Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
“Need help?” I ask, rising to take the tray.
“I’ve got it,” he tells me, giving me a warm look. “I wasn’t sure what to bring you.”
“So you brought me the whole kitchen?” I laugh, grabbing a bag of chips from the tray. “That was thoughtful.”
“You’ve been busy,” he says, looking at his desk.
I glance at it, guilt prickling, wondering whether he can tell I was snooping.
“You really didn’t need to do that,” he continues. “I could have cleaned up my own mess.”
“We both made it,” I tease, stretching on my tiptoes to give him a chaste kiss.
He sets the tray down, and we dig in, devouring the impromptu meal. The whole time, my phone feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket. As soon as I’m alone again, I’ll finally get some answers about what, exactly, Sergei does.
25
NICOLE
An hour later, I pace my room, my stomach roiling as I wish I could rewind time and stop myself from snooping. I was stupid to think I could handle the truth about what Sergei does. It’s so much worse than I could have imagined.
In minutes, the man I thought I was falling for, the one I’d pictured spending the rest of my life with, feels like a stranger. Article after article crowds my screen, each one about the Volkov Bratva. Nothing is truly concrete; the entire enterprise operates behind smoke and mirrors. Articles trace the organization back to the eighties, when Sergei’s father still ran the show.
The phone’s glow pierces my dark bedroom when I finally stop pacing and sit on the bed. I don’t turn the lamp on. The darkness somehow makes it feel safer, like I’m less likely to be caught. If Sergei stops by, he’ll think I crashed early after that explosive moment in his office.
The mere thought of his touch makes my stomach heave, and I lurch to the bathroom to vomit. I let him lure me in with sweet talk and mind-blowing sex. And then I let him bring me here with the promise of money and what seemed like a genuine concern for his mother. I’m such a fucking idiot.
Once I’m empty, I force myself into the shower, scrubbing every inch of skin as though I can wash him away. The water scalds me, almost suffocating, yet I can’t stop. My hands shake as I scour myself until I’m almost raw, images from the articles I read swimming in front of my eyes.
One article in the Times claims the Volkov Bratva is one of New York’s oldest and most powerful Russian crime syndicates. Beneath the construction and shipping fronts lie allegations of drug smuggling, racketeering, black-market weapons trafficking, even murder.
Murder.
Another article details a warehouse shooting last year, chalked up to a turf war between the Volkovs and a rival syndicate. The photos show warehouse walls splattered with blood. There were no witnesses. Or, at least, there were no witnesses who were willing to come forward.
When I can’t take the heat of the shower anymore, I get out and wrap a fluffy towel around my body. I crawl back into bed and tug the covers tight before fishing out my phone and scrolling again. I’m equally desperate for more information and terrified of what other stones I’ll turn over.
I come across a short YouTube documentary about the Volkov Bratva. The account has no profile picture, and the video barely has any views. It was only posted a week ago. The caption reads, “For my safety, I’m not revealing my identity. The Volkov family keeps having this video taken down, but the people of New York deserve the truth.”
An AI voice narrates over sepia-toned photos from the nineteenth century, charting the Volkovs’ rise. The family is old, and they’ve kept the city in their grip almost since the day they arrived. The video outlines their rise to power and the present state of the organization, naming its pakhan, or boss: Sergei Volkov.
At the name, I leap from the bed and retch again. Sergei’s not just part of this. He’s in charge of it. All the crime, all the blood—he runs it all.
This can’t be happening. I’ve been living in his house, sleeping in his bed, letting him fuck me senseless. He begged me to come here; he seduced me; he made himself indispensable. All the while, he’s been lying to me. And I fell for it.
God, I fell so hard.
I rub my eyes and try to breathe, but panic clogs my throat. Did he find me at the hospital by accident, or did he track me down? Will he kill me if he finds out that I know?
I think about the gunshots at the café earlier. It could be just a coincidence, but what if that had something to do with him? I remember seeing Sasha outside the café weeks ago with men who looked like they’d stepped out of the 1950s. What are the chances that any of this is a coincidence?