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)
“See that you do,” she commands, her shoulders rolled back and her posture stiff. She’s every bit the ferocious matriarch I’ve known my whole life, even after her near-death experience. “Once you find her, you let me know.”
“I will,” I promise, even though the vow tastes hollow.
I will if I can find her, that is.
She nods once and offers a small, maternal smile before leaving me alone again. It takes everything in me not to scream. I need something, some tangible proof that she’s okay. At last my phone rings, the name on the screen yanking me into motion. I answer without a greeting, my tone already cold.
“Where is she?” I demand.
“Ah, Sergei,” Semion drawls, the satisfaction in his voice igniting a fuse in my chest. “So eager. You must really like this one.”
“If you’ve laid a fucking hand on her—”
“She’s safe,” he cuts in. “For now.”
I clench my jaw so tightly my teeth hurt. “Tell me what you want.”
“It’s simple,” he says casually, like we’re discussing the fucking weather. “Give me the Westside docks. And the two warehouses on Pier 18.”
My fingers curl into a fist around the phone. That’s a significant and valuable chunk of our territory, both financially and strategically. He knows the demand is impossible; that’s why he needed leverage this heavy.
“You don’t get to make demands, you piece of shit,” I snarl.
“I just did,” he replies, calm as ever. “You give me what I want, and you get the girl back. No bloodshed. No complications. But if you hesitate too long, I can’t guarantee her safety.”
My stomach drops. I know Semion doesn’t do empty threats. He means every word, and he’ll put her through hell. I wouldn’t wish his brand of torture on my worst enemy, and imagining Nicole in his clutches turns my blood to ice.
“I’ll do it,” I say finally, voice sharp as a blade. “You get the docks. And the warehouses.”
Semion hums. “Wise choice.”
“I want her back,” I demand. “Tonight.”
“You’ll have her. Once I see movement on the territory.”
He ends the call before I can say another word.
The door swings open and Sasha steps inside, face grim. “No news,” he says, cutting straight to the chase.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him, holding up my phone. “Semion just called.”
“What did he say?” he asks, his eyes alight with anger.
“He’s got her. Wants the Westside and Pier 18 in exchange.”
Sasha’s eyes go wide. “You’re not actually considering giving him that!” he shouts. “That’s more than half of our income.”
I stare at him for a long beat, the fire in my chest crystallizing into something colder and sharper.
“I’m going to let him think I am,” I say, low. “But there’s no way in hell that bastard gets away with touching my woman. He’s going to wish he never had.”
Sasha’s lips curve into a cruel, knowing grin.
“Good,” he growls. “Because I’m ready to bury him.”
27
NICOLE
My head pounds when I come to. A slow, dull ache throbs behind my eyes, spreading outward in waves that make it nearly impossible to think. I try to move, but my limbs won’t cooperate. They feel heavy, disconnected, like they belong to someone else entirely. I must be drugged.
Then I realize why: I’m restrained. The cold bite of metal digs into my wrists, and panic floods me instantly.
I snap my eyes open, desperate to figure out where the hell I am. The room is dim, lit by a single bulb hanging overhead that sways slightly, casting long, eerie shadows across the floor. Bare cement walls and floor surround me. There are no windows in this room. It’s small, musty, and drafty.
I’d know the smell of a New York basement anywhere, though I’m not exactly sure whose basement it is. All I know is that I’m alone, chained to a chair, and I have no idea how I got here.
My pulse thunders in my ears as fragments of the night claw their way back to the surface. I remember bolting from Sergei’s mansion in a panic. I was driving down a dark road, terrified about my next move. Then headlights filled my mirrors, boxing me in.
My breath comes in short, ragged gasps as I look myself over. My shirt is wrinkled and dusty, one of the straps torn. My legs are scraped. My forehead stings. I lift my head and find a thick, sticky crust of dried blood at my hairline.
Who did this to me? Questions swarm, but one truth cuts through—I have to get the hell out of here. It doesn’t matter who took me; what matters is that I get free.
I yank at the chains, but they don’t budge. They’re anchored to the chair, which is bolted to the floor. I twist and pull, ignoring the bite of metal against my skin. My wrists are already raw, but I keep yanking. Panic doesn’t care that it’s futile.