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)
"Octavio–" Tears spring to my eyes, though I'm not sure why. He sounds weary, like he's hurting, but I don't understand why. He doesn't give me a chance to ask either. He turns me around with gentle hands and nudges me toward the door.
"Go to bed, little bunny. And dream happy dreams for me."
Chapter Eleven
Octavio
Nikolai Tarasova’s territory is no less depressing in the light of day than it is in the dark of night. Ilya's bar is still closed; crime scene tape stretched across the boarded-up entrance. I'm surprised to see that. Ilya Lukanin was told days ago that the bar could reopen for business despite not having all the I's dotted and T's crossed on his liquor license. I make a mental note to check in and find out what's going on with him since I promised Faith that nothing would happen to him.
I haven't had time to do much of anything for the last week. Between the Kincaid situation and my caseload, I barely even have time to see Faith. I walk her next door to Roman's every morning…and then pick her up from there well after dark every night. We spend a few minutes talking before she retreats to the living room, and I head to my office to finish up everything I didn't get done during the day.
She's been distant since she asked for her notebook. She's constantly writing in it, but I haven't asked to see it and she hasn't offered to show it to me. I hate the haunted, faraway look on her face when she's working on it. She's locked in her mind, remembering things no one should ever have to remember, fighting demons that continue to torment her. Being patient is driving me mad. I want her to confide in me. I want her to trust me enough to tell me her secrets.
I want her, goddammit.
Halfway down the block, where the more commercial district gives way to a rundown residential area, I find my target leaning up against the side of a crumbling brick wall with two of his buddies, a joint stuck between his lips.
Mikhail Marozava is in his late twenties, with a criminal record longer than my arm. He's dressed in jeans and a grey T-shirt, a baseball cap pulled low over his face. With tattoos up and down his arms and a scar from a knife fight across his neck, he looks exactly like the dangerous man he is. He's a world-class prick. And thanks to the information Faith gave Finn a few days ago, we now have enough on him to haul him in for questioning in the murders of Alejandro Gomez and Juan Arias.
"That's him," I mutter to Troy Coulter, my partner on this. He's another detective stationed in my precinct office and a friend of sorts. We don't work together often, but coming to Tarasova’s territory alone is asking for trouble…especially since we came to bring one of his people in for questioning. Dwayne Livingston, a patrol officer, follows behind us in his squad car.
"He looks like a prick," Troy says.
"He is a prick. He's also dangerous."
Mikhail and his buddies notice us pulling to a stop. His cold gaze sweeps over us as we cut the engine and climb out of the Tahoe. Livingston pulls his squad car to a stop beside the SUV, partially blocking the roadway. When Mikhail and his buddies notice him climbing from his car, they straighten up.
Mikhail says something to one of the men with him, who pulls out a cell phone. He's undoubtedly calling for reinforcements, but they'll get here too late. We chose today for a reason.
Most of the Bratva are at the funeral for Abram Dronov, whose body has been sitting in the morgue for the last few weeks, unclaimed. An aunt finally stepped up—likely at the urging of Nikolai Tarasova—a couple of days ago. Mikhail, however, wasn't on the invite list for the funeral. According to our intel, he and Dronov couldn't stand each other.
"Otvali. This is Tarasova land," Mikhail says like this is Russia and he's claiming sovereignty over the land, taking a hit from his joint as we walk toward him. Contempt roils through his gaze. "LAPD isn't welcome here."
"Mikhail Marozava?" I ask, even though I know who he is. He's the cabrón who called Faith a fucking bitch the night of the shooting. The one who runs around with Ivan Sedov. Sedov is at the top of my list of Tarasova’s people to personally destroy…and bringing in Mikhail Marozava is only my first move.
"Are you deaf, zjelob? I told you to leave." He tosses his joint to the ground and takes a step in my direction. His buddies eye us warily but don't step up to back him, clearly reluctant to take on three cops.