Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“You look like you’re preparing for war,” he says, dropping into the chair across from me.
“Aren’t I?” I ask, giving him a flat look.
“Hopefully not,” he jokes, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing that vein in your neck pop again. It’s been a while.”
I don’t smile. I don’t need to. Mikhail’s known me since we were seventeen. He can read the twitch in my jaw like a book.
“Do you trust him?” I ask.
He snorts. “Do I trust a Grinkov? That’s a stupid question. That’s like asking if I trust a rabid dog not to bite.”
“I agree,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Still, something about this feels different. I can’t explain it, but the wind has shifted.”
Mikhail studies me for a moment. “In a way, it is different,” he says. “Oleg’s not Sergei, he didn’t grow up drowning puppies for fun. The guy’s calculating. When his father died, he made no move on us, no power plays, no territory grabs. That tells me he’s either playing the long game or trying something new.”
“Like peace?” I wonder.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But it could all be a ruse to set you up for something.”
I swirl the vodka in my glass. “Either way, we could be walking into something unexpected,” I say.
Mikhail nods, face suddenly serious. He pats the weapon at his hip, his favorite sidearm. “So we keep our heads down and our guns close.”
Two sharp, precise taps rattle the door. I glance at my watch. Oleg is exactly on time, neither early nor late.
“They’re here,” Mikhail says, pushing to his feet to let our guests in.
I rise, smooth out the sleeves of my jacket, and button the front. It’s not vanity, it’s armor. If I’m going to be forced into a room with men who may want to slit my throat, I’m going to make damn sure I look like the one holding the knife.
Mikhail hovers by the door, waiting for my nod of approval. “Showtime.”
My guests stride in as if they own the place. Oleg Grinkov leads, all swagger and smooth lines, his tailored suit as black as his soul. He has his father’s eyes but not his grin. When he smiles, it’s a wolfish display that shows teeth rather than charm.
Viktor Belov trails after him, quieter and more calculating. He’s the one I watch most closely. Nothing about him is loud or flashy. He’s silent, efficient, deadly, a viper ready to strike without warning. Today his posture is unusually formal.
Oleg tilts his head. “Isaac,” he says, already claiming the room. “Thank you for having us.”
I gesture to the chairs across from my desk. “I like to see trouble coming before it bites me in the ass.”
Oleg laughs as though I’ve told a joke. “Then I guess I’ll have to prove I’m not trouble anymore,” he says, his tone almost sincere. I don’t buy it for a second.
“I’ll believe that when you walk in without an escort.” I nod toward Viktor.
“Fair enough.” He grins. “I didn’t bring Viktor as an escort tonight, however. We have a proposition to discuss.”
Viktor sits without a word. His eyes land on me, flick to Mikhail, then settle back on Oleg. He’s a trained dog waiting for direction from his master.
Mikhail mirrors my stillness, arms loose on the chair, eyes roaming the room like a predator’s. The smile is gone. That’s his don’t-fuck-with-us face, one he’s perfected over the years.
Oleg lifts the glass of Scotch waiting for him and takes a sip. Naturally, he had the nerve to ask for drinks, and naturally, I had them poured. It’s a power dance, and we all know the steps. After a beat, he leans forward and sets the glass down with a soft clink.
“I’ll get right to it,” he says, his tone almost jovial.
I say nothing. I just wait. If this is war disguised as peace, I want to hear every lie before I draw my blade.
“I know there has been a lot of bad blood between us in recent years,” Oleg says, his voice like silk, “but after my father’s death, I’m looking to right some of his wrongs.”
He pauses, letting his words hang in the air for a moment like incense. They’re meant to soothe us into complacency, to distract from the scent of smoke beneath.
“And to do that,” he continues, not waiting for our input, “Viktor has kindly offered his daughter, Katya, to be your wife. To link our families in a way that ensures peace.”
For a full second, I think I’ve misheard him, but as the words echo in my head I realize I haven’t. He’s offering Viktor’s daughter to be my wife. Preposterous. The silence that follows is thick, almost suffocating, and for a moment I don’t know how to respond.
Mikhail’s gaze snaps to me, sharp and immediate, but I don’t return it. My focus stays on Oleg, whose smile never wavers. It’s as though he’s offered me territory or a ticket to Coney Island, not a bride. Is it really so easy for him to treat people like objects? It’s unsettling.