Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 97448 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97448 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I still wanted to ruin the ring and bracelet I once revered, just because he gave them to me.
“Sasha!!”
The door to my room hits the wall as my baby cousin Mike runs inside. He’s grown so much since the last time I saw him over two years ago. His golden hair falls all over his forehead, nearly getting in his eyes as he crashes into me.
I pat his back. “Morning, Mishka.”
“Morning! Morning!” He slides his hand in mine. “C’mon, we need to have breakfast.”
I smile as he leads me down the hall of a small house located on the outskirts of Siberia. I never knew it existed, but apparently, it’s one of several safe houses my family owns all over the country.
Since Siberia is relatively safer than Saint Petersburg or Moscow, it’s the best place to be after the last attack.
We still don’t know how many men were there, but I know for sure that Maksim was right outside one of our family warehouses. He and his men exchanged fire with my uncle and the mercenaries he employed before he left. But not before one of his men shot Babushka.
She’s been recovering, but it’s bad. She hasn’t been able to leave her bed since. She hasn’t spoken to me either, saying that I’m already dead to her.
“Papa! Antosha! Sasha is here,” Mike announces the moment we arrive in the small kitchen downstairs. He then side hugs Anton, and my brother ruffles his hair.
Uncle Albert smiles at me and offers me a cup of coffee. His face has sunken, and he looks way older than I remember.
When Anton and I arrived here, my uncle hugged me, and I cried like a fucking baby while apologizing. He didn’t say anything. He just consoled me like Papa would have.
“Morning, Uncle.” I lower my head and sit down beside Mike. “Tosha.”
My brother releases a sound from the back of his throat but says nothing as he cuts his eggs and eats in silence. It’s weird to even look him in the face.
Apparently, Anton killed the real Yuri. One of Uncle Albert’s close acquaintances in the KGB who’s a plastic surgeon and a master of disguise gave my brother a nose job and altered his jaw’s structure so it’d imitate the real Yuri’s features. He also supplied him with some sort of pill to alter his voice. My brother cut and dyed his hair, bulked up, and wore brown contact lenses.
The result wasn’t the perfect Yuri, but that was okay since Anton made everyone think Yuri had been in an accident and needed reparative surgery. Hence, his look was enough to resemble Yuri, but not identical. The reason he targeted Yuri out of all of Kirill’s men was due to a couple of circumstances. Unfortunately, they shared the same body type, height, and eye shape. Two, he was a loner, an orphan, and didn’t speak to anyone aside from Maksim.
It's like watching a psychopath in action. Anton didn’t hesitate to end the life of what was the weakest link in Kirill’s circle. He adapted some of his mannerisms and made sure to fit in within Kirill’s elite men.
He’d served in the Spetsnaz and had high-speed driving training, but he managed to hide his superior combat skills effectively.
Hell, he managed to fool me, and I’m his own damn sister. When I asked him why he did that, he said he had to do it to avoid suspicion. Besides, we all had to make sacrifices for revenge and the family.
Now that I know it was all a façade, I can see some of my brother’s old features in his face, but they’re subtle. It helps that he removed the lenses and allowed his hair to grow back to its original color. No wonder I always felt a sense of closeness and familiarity with Yuri. Maybe a part of me already recognized him as my brother.
He’s an older, more frightening version, though. While he was always silent and grumpy, now, he’s like a wall.
His dark hair is messed up at the top, his jaw is set, and his movements are nearly robotic. There was never much light in my brother’s eyes, but now, it’s completely gone.
It makes me wonder if the laughs and smiles he sometimes offered back in the military or in New York were genuine or just another façade.
He surely hasn’t smiled since we got back to Russia.
Not even once.
He stands up, and I snatch a piece of toast, then hastily drink my coffee, managing to burn my tongue. “Are we going on a run? Give me five.”
My runs with him in the morning and the combat training that he’s never stopped giving me since Kirill was shot are the only things that keep me sane. I’ve been channeling all my rage and feelings of betrayal and directing it at shooting targets and imagining Kirill’s face on them.