Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
The door swung open and Mikhail, our uncle, strolled in, leading his dogs. “Sorry,” he muttered, waving his hand at them. “The bouncer.”
Dogs, of course, are not allowed in nightclubs. But Mikhail doesn’t go anywhere without them, as the bouncer probably found out to his cost. I petted one of the four enormous Malamutes, and my bad mood lifted just a little. Mikhail has trained them since puppies and they’re superb attack dogs. But to members of our family, they’re just adorable fluffballs. Mikhail gave each of us a hearty embrace. “What are we talking about?” he asked.
“How Radimir should find a woman,” said Valentin before I could stop him.
Mikhail punched me playfully on the shoulder. “You should find a woman! I keep telling you to think about an heir!”
I huffed and scowled. “Everyone stay the fuck out of my love life!” I had enough to worry about, holding this family together after everything we’d been through, without worrying about starting a dynasty.
Mikhail settled on the couch, and we waited. The entire Aristov family lined up.
Valentin is our hitman. He spends most of his time up on Chicago’s rooftops, watching his targets, before descending to slit their throats in the night. Gennadiy handles the day-to-day running of most of our illegal operations. Mikhail, he’s our link to politics and power. He makes the introductions and handles the bribes: everyone who’s anyone in the state of Illinois knows friendly Uncle Mikhail, or Misha, as he insists they call him.
Then there’s me. I’m the CEO of our legitimate property business, make the decisions and hold everything together, bound by the promise I made my brothers and Mikhail all those years ago: family first. Family, always.
And as we sat there together, my mind did what it always did, as soon as there was a second of quiet. It slid to her.
It had been a week since I walked into that bookstore, and I hadn’t gone an hour without thinking of her. I’d be at the office, and I’d imagine her magnificent, denim-clad ass raised in the air as I bent her over the photocopier, or her copper hair tossing and pale legs kicking as I fucked her on the conference table. I was starting to obsess over what her pussy looked like: light pink or dark pink lips? The curls of hair red or brown, or shaved completely? I had to know.
The lust wasn’t the thing that unsettled me, though. There was a craving I couldn’t seem to get rid of, a little lift in my chest when I thought about seeing her again. I scowled. What’s the matter with me?
One of the club’s waitresses appeared at the door. The club makes them wear this ridiculous outfit, an indigo dress and knee boots and a platinum-blonde wig. “Your guests are here,” she told us, looking shaken. And the Nazarov brothers strolled in.
The Nazarovs are Russian, like us. Spartak was first, a giant of a man, almost as tall as me but much wider. He used to wrestle back home, and he was good at it. He’s an old-school, vicious bastard who likes to wrap his enemies in chains and drown them in the river. I only deal with him because I have to: he runs most of the drugs in Chicago, as well as some bars and a sleazy nightclub.
Behind him followed his brother, Borislav. Bald, leaner than Spartak but just as big and unpleasant, Borislav acts as muscle. He rides his brother’s coattails and spends most of his time drinking and partying.
“Do you need anything else?” asked the waitress. Her eyes never left Borislav, and she was holding her silver tray across her chest like a shield.
I stiffened, furious, and scowled at Borislav. He has a reputation in the city. He’s assaulted or raped several women, but only two have ever reported him, only one led to charges being filed and that case was dropped when the woman suddenly disappeared. Everyone hates him but no one can do anything because he’s Spartak’s brother. My guess was that Borislav had slipped his hand up the waitress’s dress on the way upstairs and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s men who mistreat women. “No, thank you,” I told the waitress. “We don’t need anything else.” She hurried away, leaving Borislav looking disappointed.
The door closed and we settled down to business. Our families have managed to maintain a grudging, fragile peace for years, an agreement brokered by the Vosem, “The Eight,” an unofficial sort of high council of senior Bratva members back in Moscow. I don’t like working with lowlifes like the Nazarovs, but peace is better for business and disobeying The Eight would see our family isolated and quickly wiped out.
The Nazarovs were just leaving when my phone vibrated with a message from Lina. She calls me Uncle even though she’s my cousin’s daughter because I’m the closest thing she has to one.