Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Chapter 2
Dmitry
Idrove the catering van through the gates wearing a waiter’s uniform that strangled my neck and strained across my shoulders.
The real waiter was zip-tied in the back, gagged with his own socks, but still very much alive.
The dacha rose out of the snow. A palace built from blood money and tortured girls.
Heated marble driveways. Searchlights sweeping the sky. Dogs that were trained to go for the throat first.
Security wore tuxedos over body armor and pretended they weren’t packing Kalashnikovs. Inside smelled of champagne, cigars, and corrupt money so thick you could chew it.
Chandeliers the size of compact cars dripped light across Persian rugs. A string quartet sawed at Tchaikovsky while oligarchs laughed too loudly and politicians pretended they weren’t corrupt as sin and taking back alley deals.
And then there were the cages. Six of them, gilded and human-sized. They were suspended from the ceiling with chains, swaying gently above the crowd like perverse ornaments. And inside each one was a young woman, barely legal age. They were all naked except for leather and gem-encrusted collars that spoke of ownership. And their eyes… their eyes were hollow and already accepting of their fate.
Some stood motionless, wrists cuffed to the bars, silent tears tracking down their cheeks. Others were curled on the cage floor like broken dolls that weren’t done being used.
Despite the noise filling the room, I could hear a few of the women begging in Ukrainian, some in Russian, others in languages I wasn’t familiar with. They spoke as if they were praying, but no god was answering.
All I wanted to do was slaughter all these motherfuckers and free those pretty caged birds. Not allowing the death dealer in me to satisfy those urges was hard, but I had a bigger task at hand.
I gritted my teeth when, every few minutes, a fat finger adorned with gold and diamond rings, crooked. A handler lowered a cage, and a leash snapped onto the woman’s collar. And then she was led away by the motherfucker who wanted her.
Ten minutes later, the girl came back shaking, thighs red and already bruising, and face wet from crying.
I made a vow to kill every fucker in this room before I died.
I wove through the room with a silver tray of blini and caviar, face blank, shoulders rounded like every other invisible server. No one looked twice at the help, even if I was bigger than half of them.
After twenty minutes, I spotted Ivanov on the grand staircase, flushed and sweating, pawing a blonde young enough to be the daughter he kept locked away from all this.
I slipped into the service corridor, ditched the tray, and ghosted up the back stairs. I’d memorized the floor plan, and the only thought in my mind was making him hurt as much as humanly possible.
His office was easy enough to find, as well as keeping away from the cameras and armed men patrolling the corridors. Heavy oak door. Biometric lock. But that wouldn’t stop me. I pressed a small EMP disc against the panel, disengaging the lock. Once inside, I shut the door behind me silently and stayed still.
Mahogany desk straight ahead and a wall of monitors cycling security feeds. The glass case was full of vintage camcorders, and although there weren’t any tapes inside, I knew what they were. Trophies.
Flashes of that seventeen-year-old boy forced to watch his mother being slaughtered slammed into my head, but I pushed the memories away. Now wasn’t the time.
I planted the C-4 under the desk. It was a tiny brick but could be operated with a remote detonator that could reach two miles away. It would be enough to turn Ivanov into a red mist splattered across this room and take out half of this house.
It was also undetectable by any sweeps.
I was turning to leave when something on one monitor caught my attention. A young woman on the balcony, wind whipping her white-blonde hair across her face and down the length of her back.
I didn’t know why I stood there for so long and watched her, but I couldn’t force myself to look away. Her ivory silk gown flowed and relaxed around her long legs. I knew who she was–knew everything about her–even though I didn’t know her.
Zoya Ivanova, twenty-three, five foot seven, and one-hundred-twenty pounds of lean muscle from dancing ballet her whole life.
And I’d been killing men since before she drew her first breath.
She turned from the balcony and leaned against it. Her face was visible to the camera. High cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Mouth curved like a red bow. And skin the same color of moonlight on fresh snow.
I knew Andrey Ivanov kept her locked away from his business, from corruption and death. But the bruises I’d seen in surveillance photos told a different story. She knew pain even if she didn’t know the full rot of his empire.