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)
The man stumbles off the bed in a panic and I see her. For the first time in fifteen years, I see her.
It’s dark in here. Lights dimmed. Heavy curtains drawn shut.
But it’s her.
And again, for one moment, I’m transfixed.
She’s naked on the bed trying to hide herself. Of course, she’s naked. What did I think they’d be doing in here, playing cards? Her face is framed by long, white-blonde hair, her eyes shiny, bright and wide with terror.
“I fucking paid,” the man starts, forcing my attention away from her. Drawing it back to him. He’ll regret that in about one second because the rage inside me has become a living, breathing thing. The pulse a fire in my veins.
He’s finally got his flaccid dick back in his pants and is zipping them up.
“Petrov agreed I get to go first.”
“Is that right?” I ask, stepping toward the man who must be sixty. Fucking pervert. “Petrov’s not here, is he? But I’ll tell you what.” I cock my gun, step close enough the toes of my boots are touching the tips of his shoes. “You can go first. Straight to hell.” I raise the pistol just a little, just so it’s at the level of his dick, and pull the trigger.
He screams and so does she. She’s squirming away. She should.
“We gotta move,” Matthaeus says, touching his earpiece. “Soldiers are on their way.”
I drag my gaze from the pervert cupping the place his dick used to be and glance at her. Again, it’s like I’m struck. Paralyzed.
“Dante!” It’s Matthaeus.
I shake away the strange sensation and I see how his blood has splattered her face and hair like a stain. Like something foul on a clean thing. A pure thing. She’s wide-eyed, mouth open in a stunned O, holding a pillow up against herself to hide her nakedness.
I step closer to the man on the floor and set the bottom of my shoe over his bloody hands. I press. “How old are you?”
“What? Fuck. Fuck! It fucking hurts!” He sobs.
I crouch down, fist a handful of hair and tug to make him look at me. “How fucking old are you?”
“Sixty-two.”
“You’re old enough to be her fucking grandfather, bastard.”
“Petrov…he said…”
“Did you put your dick inside her?”
“What?”
“Did you put your wrinkled old dick inside her?”
He tries to shake his head. “No. No. I wanted to look... I… Petrov…”
I bring my gun to his gut and pull the trigger. I don’t want to hear another word from him.
A heavy hand falls on my shoulder. “Dante.”
I turn to look at Matthaeus, seeing her in my periphery when I do, feeling things I shouldn’t be fucking feeling, not here, not now.
“We have to move,” Matthaeus says urgently.
I step toward the girl but when she gets a glimpse of my face, she recoils. I stop, draw back into shadow. I should know better.
“Where are your clothes?” I ask, trying to soften my voice. It’s impossible. She’s terrified. I see it.
She points a trembling hand at a light green dress draped over the back of a chair. I grab it, hand it to her.
“Put it on. Hurry.”
She nods but is shaking too badly to actually get the dress on. From outside I hear the chopper.
“Sixty seconds before we have a dozen soldiers on us,” Matthaeus warns. “We’re cornered in here.”
I holster my weapon, take the dress from her, and pull it over her head. It’s baggy and long, a summer dress for a winter’s day. Without hesitating, I wrap an arm around her and hoist her over my shoulder. She lets out a yelp but we’re moving, Matthaeus and my men on my heels, out of the bedroom. We’re running to the door that will lead to the roof where the chopper is waiting.
Petrov’s soldiers are close. I hear their boots echo through the penthouse as I open the door and hand her to Matthaeus. He’ll get her on the chopper.
The door below opens, slamming against the wall as the last of my men get out. I see the first of Petrov’s soldiers and ignore Matthaeus’s shouts for me to get on the helicopter. I want to be sure my message gets to Petrov tonight. So, I shoot, taking out the first three before a bullet hits my arm. Searing pain slices through me. Memory takes me to a different place, a different time. I drop the door and just barely haul myself into the chopper as it lifts off, veering just out of range of their bullets.
2
Mara
He’s hurt. Blood is seeping through his fingers where he’s holding the wound on his arm.
One of the other men, the one who carried me into the chopper, tugs my seatbelt tight and clicks it into place, drawing my attention from the one with the scar like an X on his face. The one with the patch over his eye. He places a headset over my ears and reaches under the seat to take out a small box. A first aid kit. He hands the hurt one something to put over his bleeding arm.