Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
With a deep breath, I call her.
“Molly?” she answers, voice sharp with worry. “Are you alive? Did you get kidnapped? Are you in a ditch somewhere?”
I let out a tired laugh. “I’m fine, Kel. Really. I just had to step away for some family things.”
“Oh, good,” she says on a long exhale. “Because I was ready to file a missing persons report.”
“I’m okay,” I reiterate, smiling despite myself. “Actually, I’ve been tutoring a little girl lately. She’s been through a lot, but she’s amazing. Today she sang a whole line of a song we’ve been practicing together.”
“Aww,” Kelly says, softening. “Of course she did. You’ve always been an amazing teacher. You work best with the most traumatized kids.”
I can’t help but smile at this. I feel so aligned with my purpose.
“So,” Kelly continues, voice brightening wickedly. “You told me a few weeks ago you’d met some ridiculously hot guy. Spill the tea.”
I groan. “I never said ridiculously hot,” I complain.
“You didn’t have to. It oozed from the text.” She lowers her voice. “So who is he?”
I try to brush it off with humor. “Well, apparently his nickname is The Devil.”
I say it scandalously, expecting her characteristic naughty humor. Despite my complete lack of love life in the time I’ve known Kelly, it hasn’t stopped her from making the raunchiest jokes and telling me to “use it while I’ve got it.” I don’t think anything of telling her Samuil’s nickname, but she goes quiet. Uncomfortably quiet.
“Kel?” I say slowly. “It was a joke. You can laugh now.”
She inhales sharply. “It’s just…” she trails off, her breath catching. “I’m probably being stupid and paranoid. But what’s his real name?”
The alarm bells go off instantly.
“What?” I ask in shock. “Why?”
“Molly,” she says again, voice low now. “Tell me his name.”
A cold sensation crawls over my skin despite the warmth of the apartment.
I swallow. “Samuil,” I whisper. “His name is Samuil Volkov.”
The silence on the other end is suffocating.
Then, softly, barely audible, she says, “No. No, no, not him.”
My heart stutters.
“What do you mean ‘not him’?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. I hear her shuffling around, typing, maybe pulling something up.
“Molly, I’m sending you some links. Read them. Right now.”
“Kelly—”
“Please.”
My phone vibrates over and over. Five links come in, then six, then seven. My stomach twists before I even click the first one:
Ruthless Bratva Leader Suspected in String of Unsolved Homicides.
The headline punches me in the gut. The article talks about evidence that’s never strong enough to convict him, witnesses disappearing, prosecutors backing off cases at the last minute. There’s a photo of a charred warehouse and references to people burned alive inside. The word alleged is used a lot, but never convincingly.
I click the next one:
Massacre of Rival Crew Leaves Nine Dead—Investigators Theorize Professional Hit.
There are pictures. Horrible pictures. And even though Samuil’s name isn’t printed outright, everyone knows. The comments section certainly does:
The Devil strikes again.
He won’t stop until he owns the whole city.
Don’t cross him unless you want to disappear.
My throat closes. I scroll faster. Another link:
Inside the Mind of the City’s Most Feared Crime Boss.
There’s a blurry photo of Samuil stepping out of a black SUV, sunglasses on, jaw set in that cold, unshakeable way of his. Beside it, a chilling quote from an ex-cop:
“He doesn’t kill for fun. He kills because he thinks it’s his purpose. And that’s worse.”
My vision swims. I can’t breathe. I click another article. Then another. Every one paints the same picture of a violent psychopath, obsessed with power. But the worst is the stories of the victims.
I knew all of this in the abstract, but seeing it in print, seeing the faces of people who’ve been hurt by his crimes, is too much.
And then I read this line:
Volkov is considered a person of interest in the death of Lena Melnikov, wife of his known associate, Davýd Melnikov.
I try to think about everything I know about Anya. What did he tell me about her? She saw her mother die, and she’s traumatized because of it. She hasn’t spoken since. But he never, not once, said that he was somehow involved.
Fury surges through my veins as I think of that poor, sweet girl. I don’t know what she was like before, but she’s a husk of a child now. Every accomplishment with her feels monumental, but she’s too young to be going through any of this. It’s not fair that she has any trauma at all.
“No,” I whisper. “No, this can’t… This isn’t—”
“Molly,” Kelly says gently through the phone, “you need to get away from him. Whatever you think he is, he’s worse.”
I can’t respond.
My eyes are glued to a photo of a man. He’s young, maybe twenty at most, lying on concrete, blood pooling beneath him. The caption says he was part of a rival group, killed in a “suspected retaliation killing.”