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)
"I…" I don't even know where to start or how much I should say. "Some of Nikolai Tarasova's men came in with their friends to celebrate Dimitri Golyshev's birthday. They were drinking and laughing. Someone started shooting. I looked outside, and there were five men with guns."
"Did you recognize any of them?"
My gaze darts away from Detective Hernandez to Ivan. He's still glaring at me, hatred in his eyes. My heart pounds erratically, fear pumping through my veins. I break his gaze and glance back over at Detective Hernandez to find him watching me intently.
I lick my lips and then shake my head.
"I can protect you, Faith," he says again, his voice soft.
I think he means that, but I don't think he can keep that promise. He doesn't know who I am or what my mother and stepfather did to the Bratva. He doesn't know I'm a prisoner here and have been since I was sixteen. He can't help me because no one can. He'll forget about me the second this case closes, if not before.
"She needs to go to the hospital," the paramedic announces after wrapping my hands in bandages. "There are a couple pieces of glass embedded pretty deeply into her left palm. She needs stitches."
"Fuck," Detective Hernandez swears. "Faith, talk to me and I swear to you that I'll find whoever did this to your friends."
"They aren't my friends," I mumble.
One dark brow climbs, letting me know I've said a little too much.
Shit. Get it together, Faith. You can't let this man get to you. He'll be gone soon, and you'll be right back where you started.
He stays silent for a moment, just watching me. "Talk to me, Faith. Please."
I shouldn't, but the foreign tinge to his plea does me in. It's been so long since anyone has needed my help with anything, so long since anyone has said please to me…and I don't think this man is used to having to ask for anything, but he's asking me.
I want to help him, even though I shouldn't.
I want to believe he can help me, even when I know he can't.
"It was the Amato family," I whisper, my mind made up. "I heard them…I heard them say to stay out of their territory and away from their warehouses." I blink my eyes rapidly, though I'm not sure if I'm trying to keep myself awake or keep myself from crying. It's been a long time since I let myself cry outside the confines of my own room, with my pillow over my face to mute the sound. But this man makes me feel like if I gave in to the tears, he wouldn't find me weak. He wouldn't laugh at me. I think he'd use his body as a shield and let me fall apart without prying eyes focused on me.
"Warehouses? Are you sure that's what you heard?" he asks.
"Positive," I whisper.
He eyes me for a minute like he's trying to gauge for himself if that's what I heard, and then he nods. "Do you know who the victims are inside the bar? The ones who didn't make it?"
I rattle off their names and he nods again. He doesn't write anything down, but I doubt he needs to take notes. He's smart…really damn smart, I think. He could probably talk to everyone else who was inside the bar and still remember every word I said verbatim. I'm not sure why I'm so confident of that—perhaps it's the way intelligence shines in his eyes—but I am sure of it.
"What about the others? The ones who are injured?"
"It was chaotic inside. I don't remember who was hurt," I confess and then shift my gaze from Detective Hernandez to the ambulance directly across from mine where two paramedics are working on a girl with a gunshot wound to her shoulder and another to her leg. I know the girl inside. "That's Irina. I don't know her last name, but Dimitri Golyshev is her cousin."
"If you saw them, could you identify them?" Hernandez asks.
I nod once.
He rises to his feet, recalling my attention. "I know you need medical treatment, but I need your help. Some of the injured can't speak for themselves. Tarasova's men won't tell us anything, not even to save the lives of their friends. Will you help me help the victims?" He holds out his hand, but doesn't make a move, instead leaving the decision up to me.
I study his callused palm and long fingers for a beat and then reach out and place my bandaged hand into his. Electricity surges up my arm, humming like a livewire. I think Detective Hernandez feels it too because he mutters a soft curse and then releases me as soon as I'm on my feet.
He doesn't touch me again as he leads me from one ambulance to the next, but he stays right beside me the entire time, hovering as if he's trying to offer me a little of the strength that practically radiates from him.