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)
“A penniless hick who has more class in her pinkie than you do in your entire body.”
I tighten my grip, loathing the pinkness rimming her lips.
It needs to be several shades darker.
“A penniless hick who could have any man she wants. A penniless hick who can wipe your daughter from my mind with one sideways glance. Is that the penniless hick you are referring to, Dina?” I pull her forward before slamming her back. “If she is who you are referencing, you should bow at her feet and pray for her forgiveness because if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t know I have a heart in my chest, and you would already be dead.”
I had nothing to live for and nothing to lose, so the only thing I feared in the wake of my demise was not taking enough people down with me.
My opinion changed a month ago.
It was approximately twelve hours before I learned of Zakhar’s existence. How much more proof does Dina need that she placed her chips on the wrong number?
My grip loosens a smidge when a voice full of nobility breaks through the madness engulfing me. “As much as you hate what she is saying, anger cannot excuse the truth.” My father steps closer, switching the scent of death leeching from Dina to hope. “Zakhar will not live without the federation’s help.” He places his hand on my shoulder, squeezing ever so gently. “And neither will you.”
I want to deny his insinuation before proving it isn’t factual. I want to yell at him to man the fuck up and return the notoriety our family name deserves. But the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen stop me.
He shouldn’t be out of bed, much less witnessing his brother murder his father.
32
ZOYA
With our search for cheap seats taking longer than expected—even with it still seeing us stuck on a red-eye—I exit Nikita’s apartment with her the following morning.
We hug at the front of her building before she heads to Myasnikov Private Hospital for what should have been her first solo shift while I direct my steps to the employment agency whose agents are still angry at me for botching an almost guaranteed placement.
They’ve never had an applicant turned down by KADOK Industries, and they didn’t see the humor when I said I was glad I was their first.
Partway down Jessop Street, my phone buzzes.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself when the removal of my phone announces it is switched on and with full service. The dirtbox is flat, which is odd considering I just charged it. Its battery must be fried from overuse. I have been utilizing it twenty-four-seven over the past week.
If only I could silence my moans just as readily.
After taking a mental note to carry a portable battery pack with me everywhere I go, I open my messenger app to see who the text is from.
My pace slows when I notice it is a message from the employment agency I am about to visit.
Worx Connect:
We’re pleased to announce you have an interview for a bookkeeping position this afternoon at 2 p.m. A prospective employment package and interview details have been forwarded to your email and the inbox of our app. Good luck.
The message is worded so similarly to the one I had for KADOK Industries that I don’t immediately veer for my inbox. I press the number at the top of the text screen and then squash my phone to my ear.
“Worx Connect. This is Marcell. How can I help you?”
I tell Marcell about the text and request confirmation that the placement is legitimate.
“Yes. We’re seeking an applicant for a newly advertised position. The hours are flexible, and the pay rate is…” Excitement heats my blood when a whistle finalizes her reply.
“Are there many other applicants?” I don’t want to get my hopes up. I’ve had my fair share of disappointments lately.
“Ah… no. You’re the only one.”
My excitement takes a back seat for curiosity. “Why?”
Marcell takes my bluntness in stride like it was anticipated. “The position is a little… risqué, so we’re struggling to obtain other interviewees for it.” After a brief pause, she gets to the point. “It’s at Le Rogue.”
My throat grows scratchy as my eyes bulge. “The strip club?”
I apologize to a lady I startle with my loud roar before curtseying to a handful of construction workers promising to visit me during my first shift while Marcell hums an agreeing yes.
Once I’m out of earshot of potential future customers, I say, “The text said it was for a bookkeeping position.”
“It is. Tasks include payroll, profit and loss, the maintenance and updating of all account ledgers, and…”—you never stop aging, but with how many delays I’ve faced over the past twenty-four hours, I feel like I am aging at twice the speed of everyone else—“you will be in charge of collecting and distributing the tips between the dancers.”