Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
She was good. Too good.
And it infuriated me.
But now, she was within reach. I could almost smell her, that distinctive scent of vanilla and rebellion that had haunted me for years.
I would finally learn what Veronika had stolen from Solovyov that was so important.
And I would keep Marina safe.
Whether she liked it or not.
A waitress sauntered over, all synthetic curves and cheap perfume that couldn't mask the stale cigarette smoke clinging to her skin.
"Hey, sweetheart. Marina’s not here yet, but I can take care of you until she comes in." She bit the tip of her pen, leaving a smudge of coral lipstick. "Want something…special?"
I barely spared her a glance, my jaw clenched so tight I could taste metal. "Coffee. Black."
Her pout was immediate, lips pinching, but I didn't care.
I didn't have time for distractions.
Not when Solovyov's men could already be closing in.
If I found Marina, I knew they wouldn't be far behind.
I glanced at the clock, the second hand ticking away my patience with each jerky movement.
Marina wasn't coming.
She knew I was here.
She was running. Again.
The chair scraped loudly against the floor as I stood, the sound cutting through the low hum of conversation. Heads turned. Eyes widened, then quickly looked away. Nobody wanted to meet my gaze. I ignored them all.
My pulse hammered, drumming in my veins as I pushed through the restaurant, past waiters and patrons, and shoved open the kitchen doors, the hinges groaning in protest.
Chaos.
The scent of seared meat and frying oil filled the air, an assault on the senses after the dull mustiness of the dining room. Cooks moved in frantic bursts around the grill, steam rising in ghostly plumes, plates clattering.
But I only saw one thing. Her.
Marina turned.
And for the first time in months, I breathed.
Golden hair spilled over her shoulders, shimmering under the dim kitchen lights. A rebellious curl stuck to her temple, damp with sweat.
Those emerald eyes, wide with shock, locked onto mine.
Don't you fucking dare run from me, little rabbit.
She parted her lips, as if about to say my name. I could almost hear it in her voice, the way she used to say it years ago, before my marriage—before Veronika—changed things.
Then something shuttered in her gaze.
She turned and ran.
Instinct took over. I lunged, but a blur of movement cut me off.
A woman stepped into my path, small but unyielding, a chef's knife gripped in her wrinkled hand. The blade gleamed under the fluorescent lights, still slick with onion juice.
A babushka. Her face was lined with age and experience, deep-set eyes in a sea of wrinkles, but her gaze sharp as steel, cutting right through my expensive suit to the monster underneath.
"Why do you go after my girl?" she demanded, her accent thick as molasses, her stance unwavering. The knife didn't tremble in her hand.
I exhaled sharply, my patience unraveling thread by thread. "She's not your girl." I took a step closer, towering over her, my shadow swallowing her whole. "She's mine."
The old woman's mouth pressed into a firm line, years of defiance etched into the corners. "She does not want you," she said, her voice laced with quiet fury, the kind that had survived wars and famine. "She is safe here. You go away. Now."
Safe? She wouldn't be safe until she was under my control. And in my arms.
The thought intruded unbidden. I fought it, pushed it down where it belonged.
This wasn't about how badly I wanted her.
This wasn't about claiming her the way I'd always wanted to.
I would honor my wedding vows and not touch her.
This was about the vow I made to my dying wife. The wife I failed to protect.
I would not fail her sister.
"Ya Konstantine Nikolai Ivanov." I let the weight of my name settle between us, let it sink into her bones like ice.
Her fingers trembled around the knife's handle. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple.
Good. She knew the name. Knew what it meant. What I could do.
"Solovyov is looking for her," I said, my voice low enough that only she could hear. "If he finds her, she dies."
A flicker of hesitation crossed her features, fear wrestling with defiance. She knew I wasn't lying. The truth of the danger was written in the lines of my face, in the coldness of my eyes.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a card, and pressed it into her palm. Her skin was rough, calloused, the hands of someone who had worked her whole life. She didn't recoil from my touch. Brave woman.
"If anyone else comes for her, you call me. If she returns, you call me."
A long pause. The kitchen seemed to hold its breath. Then, a single nod, a surrender of sorts.
I turned to one of the younger cooks, who looked between us nervously. "Where?"
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, and gestured over his shoulder. "L stop."