Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
His head lolls for a moment before he recovers.
I’d better step in before Anders gets carried away. “Who paid you? I want names.”
He sobs. “It was the Titans. They said they’d let me in the house if I did it.”
This svoloch didn’t even do it for the money. He did it to get into a goddamn house. This is the reason I had to make my own. Thornecroft is a fucking cesspool of old money influence and elitism.
“Names,” I snarl, wrapping my fingers around his meaty throat and punching his ribs with the brass knuckles.
He wheezes in pain. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. It was… it was Ashton Basen and Charlie Daggert,” he says quickly. “Those are the two who approached me.”
“What did they tell you to do?”
“Just to inject her and take her to the hospital and tell them where I picked her up.” Gregory is panting. Blood trickles from the side of his mouth. “That was it…that was it! That was all. Nothing else.” He’s babbling now.
“Who called the New York Times?”
His expression is blank, eyes wide with fear. When he shakes his head, blood flies from the corner of his mouth. “No idea.”
I punch him again, and he groans. “What else?”
“The money!” he exclaims like he’s grasping onto a lifeline. “I got paid at the hospital. Charlie was there with another guy–a new pledge. He was the money guy. Short ugly guy. From another country.” His eyes light up. “Russian! Russian like you.”
This guy isn’t too bright considering he just now put together that we’re both Russian.
I glance at my friends.
“Denis Penkin.” Anya’s upper lip curls.
Denis Penkin, Rostov’s spy. How in the fuck is he involved in all this?
The hair prickling at the back of my neck makes me look around. Black Shirt, the government ghost lurks in a shadow at the end of the alley.
Well, he’ll stop us if he wants to. I figure if he doesn’t interfere, it’s still my show.
Anya saunters forward in her short shorts and a pair of Doc Martens. “My turn.”
I step back and wave my hand. “Be my guest.”
“Listen to me, Gregory Smith. If you ever roofie a woman again, I will personally cut your dick off and shove it up your ass. Understand?”
He looks at her blankly, obviously not afraid of a hundred and fifteen pound redheaded computer geek.
She brings her knee up sharply between his legs, and he doubles over. His grunt is so pained I think all the guys there instinctively flinch.
Then she steps back. “You can break his leg now,” she says casually.
“Hold up.” The ghost steps forward. He’s dressed in black, holding a piece of black fabric in his hands. “Somebody else wants a piece of him before you’re done.” He slams a black hood over Gregory’s head and zipties his hands behind his back.
“Would you boys mind putting him in my trunk for me?”
Feliks and Alex look at me, and I nod. “Go ahead.”
He quickly backs his car into the alley and pops the lid of the trunk. Feliks and Alex dump Gregory unceremoniously in the back, and Black Shirt slams the door closed.
“The senator appreciates your concern for his daughter,” he says to me, offering me his hand to shake.
I clasp it, and he squeezes firmly.
“If you need a job after graduation, reach out through Melinda. We have a use for people with your particular skills.” He glances at the rest of my friends. “All of you.”
As he drives off, Anya asks, “What do you think they’re going to do to him?”
“No idea,” I say. “But I’m sure he’ll get what he deserves.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lara
Tuesday afternoon I head to the Thornecroft bookstore to pick up one of the texts I need for a class when I hear the low tones of men speaking in Russian. Naturally, I turn to look.
Is it one of my friends?
No, it’s an older man–a man who looks like a professor. He must be Baron and Lili’s math professor–Vasiliev. The one Baron said hates him because he knows he’s bratva. He’s talking to Denis.
I haven’t seen Denis since he left Whisper’s End bloodied by my husband. His nose is taped, like it’s been recently broken. My husband’s handiwork, I presume.
Guilt twists in my gut.
At least it was just his nose. I wasn’t sure what the blood had come from.
Not that it excuses Baron’s violence.
Both of them look over at me, and Denis mutters something to the professor as he waves at me.
I wave back with an apologetic look, and he takes it as an invitation and leaves the professor to walk over to me.
“Hi, Denis.” I greet him in Russian. “Did my husband do that?” I wince and point to my own nose. “I’m sorry.”
Denis’ expression is dark. Gone is the friendly puppy. “Yes. I did not report him as a favor to you.” He takes my elbow and pulls me to the side, lowering his head.