Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“It’s Barlov,” Anton said simply.
“Why is he a year late? That is unlike him,” I added, turning towards the bathroom to splash water on my face. Staring at my face in the mirror, I rubbed my jaw and decided not to shave. I was good-looking enough.
Too good-looking, if you asked my father. All of us were. He probably shouldn’t have impregnated three up and coming fashion models if he didn’t want us to be shockingly handsome, I thought without a hint of ego.
I knew what I looked like. I didn’t place much importance on it. I was used to being stared at, lusted after, feared, respected, and desired. It was just the way things were.
I was an alpha predator. The alpha predator. One of the deadliest creatures on earth.
“He’s sick.”
“Sick?” I asked, surpassing the twist of regret that pulsed through my guts. I didn’t like many people. I had been treated with respect, but not kindness, since birth. The old man in the candy shop had been one of the few. Perhaps the only one, to ever show a hint of care.
It was unspoken, but I knew my brothers felt the same.
“He’s dying. His daughter is trying to run the place, and failing. Badly,” Anton added unnecessarily.
“I didn’t know he had a daughter.”
“His wife was pregnant. She died giving birth to the girl.”
“I thought she was a promising musician,” Alexie said, clearly not caring one way or the other.
“A violinist,” Andrei answered.
“I knew nothing of any of this. Why was it kept from me?” I asked, selecting a shirt and tie to go with my customary brown wool suit. I had dozens of them in different shades of taupe and weights of wool.
Alexie was partial to shades of blue, to match his shockingly blue eyes, and Andrei favored shades of gray. Other than our coloring, our features, stature, and builds, we were nearly identical.
How on earth had one of our interests been allowed to fall so far behind? Barlov was small potatoes. Just the owner of a modest candy shop in Moscow. If he hadn’t been located in an area under our control during a different phase of our father’s empire building, I doubted he would have been tempting to any of the other crime syndicates, let alone the biggest in the world.
“Not kept from you, brother. Just bits and pieces I overheard and noticed. I haven’t been to Barlov’s shop since I was a boy.”
“Me either.”
I nodded. I was the same. I knew things without knowing how I knew them. My hackles had risen for some unknown reason, but they quickly settled. My brother’s always had my back.
Unless we all wanted the same woman, or the last bit of vodka, or to make the killing blow when handling a traitor.
Then, all bets were off. We would battle each other without mercy. Without holding back. We all had the scars to prove it.
The funny thing was, I could not remember the last time that had happened.
Chapter 2
Mishka
Icarefully wiped a few crumbs off the edge of a tray after setting it inside the glass display case. I leaned back, surveying my handiwork. Then I heard a sound that made me frown.
Shuffling footsteps from the back of the shop. I tried not to wince when I turned to see my father standing there. He looked so frail.
“Papa, you need to rest.”
He waved me off, but one hand was pressed against the edge of the counter that ran along the back wall near where the register was. He was gripping onto the worn marble countertop for dear life.
“You need to practice! I can mind the shop.”
“You can barely stand. And you haven’t taken your medicine yet,” I added fretfully. He was beyond medicine, as we both knew, though getting him to a doctor had been impossible. I had finally gotten him to see his doctor, though the appointments took forever to get, with very little hope of ever seeing a specialist.
The doctor had told us what we already suspected. What we had known, deep down. He was dying.
Neither of us had needed a doctor to tell us that. If he had seen someone months ago, perhaps he would have survived. In another country, he would have stood a chance. Maybe even a good chance. But it was next to impossible to see a regular doctor in Moscow these days, let alone a specialist or oncologist without unlimited funds and connections.
I was pretty sure he had known he was sick for quite some time. Pure stubbornness had kept him from seeking help. But I had no doubt that same stubborness was also keeping him alive.
But I was his daughter. I was stubborn, too. I had spent all of my free time researching treatments, calling doctors, and trying to get him appointments.
It might be too late, and it most likely was, but that did not mean I was not going to try.