Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
He answers not even two rings later.
“You better have good fucking news or I’ll—”
“Slay me with your marshmallow heart?”
“Zoya… fuck… Jesus.” The revs of a motorcycle lower before they completely end. “What the fuck happened? One minute we were talking. The next minute—”
“You hitched a ride with a man who couldn’t tell the difference between a Nokia C12 and the latest iPhone.” In case you’re wondering, I know the difference but could only afford a Nokia. Although that may now be out of my price range as well. “My phone was stolen at the bus stop.”
“You got jumped?” He waits for me to murmur in agreement before asking, “Were you hurt? Did he hurt you?”
“No.” His relieved sigh gives me the warm and fuzzies. “But another passenger wasn’t as lucky. She got knocked around pretty bad.” I turn to face the direction of Mara’s building. “She wouldn’t let me call the police, so I helped her to her feet and made sure she got home safely.”
I have no idea why Mikhail deserves my honesty more than Nikita does. The truth just blurts from my mouth before I can stop it.
“I’m glad you were there to help her and that you weren’t injured as well, but Jesus, Sunshine. You scared the shit out of me.”
I’m a gooey, sticky mess, but I try to downplay how nice it is to have another person on my side with humor. “I recommend throwing out your armchair. Dry cleaning would be the cheapest option to handle the mess, but who wants to admit they shit themselves?”
Mikhail’s laugh roaring out of the building supervisor’s phone weakens the worry on my face as quickly as it does the sup’s.
21
ANDRIK
“What is the predicted annual revenue?”
When my question is drowned out by the belittled huff of my brother for the umpteenth time this morning, I sling my eyes to Mikhail before arching a brow. He’s been pushing my buttons nonstop over the past hour, testing the elasticity of my leniencies more than ever, and it has reached a point I can no longer ignore.
He’s being rude, and I’m seconds from teaching him some lessons with my fists.
A bullet would be cheaper, but since the cleanup bill will be about the same, I may as well get some enjoyment from it.
“Do you have something you need to get off your chest, Brother?” I spit out his title with the same abhorrent disdain he uses anytime he’s addressed me over the past two weeks. “You seem… frustrated.” I almost say on the verge of death, but I hold back the verdict I want to rain down on him since we’re surrounded by the equivalent of the help.
The Broadbent Hotel has been in official operation for three months, so we’re crunching numbers to calculate the timeline from deficit to profit. I, too, would like to be anywhere but here, but when business responsibilities are sidestepped, personal endeavors soon follow.
I can’t allow that to happen, so I arrived for our meeting within a respectable time frame considering the commute and have kept an open mind.
Mikhail has not.
“What could possibly be bothering me?” Mikhail’s tone is as arrogant as his expression.
“I don’t know.” Each of my words are punctuated. “Hence me asking if there is anything you’d like to share.”
He’s here because I gifted him the majority share in Brody’s as promised, yet he’s acting like I reneged on my offer as quickly as I tried to annul my marriage.
He’s being a dick, and we’re going to have words sooner rather than later if he doesn’t pull his head out of his ass.
“Maybe you’re projecting, Brother?” He speaks as if we’re not in the same room as another thirty people. “You seem to do that a lot lately. Forever pushing your shit onto everyone else.”
“Mikhail—”
I cut our father off by slicing my hand through the air.
“Let him speak.” I glare up and down at him, doubling the firmness of his jaw. “It’s about time he acts like he gives a fuck about anything but the millions I’ve made him.” I lean back in my chair before folding my arms in front of my chest. “The floor is yours, Mikhail. Use it for whatever the fuck you want.” I continue talking before he can accept the imaginary microphone I’m handing him. “But don’t you dare say I’ve pushed my shit onto you. I have sheltered you from it for years, shielded you from the brunt of what it takes to lead this family. I’ve protected you—”
“I don’t need your protection!” he shouts, standing to his feet and banging his fist on the boardroom table between us. “I can take care of myself.”
“Then what the fuck has your panties in such a twist?” I mimic his pose. My feet plant to the width of my shoulders, and the veins in my muscles bulge as I lean over the table like I’m not seconds from dragging him across it and pummeling some sense into him. “What more can I do for you that I’m not already doing? I’ve given you everything you’ve ever wanted.”