Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
When she hung up, I had the immediate urge to hurl my phone across the room into the fireplace, but I squashed that down, squeezed my phone tight instead, and bolted for the door.
In all of my father’s eleven-thousand-square-feet limestone mansion, the only place no one dared walk into was Grigory Lenkov’s study. One never knew who would be in there, who the old man would be on the phone with, or who might have walked in and had to be carried out the side door. A moment ago, insulated in my father’s den, I’d been alone, but as soon as I opened the door and strode out into the enormous living room, I was swarmed by people wanting to congratulate me on the good fortune of my family. I understood the reason for the toasts and kudos—the multimillion-dollar high-rise was our first large-scale contract with the city planner’s office, and it was my brother’s reputation as a developer, as well as the side deal to pour hundreds of thousands of dollars into youth facilities and homeless shelters, that tipped the scale in our favor. Everyone in the family, both close and extended, friends and acquaintances, was there to join in the celebration of Pasha’s success.
I tried to be gracious. I smiled and thanked everyone but didn’t stop, kept moving like a shark, forward, until I reached the men on the other side of the room, standing near one of the nine working fireplaces in the mansion. My father was there, holding court with Pasha, accepting congratulations from people offering kind words about his brilliant son and how proud he must be and how bright the future was.
Pasha glanced at me and then gestured for me to go to him, seeing me so seldom lately and missing the companionship of the one person he shared every experience with growing up. He wanted to talk, to catch up, and so did I. It would be nice to just sit and talk like we used to. We were only separated by a year, me younger, Pasha older. As a result, Pasha didn’t trust anyone like he did me, and I was the same. And I could see on Pasha’s face, and in the furrow of his brows and the press of his lips together, that he wanted to speak to me.
I didn’t have time.
Shaking my head, tapping the face of my Bulgari Octo Finissimo watch in rose gold he’d bought me for Christmas, he understood that I wasn’t on my schedule but someone else’s.
“Maksim,” my father called to me, sounding joyful, reaching out his hand, clearly wanting me to join them.
I tipped my head at Pasha, knowing my brother would tell him I had somewhere to be.
And that was all that was needed to get the spotlight off me and instead back on Pasha and my father. That allowed me to continue on toward the man standing with six others near the French doors that led to the back patio and beyond, to the now dormant manicured English garden that was my stepmother’s pride and joy. The only thing Irina Lenkov loved more was her daughter, Galina.
“Lev.”
Lev Kamenov, my right-hand man, extricated himself quickly and moved to my side.
“It’s Vanya.”
He gave me a pained look, the resignation all over his face. “Your cousin is trash, Maks. You need to—”
“He’s at a party at Burian’s place in that apartment he just bought on the fiftieth floor of the new—you know the one,” I said irritably, already heading across the room toward the large closet off the entrance to the foyer, where I’d left my trench coat.
Lev caught up easily, passing me and then rounding fast, barring my path. “How ’bout I go, and you stay here at the party.”
As if I wanted to stay at the party. “I’m going. Do you want to come or not?”
He sighed deeply. “Forgive me, I forgot who I was talking to. I’m going with you.”
Lev had been my best friend since childhood. His mother had left him to play with me the day she was murdered by her estranged ex-husband, Lev’s father. My friend had been nine at the time. Josephine, my mother, the matriarch of our family, had insisted he live with us afterward, and no one, not even my father, ever told her no. When I was made heir to the real family business, Lev took his place at my side, there to keep my secrets and bury the bodies. “Nara’s there too,” I told him. “It might get…bad.”
Lev nodded solemnly. “I’ll have some men meet—”
“No. Just ours.”
Ours meant the men Lev trusted with his life. And mine. Ours meant ours, our men, our crew. Not my father’s men, not those with loyalty to the family at large, but instead those who knew in explicit detail what my place in the family was and what that meant. Those who were loyal to me and Lev and no one else.