do you really think something like… a house, a future, is possible?" she asked, her eyes wistful as if my answer held the key to hope in her future.
"I have to," I said, squeezing her hand gently. "It keeps me going. The thought that one day, I can leave the violence behind and be free from all of this."
She sighed, looking out the window. "I've learned that expecting too much only brings sadness. Dreams have a way of getting crushed."
"I know," I said, my own voice tinged with sadness. "But that doesn't mean we can't hope, or want more, or even plan for it."
She looked at me, her eyes softer but still tinged with caution. Still guarded. I knew then it would take a lot more than mere days for her to trust me. "I want to believe in that too," she said quietly. "But it's hard. It's hard to let myself believe that it could happen."