Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
He smells of liquor and stale cigarette smoke, but the rare display of kindness and concern from a man who's shown me very little of either has tears springing to my eyes. I squeeze them closed, trying like hell not to soften toward the hulking giant or think about the pain searing through my bleeding palms or the screams echoing off the walls all around me. I'm pretty sure there's glass embedded in a few of the cuts, but I don't have time to confirm that suspicion right now.
A loud pop sounds to my right, directly on the other side of the chest-high bar. The jukebox makes a strange whirring-click sound and then dies while Ke$ha is mid-chorus. The sudden absence of music only intensifies the other sounds ripping through the building—the screams of the panicked, the moans and whimpers of the injured and dying, and the loud report of gunfire still echoing off the rafters.
Pow. Pow. Pow. Pow.
"Get the ublyudki!" someone yells between one crack of sound and the next.
Others repeat the same sentence, shouting it like a rallying cry, and then gunfire explodes from inside the building as well as from the men outside.
I curl up in a little ball and rock back and forth, trying to shut it all out. It's too loud, too much. And watching people die isn't something I've ever gotten used to no matter how often I've watched it unfold.
What feels like hours later, the gunfire stops as suddenly as it erupted.
"Stay out of Amato territory and out of our warehouses!" someone shouts from outside.
A second later, car doors slam closed, an engine roars and then tires squeal as they drive away.
The chaos left in the wake of the vehicle is almost worse than the chaos that preceded it. Whimpers, cries, and curses echo throughout the building as everyone inside shouts to one another, checking to see who is hurt and who isn't. Someone flings the doors open and runs outside. Another couple of shots ring out.
"Knock it the fuck off!" someone shouts. "They're already gone."
All over the bar, patrons scream and cry, begging for help.
It's so loud.
Anxiety churns through me, kicking my heartrate up until my pulse races, sending fear skittering through my veins. Life in Bratva territory is hard. I've lived and breathed that reality most of my life. But this is an entirely new level of fucked up…something infinitely worse than yet another one of their endless wars. This is my safe space, the one place I'm allowed to go where Nikolai Tarasova doesn't control every move I make.
And now it's blood-soaked and destroyed too. Literally.
The bar still smokes in places where bullets ripped through the heavy wood, charring it. My blood drips from my hands onto my apron and the floor beneath me. Shattered glass and pools of alcohol are everywhere, the stench mingling with the heavy metallic scent of blood until I feel like I'm going to pass out from the cloying mixture.
I slam my eyes closed, fighting the wave of nausea climbing up my throat.
"Those motherfuckers came for us in our own territory," Ivan Sedov—Nikolai's most violent, psychotic lieutenant—swears, his disbelieving voice climbing in volume as his friends continue to cry out from all around the bar. "They came for Nikolai!"
I'm not sure what he expected. Over the last few months, one of the cartels in the city has targeted every major organized crime group in Los Angeles, dragging the city to the verge of war. It was only a matter of time until someone came for Nikolai…though from the way it sounded, Nikolai sent his people after the Amato family first. Or after their warehouses, anyway.
"Are you okay, girl?" Ilya rasps, shaking my shoulders.
I snap my eyes open to meet his brown eyes. He looks genuinely worried about me. The sight sends a little tremor quaking through me because it's been a long damn time since anyone has worried about me.
Ilya doesn't like me much. He's gruff and rude and calls me girl instead of my name. Then again, Ilya doesn't like anyone. He's an ex-con with no time for bullshit and no concept of compassion or empathy. But as sad as it is to say, he's the closest thing to a friend I've got, even if he is almost triple my age.
"Faith, answer me." He shakes me so hard it feels like my brain rattles around inside my skull. "Snap out of it, girl. We don't have time for you to panic right now."
"Fine," I gasp, releasing the breath I didn't realize I was holding. "I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes," I say and then nod to punctuate my statement. "Yes, I'm fine."
"Help me!" a girl cries, stumbling into view. Her makeup is smeared, mascara making tracks down her cheeks. Her blue eyes are wide and terrified. She has her hands pressed to her side, trying to staunch the flow of blood spilling over to soak her skintight leopard print top.