Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I walk toward the kitchen, and I can almost hear Matthaeus shouting at me as I push the swinging door open. This isn’t the plan.
“Now my son, he had a special preference for her mouth.”
My blood boils.
It’s noisy in here, lots of staff. I put my hand into my jacket pocket to keep the gun out of sight. The lady at the counter closest to me turns when I enter. She gasps when she sees me grip the edge of her workspace, gaze catching on the bloody print my hand leaves there.
I should get out. Come back with my men. That would be the smart thing to do. But Petrov managed to evade me for five years. I’m not taking a chance on that happening with his offspring. I put a hand to my shoulder, suck a deep breath in and focus on what he said about his son. About what he did to Mara. I look around the kitchen, locate the door a waiter carrying a tray exits from and follow him into the restaurant part of the club. I pause there, grateful it’s dimmer in here.
I’ve never been inside Red’s before, although I’ve seen pictures. It’s huge and lavishly decorated, catering to a high-end crowd. Dress is formal, the wine expensive, the food elegant. I scan the restaurant for either of Petrov’s sons. Viktor and Sacha Petrov. Viktor is first-born. Red’s belongs to him. He looks like a younger version of his father. Sacha, the slightly smarter of the two—or at least the more sober—looks like his mother. And they couldn’t be more different.
If I had to guess which son Petrov was referring to, my money would be on Viktor. But just in case, I’ll take them both out.
Neither are in the dining room though. The tables reserved for the family are set apart from the rest on raised dais. Pretentious pricks.
I cross the dining room toward the club room aware I’m getting looks. Aware I need to hurry this up and get the fuck out of here before Petrov’s soldiers or sons realize I walked out of that cellar.
The music at the club room is the same as that in the restaurant but a little louder. The place darker, more shadowy, the highlights being the various stages upon which beautiful women in various states of dress dance.
The majority of the guests in this room are men but there are women too. I don’t care about any of them, though. Not when I see the room set apart on a mezzanine level. It’s glassed in and two men and one woman are seated at an elegant table as a waiter pours the woman a glass of wine.
It’s Viktor I recognize first. He’s built like his father. He stands from the table, throwing his napkin to the floor as he takes a call. He walks to the window and surveys his club.
I back into the shadows of a sculpture of some Greek goddess, her tits at eye level. I watch Viktor, then see the door to their private room open and several soldiers walk in. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and turns to them.
I take a step toward the stairs that will lead me up to that room, stumbling once as I do, the room spinning. Just then there’s a loud pop. I jerk my head toward the sound, tugging to get the gun out of my pocket. But it’s not a bullet I heard. I see the group of people laughing around the freshly opened bottle of champagne. I push the gun back out of sight.
Breathe. Process the dizziness. Get a fucking handle on my vision fading in and out of black.
I reach my other hand out to steady myself, not sure what I’m reaching for but hear the crashing of crystal as I knock a tray out of the waitress’s hand.
Fuck.
I glance at the stairs I’m heading toward. See the half-dozen men dressed in suits that fit too tightly across their chests rush down. See the effort it takes for them to slow their steps and smile tightly at the guests as they scan the room. I notice one zeroing in on where the sound came from. I crouch down along with the waitress to pretend to help her clean but keep my gaze on them.
I’m so close. I just need to get into their glass cage. I can see them. Both brothers still there. The woman gone now. I don’t know where she went. They’re standing at the glass wall searching the place. I’d shoot now but I know that glass is bulletproof. Petrov is—was—meticulous in protecting himself and his family. He wouldn’t miss that detail.
I get to my feet when the soldier heading toward us is interrupted by another waiter. I turn, weave through a group toward the stairs, my hand still in my pocket, Petrov’s gun cool in my grip when another hand falls heavy on my shoulder.