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)
More than anything, she deserves someone to love her enough to put her first. I intend to be that man, even if it fucking kills me. And Cristo, I'm pretty sure it just might.
"You don't have to decide anything right now," I murmur, ignoring the stab of pain the thought of her leaving sends directly into my heart. "But if you want to get your GED, we can start working on it now. If there's something you want, something you need, all you have to do is tell me what it is."
"Okay," she whispers, then jumps when the toaster goes off.
"Hey. It's just the toaster." I run a hand down her arm to soothe her before turning to slather our toast with peanut butter and then line it with banana slices. Once they're assembled, I hand her the plate and take a bite. It's…not as bad as I thought it would be. "This is good."
She smiles at me, her honey eyes soft. "It used to be my favorite snack. My dad would have the cook make it for us sometimes."
I pause, my toast halfway to my mouth. "Your dad had a cook?"
"Yeah, well, at least I think she was a cook." Her face scrunches up again, her brows crinkled. "I don't remember her very well. She was nice to me, though, and she always smelled like sugar."
Maybe we've been looking in the wrong places for her father. We assumed he was involved with the cartels, too. But maybe we were wrong about that, and we need to start looking outside of cartel territory. Far outside.
"Did you always live in Tarasova’s territory?" I ask as Faith is finishing up her toast.
She shakes her head. "No. We lived there until my mom married Alexei, and then we moved. He didn't like living with them. I don't know why, though. He’s no better than they are."
"What did he do for Tarasova?" I pour milk into a glass for her.
"He was an accountant. He kept up with their books." She finishes her toast and reaches for the glass, downing half the milk before she puts it down again. "That's how he was able to get away with stealing so much money from them. They didn't realize he was changing the numbers until after he and my mom skipped town."
I file that away with everything else she's told me about her parents.
"Have you thought about what the doctor said?" I ask her. We haven't talked about it, but if the surgeries will help ensure she isn't in pain, I want her to have them if it’s what she wants.
"I have, but I'm not sure what I want to do yet." She bites her lip. "I've never had surgery before. What if it makes things worse instead of better?"
"What if it makes them better?" I ask instead of making her a promise I might not be able to keep.
Her brows furrow as she nibbles on her toast.
"Think about it, angel. You don't have to decide anything now. If you don't want to have them now, then don't. But don't let fear keep you from doing something that might help you, all right?"
"Okay," she whispers.
"I have something to tell you," I murmur once she's finished eating, carrying our plates to the sink.
"What?" she asks.
"Do you remember what you told Finn about Mikhail Marozava the other day?" I turn to her, leaning back against the counter across from her. "About the two people you think he killed?"
She nods.
"We're pretty sure you were right about it." I hesitate, not sure how she's going to take the news about Marozava, especially after everything she told me tonight. "Sure enough that I arrested him in connection with the murders."
She processes that for a moment, her gaze clouding for a brief moment before it clears. "That's good, right?"
"He's not going to stand trial, Faith."
Her mouth opens and then closes like she's trying to find words. Fear clouds her eyes. She visibly shrinks in on herself. "Then he's free?"
"Not quite. At least not yet." I push away from the counter, moving toward her. "He's being deported back to Russia."
"Oh." She tips her head back to meet my gaze, a frown overtaking her face. "I don't understand. Why isn't he going to prison?"
"Because we don't have the evidence to charge him with the murders," I admit. "He was seen in the area, but there's no direct evidence to link him to the scene or to the victims. All we have is the conversation you overheard and a gut feeling. We would have had to cut him loose after questioning, at least until sufficient evidence could be found, and that wasn't a risk we wanted to take."
"But you had enough evidence to deport him?"
"No." I exhale a breath, telling her the parts I'm not sure she's going to like. "He's being deported for his involvement with the Bratva. They're under investigation for human trafficking, conejita. Because of what they did to you."