Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
And she was next to the car.
“Lady!” Someone’s shouting in my face again. This time, it’s a police officer. An absurdly young man, skinny as hell, wearing so much gear on his belt that it looks like he’s about to fall over. “You’re injured! Come sit down, you’re hurt!”
“Meant for me,” I mumble as he leads me away from the wreck. “That was meant for me.”
If he understands, he doesn’t show it.
I’m wrapped in a blanket, the remains of Elena still glistening on the sidewalk, as an ambulance and a firetruck come tearing down the street toward me.
Chapter 29
Cormac
I’m not usually the kind of man who goes to work angry.
I find rage isn’t the best fuel for a killer. Cold, emotionless obsession is much better. I’ve always killed because it felt good, not because I was so out of control that I couldn’t stop myself.
Now though, I burn with it.
I lurk outside a simple row home in a quiet Brooklyn neighborhood. Kids live around here. The park’s usually full of families. There are more babies born than there are murders around here.
Not the kind of place for a Bratva man.
This is not how I wanted my evening to go.
But this is what I am. No matter how hard I try, I keep coming back to this. Death and blood. I’m trapped in a cycle of murder and retribution built by my own dark needs.
But now I’m dragging those I care about down with me.
I sneak around the back of the house. I go slow, circumventing as many lights as I can. I’m wearing all black and a black surgical mask to cover my face. If any of these Brooklyn housewives look out their window, they’ll catch a glimpse of a monster.
I’m not worried about them.
I drop down silently into my target's yard. The back’s slightly overgrown. A table and chair are set up in the corner, but it doesn’t look used. No toys, no water balloons, nothing like that. Just weeds and leaves blown against the fence.
The back door might as well not be there.
I slip into a pitch-black kitchen, pausing only to let my eyes adjust.
Finding my wife a ruined husk in the back of an ambulance almost sent me into convulsions. It was one of the worst moments of my life. I saw the car, the gore of the victims splattered across the sidewalk, and I thought for sure Bianca would be there, her remains a charred mess.
Instead, she was alive. Scattered, afraid, grieving, but alive.
And mostly unhurt.
At least physically.
Mentally, she was a wreck. I could see the suffering all over her. She sobbed in my arms the moment I pulled her against me and held her tight. The medics wanted to take her to the hospital, but I refused them and brought her to see our family’s doctor instead. My father and older brother are already in cleanup mode, and my mother even agreed to sit with Bianca while I ran this important little errand.
I brush all that away and focus.
The place is mostly empty. There’s a nice couch in the living room and a high-quality TV. Some art hangs on the walls. Expensive stuff, but not much of it. I creep through the downstairs and head up to the second floor, making sure I don’t leave a trace or make a single sound. I reach the top and turn to the master bedroom, listening for any sign that the occupants are still awake.
When I’m sure, I head inside.
The bed is big and gaudy. Four posts, lots of silk, and all of it in black and red. Like some gothic porno. A leather chair’s in the corner with clothes draped over it. And two figures are breathing deeply, not aware of me at all.
I would’ve relished this before Bianca. This moment is like magic. Before my victim knows I’m here. Before they realize what’s about to happen. When their life is still normal. I can observe them, really get to know them. I love to sink into their last moments.
Slowly, I crawl onto the bed.
Fyodor Medvedev barely stirs. He’s snoring loud enough to cover any sounds I might be making. The woman beside him is young, at least early twenties, with fake blonde hair and dark eyebrows. Pretty in a Russian sort of way.
Definitely not his wife.
I straddle Fyodor and slowly pull the knife from its sheath at the small of my back.
“Wake up.” I press the blade to his neck. Not too tight, or else he might slice himself open by accident and ruin my fun. “Fyodor, wake up. We have to talk.”
His eyelids flutter. For a moment, he stares at me, uncomprehending. Maybe thinking I’m a dream or like I’m a figment of his nightmares.
I wait until he understands.
I’m very much real.
“You,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Baby?” the girl murmurs from his left. “What’s going on?”