Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Fine,” I murmured.
“Och, you said that when I hugged ya.”
Nan climbed from the chair and gestured toward the bar at the opposite end of the roof. The popular area sat empty with the royal service tonight, blue label bottles scattered across the many tables.
We strolled past bodyguards. Some time ago, Pop had appointed additional shadows. Borya had tripped over his tongue, denying it months ago.
Wait … a few months ago meant Pop had issues he hadn’t told us about. Before the silent dispute this afternoon. And Momma said nothing. She didn’t allow him to keep secrets, not over twenty-four hours. Some attorney thing, I guess? Allowing him to work out bratva kinks.
I glanced over my shoulder. No whitish blond hair floating in the breeze. Borya must’ve taken a break downstairs. Have your drink, Borya. We were safe here. The Red Door was a second home. So many Russians and tons of regulars.
“We are having this blether, Natasha,” Nan reprimanded, voice as soothing as Momma’s.
Oh. “I’m uh, worried about Jordyn. She seems down.”
“Ah. You’re like sisters.” Nan nodded, glancing around although Jordyn and Jamie hadn’t arrived yet. Simona either. “They’ve been married for two years. Jordyn gazes at babies even more longingly than I do.”
I blinked. “You think they’re struggling to …?”
“We will pray.” Nan patted my hand. “Which is the reason why I’m telling you this. And I suppose”—she winked at me— “you’ll tell me the reason why you’re dreary or I’ll figure it out too.”
“Ummm …”
Nan patted my hand again. “Take your time, I’m a patient woman. I’ll tell me clan to give you a moment. They’ve waited to swoop in, comfort you.”
“They what?” That explained why Rory the Romeo turned into a stand-up comedian rather than being glued to his phone. Also why Willow kept complimenting my hairdo. Was that why Leith and Brody offered more than their usual grunts?
“Aye. I told them to allow me first.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Hush, lassie. We don’t apologize for our feelings here. Lachlan should arrive soon. If he can’t put a smile on your face, you’ll provide the dinner, we’ll give ye the show.” With a soft smile, she offered patience, eager to help in any way she could.
As she walked away, I heaved a sigh, ordered something sparkly and fruity. While I sipped my drink, the bartender retreated to the furthest section of the rooftop bar. I put my drink down, placed my elbow onto the glossy counter, and glanced at the red neon lights of the big sign, supported by heavy beams—a work of art. The Red Room signage gave a vintage Los Angeles vibe, propped at the top edge of the building and viewable from miles away. Well, in one direction since skyscrapers surrounded the lounge.
As I sat there, hand clutched around Pop’s large cross pendant, Vassilievich’s ending remark played through my mind, a taunt.
This weekend, Natasha. For now, I will pray. But if God doesn’t vindicate you before then … I will.
35
LORENZO
From the roof of The Red Door, neon lights glowed. A crimson red over the white divider along the street.
“What the—? This is not a hydrant zone.” Borya scrubbed a hand through his hair, his speech transitioning into Russian as he rushed across the street from The Red Door. He glared through the darkness at the cop. Rain. A few minutes ago, a concerned citizen—also Rain—called the Russian lounge about Natasha Resnova’s AMG. As expected, someone alerted him. I would’ve left Rain in the getaway vehicle, but I needed him distracted. The minute he saw the car without law enforcement to argue with, he’d follow his instincts.
“Sir,”—she snapped a piece of gum—“move your car, or I’ll finish this ticket.”
“Okay, okay.” He reached into the pocket of his tactical jacket.
I stepped out of the shadows. My hand darted over his mouth from behind, the other held a knife. The blade slid across his neck, blood spraying outward.
I stepped backward, bringing him onto the sidewalk. My eyes flicked up over my shoulder. Bright lights flooded from the lounge’s sign. Painted me and the stiff in red. If someone approached the roof’s edge, they’d blow my cover.
“Rain, get rid of him and Natasha’s vehicle.”
She nodded.
I glared at his jeans. He always wore slacks. So far, I matched him from the waist up. I pulled an ash-blond wig from my jacket—the same color as Borya’s hair. Situating the wig on my head, I asked, “How do I look?”
“Good.”
“Are the cameras down at The Red Door?” I asked, lifting the edges of the fake hair to apply wig glue. Probably more than enough, but with the shaggy long hair, it would cover any residual glue.
“Already done.” She struggled to lift Borya’s body.
With a groan, I grabbed him, putting the less bloody part of his body into the trunk. She had better handle the rest of him.