Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
I watched them fill, the storm cloud in my chest billowing outward, expanding exponentially...
A single tear escaped and ran down her cheek.
I tugged my waistcoat straight. “This,” I said, my voice tight, “is unacceptable.”
And I turned and marched out of the store and across the street. I climbed into the car and slammed the door.
Valentin saw my face and immediately knew it was no time for jokes. “Home?” he asked quietly.
“No. Back to the office.”
When I walked in, Irwin was lounging in his chair, feet up on his desk, playing a video game. He looked up, saw me and almost fell off his chair. “Mr. Aristov! I thought you’d gone for the day!” He scrambled to clear the screen.
“I’ve decided to expand our property portfolio,” I told him, taking off my coat. “Find me the owner of 302 Wychwood Avenue. Who he is. Where he lives.”
Irwin scrambled to take notes. “Yes sir. No problem.” He glanced at the clock: by now, it was well after six. “I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.” His eyes flicked up and he saw my expression. “I’ll get on it right now, sir.”
An hour later, I was climbing the stairs to the top floor of a huge house in the Gold Coast. The building’s owner was called Lewis Van Peterson, and he’d had his maid show me up rather than come down to answer the door himself, just so I knew how important he was. He didn’t realize that I wasn’t in the mood to be fucked with. On the drive over, that black storm cloud in my chest had swollen until I was almost shaking with rage.
He was waiting for me on a little balcony that overlooked the city, a balding, flabby guy in his sixties with an accent that was firmly Chicago old money. “Mr. Aristov!” He pushed his plate of steak aside but didn’t bother to get up. “I don’t normally take visitors at this time of night, but I’ll make an ex—”
“You’re selling the building at 302 Wychwood Avenue.”
The ice in my voice cut through all his posing. “Yes?” he said uncertainly.
“You’re going to sell it to me.”
He gave a short, sharp laugh. When I just stared at him, his smile collapsed. “I already have a buyer.”
“I know. And I know what they’re offering. I’ll pay the same.”
He balked. Then he thought and I could almost see the dollar signs appear in his eyes. “Clearly you really want this building. I’ll consider it if you offer five percent more.”
The anger in my chest was still swelling, my fingers twitching with the need to let it out. But I wanted to settle this peacefully if I could. “Take the offer,” I advised quietly.
“No!” he said, petulant as a child. “In fact, I want seven percent.”
And the rage exploded outward, taking control.
I marched over, picked up his fork, and slammed it down into the meat of his hand, hard enough that I buried the metal prongs in the table. He screamed, but I’d already clapped my hand over his mouth.
It’s about respect, I told myself. Making sure people know they can’t fuck with us.
But I knew that wasn’t why. He made her cry.
I pulled a thick sheaf of paper and a pen from my coat pocket and dropped them on the table. “Sign.”
He stared at me over the top of the hand gag, terrified. But he didn’t pick up the pen.
I picked up his steak knife and traced it over the fingers of his pinned hand. “You need one hand to sign,” I warned. “You don’t need both.”
5
BRONWYN
“Okay,” I mumbled to the mirror. “I may have underestimated on the seashells.”
A half hour curling my hair into soft waves had given me definite princess-of-the-sea vibes. And the thrift store dress Jen and I had covered in giant sequins made a pretty good mermaid tail. But it turns out, seashell bras work better in cartoons, especially when the mermaid is big up top. However much I tugged at the cardboard shells, there was a lot of sideboob or underboob or just boobboob.
Jen put her head around the door. She’s been my best friend since middle school. She’s curvy, like me, but with ash-blonde hair and a gorgeous, golden tan, and she consumes detective fiction like I consume romance and fantasy. She’s always eager to work a shift in the store because her acting gigs aren’t enough to pay the bills, and I love working with her. I’d take her on full time if I could afford it. “They’re all ready for you,” she told me. “About twenty kids.”
I sighed. In an hour, I’d be closing the store forever. I wanted to sob in a corner, not be happy and upbeat. But I wasn’t going to disappoint the little ones just because some hedge fund prick decided to put me out of business. “How do I look?” I asked, turning to face her.