Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
He purses his lips, thinking over his words before he responds. “Women need to know that you’re all in, Vadka. You loved her sister first, and that’s got to be something that’s in the back of her mind. She doesn’t want to be Mariah’s replacement.”
My voice is vehement, my temper rising. “Fuck, Rafail, she isn’t.”
He swivels his gaze to mine. Challenging. Hard. “Does she know that?”
Does she?
I never knew I could love someone again. But now, she’s everything. Fucking everything.
Rafail stands. “Look, brother. It’s my job to make sure my men are stable and secure, that they don’t make decisions with a woman that could impact their loyalty to the Bratva.”
We don’t date casually and never have. It’s all in with us, and for good reason.
“And it’s my job to make sure that if you are all in, that you make it official. You know she has greater protection inside our family if you make her yours officially.”
I nod. I do know it. I’ve thought about it. I don’t give a fuck about what others might say, but I don’t want to push Ruthie.
He taps his beer bottle to mine. “Tomorrow, I’m separating you two. We need a trial run to defend ourselves in the event of an attack. I need to see you in action, make sure your judgment isn’t affected by your concern for Ruthie.” His eyes grow distant, his lips turning down into a scowl that strikes fear in the hearts of anyone who crosses him.
“Rafail, for fuck’s sake, you know—”
“I don’t,” he finishes, his tone hard. “I don’t, but I need to.”
I take another angry gulp of my drink, blood burning in my veins.
“An attack is coming,” he says, his voice laced with warning. “Matvei says it’s imminent.”
Imminent.
I’ve known it, of course, but hearing the words out loud makes it seem so much more possible.
I lean back in my chair, my shoulders tense. My beer is still half full, untouched. Cold condensation drips to the floor.
Rafail watches me, hard and calculating. Loyal to the bone. He’s watching to see if my judgment’s clouded by grief.
“You’re questioning me. Because, again, I’ve got something to lose.”
A beat passes. He gulps the rest of his beer and looks out beyond. “That’s exactly why I’m questioning it. Tomorrow, we have a trial. You’ll take sector east. Ruthie goes with Semyon.”
“Rafail—”
“No.” His word is law. “Tomorrow, I separate you two. This is war, Vadka. They say she knows her way around a gun.”
She does. Her sister taught her, and I agreed. In our world, it helps to be prepared.
Rafail continues. “You have to depend on your brothers to protect everyone. And I need to know your loyalty to the Bratva hasn’t been diluted.”
“You know I—”
He stands, his gaze sharp. “Words are cheap, brother,” he says. His hand falls on my shoulder. “Fucking show me.”
But we don’t get a chance to execute. We suit up for it, we separate, and I do exactly what Rafail fucking tells me to do, but it’s too late. The time has come. There are no more practice sessions.
The first scream doesn’t come from the street.
It comes through the earpiece.
“Two black vans. East alley. Move. Now.” Ice churns in my veins.
Zoya’s voice is calm, but I know what calm sounds like when you’re terrified.
Luka’s inside.
Zoya confirmed it on the comm not two minutes ago before the shit hit the fucking fan. But I haven’t seen Ruthie in eight hours.
We planned it this way. We needed a trial, needed to practice how to take them on in the event of an ambush.
I slam the door behind me and run, gun already warm in my hand. My men fan out across the block, but my pulse only locks onto one point.
Please still be there. Please—
I round the corner, and it hits me like a fucking truck.
She’s there.
Ruthie.
Too-big tactical vest thrown over a tank top, hair a mess, eyes pure fire. Oh god.
She’s already outside, kneeling by Luka.
Luka?
When did he come out here? He wasn’t supposed to be here.
She tucks him behind a dumpster. Her hand is steady on his shoulder, the other gripping a pistol like it’s second nature. Her stance is wrong—she favors her ankle. Still hurt. Still moving.
Rafail was right. She does know her way around a gun.
When she sees me, she nods and smiles. Pretending everything’s okay, that we’re practicing just like we planned. Luka waves. Then I know. She’s doing this for him. We’re playing a game. It’s just a game.
But I see everything. And I know the second everything shifts. My blood simmers, and my instincts snap into place.
Three figures are coming from the alley. Tight formation. Coordinated.
Irish. Not Bratva. No colors, just quiet killers.
Not a fucking drill.
I don’t think. I move.
“Get him down!” I scream at Ruthie.
Gun up, the first shot lands clean—center mass. The second hits the runner’s thigh, and screams erupt. Luka curls tighter into Ruthie’s side, her hand over his ears, his head against her chest.