Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
His brow was furrowed as he looked at where my hand rested, then back at my face.
I slowly shook my head and smiled. “Non hai bisogno di un'arma. Questo non è quel tipo di visita.” You don’t need a weapon. This isn’t that kind of visit.
He made a gruff sound in the back of his throat and, just as the elevator doors opened, murmured, “È sempre quel tipo di visita quando i fottuti russi sono coinvolti.” It’s always that kind of visit where the fucking Russians are concerned.
I knew men like him, every man in my life, were ready to put a bullet between someone’s eyes at the drop of a hat.
And then the doors were fully open, and I was staring at my sister, who had her hands clasped in front of her and a big grin on her face.
“Sorellina.” Sister.
Her husband stood right behind her, this towering beast of a man, all dark features, blazing blue eyes, and any exposed skin inked with frightening tattoos.
I was shocked again at how much the Petrov brothers resembled each other so much.
But whereas Dmitry was big and bulky, Nikolai seemed more lean cut. They both had the same cold, dangerous aura.
“Oh my God,” Amara whispered, and I launched myself at her, nearly tackling her to the ground. She stumbled back and Nikolai placed his hands on her shoulders, smoothing his fingers over her arms.
“Easy, kukolka.”
I hugged her tightly just as he gave her a kiss on the top of the head and moved over to stand beside her.
I could feel Amadeo right behind me, and although I knew there was probably some turbulent energy currently filtering throughout the room, all I could focus on was that I was finally here with my sister.
“It feels like it’s been an eternity since I’ve seen you.” It hadn’t been, of course. It had only been weeks, but time blended together to seem like a lifetime had already passed.
We pulled back at the same time and just stared at each other before laughing softly.
She slid her arm through the crook of mine and led me away from the front door and down the hall. It was then I noticed another dark, tall, and imposing figure off to the side.
Dmitry leaned against the wall by the bar, staring at me with a gleam in his eyes before lifting a glass of liquor to his lips and shifting his focus to Amadeo, the clear mistrust of my bodyguard written on his face.
He slowly turned his head until he was looking at me before inclining his head. It was almost robotic, as if he couldn’t be bothered to care one way or another about “Amara’s baby sister.”
But I felt a little thrill that he’d acknowledged me. God, I… was crushing on Dmitry.
“Gio actually made you bring Amadeo, huh?” Amara's voice was so low it was only meant for my ears.
I laughed softly and looked over my shoulder to see Amadeo only a couple of feet from me, a scowl on his face as he scanned the interior of the penthouse as if he were waiting for the Bratva to pounce out of the corners.
“Come on,” Amara said softly as she led me down the hall and into the room I presumed was going to be mine while I stayed here. “Let's ignore the testosterone pissing contest.”
Amadeo stepped inside, setting my bags on the floor before, I assumed, leaving, but only to stand in front of the open doorway.
I suppressed rolling my eyes. He was just doing his job, but I was pretty sure Nikolai and Dmitry weren’t going to have a shoot-out right in their apartment.
Amara huffed out, clearly annoyed, and walked over to the door before closing it and giving us some privacy. Her smile slowly dimmed as seriousness took its place.
“How are you doing?”
I walked around the room, shrugging my answer.
The room was spacious, with a large window that reached from floor to ceiling and overlooked the cityscape. The bed was king-size and had a dark duvet and silver-accented pillows. The pictures were minimalistic, abstract paintings that looked more like splotches of paint than anything discernible.
There was a small bathroom to the side of the bed, and a dresser next to the main door.
“I’m fine,” I finally said and turned to face her, my back to the window as I surveyed the entire room.
Amara was now sitting on the edge of the bed and patted the seat beside her. When I sat next to her, she wrapped her arm around my shoulder and pulled me in. For a second we just leaned our heads against each other, the silence stretching on.
“How are you really doing?”
I knew what she meant.
We both might’ve hated our father, but after he was killed and then Amara was injured, and finally our mother going into some weird detached state, it felt like the scars of our past were just becoming deeper and more painful.