Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
She's come so far, such a long way, confident and independent now. I know this means a lot to her. This isn’t just a house in a peaceful neighborhood, it’s more than a place to live. It’s a declaration of who she’s become, of what we’ve fought for. She’s forged her way past a life of instability where peace was fleeting. No one can take this from her. Not now, not ever, and I’ll fight for this peace for her until the day I draw my last breath.
"Of course you can," I say with a shrug. "Doesn't matter to me, Renata. Everything I have is yours. Everything."
And I do mean everything. I reach for her and she fits in my arms, nestled in as if we were carved from one piece, and now we’ve finally, finally made our way back to each other.
We fought hard for this. We’ll fight harder still.
I kiss her forehead as the click of the realtor's high heels sounds across the porch. "Two acres of land and a reservation in the back, there’s even a little creek where people even fish," she says. She pulls out a pair of reading glasses and continues to read down a list. She goes on and on about hot water and utilities, the local schools, the square footage, the exterior a blend of modern and classic blah blah blah, but I barely hear her. My woman’s pleased as fuck and that’s all that matters.
“This place is not far from the city,” she continues, “but just enough away that people have to come a ways to visit you," she adds with a wink. Thirty minutes away from my parents, my brothers, and their families. It’s just enough. Because we need something of our own.
"The kitchen may need some renovation," she begins with a little frown. "You may be able to negotiate the—"
"We'll take it," Renata says. The realtor, who worked with my family before, looks to me for approval. She quirks a brow.
"Mr. Romanov?"
"Why are you asking me? Do as my wife tells you," I say, my voice carrying a note of threat. She will not question Renata.
"Of course," she says with a smile, turning to face Renata. "Would you like to negotiate the price down for kitchen renovations?"
Renata shrugs. "No. I like the way it is. That kitchen island can function as a breakfast table, and I love that view of the garden outside the dining area.” She turns to me. “Do you agree?”
I shrug. “I need a place to make a pot of coffee and a burner to scramble some eggs, and some place to put my protein shakes. The question is, are you happy?”
My brothers would rib me mercilessly but I don’t fucking care. I know what my life’s goal is, what my purpose is, and she’s standing right in front of me with stars in her eyes.
"Excellent. You're a woman who knows her mind." She smiles broadly at Renata, who flushes a little. Of course she is. I squeeze her hand, and when the realtor goes inside to put in a formal offer, Renata claps her hands like a little girl and bounces on the balls of her feet. As I look at her, I can’t help but think about the chaos we escaped, the dangers we faced. This moment is worth every goddamn battle I ever fought. I nestle my face in her hair and inhale, breathing in the familiar, grounding scent.
"Oh, Ollie," she says. She doesn’t say more than that, but she doesn’t have to. Just those two words. Oh, Ollie. They hold a world of meaning in them.
We're together. We're safe. We're doing this, the two of us, forging our way through hellfire to make a place of our own. We're going to raise a family. We're going to stay connected to mine, branch out, and make one of our own.
We celebrate dinner at a steakhouse in town. I watch approvingly as Renata tears into a 20 oz. T-bone steak with a side of caramelized onions, a baked potato the size of King Arthur, and shoves her green beans aside. "Those are not my favorite," she says. I reach out to her and squeeze her hand. I run my thumb along her knuckles.
"What is your favorite?"
"You, of course,” she says with a smile.
"Oh, that’s not cheesy at all."
"As if I give a fuck about cheesy," she says with a grin. She sobers, chewing her food thoughtfully. Swallowing her bite, she chases it with a gulp of wine before she asks her question. "Ollie, has there been any word from the cartel? Have you heard anything from Colombia?"
I shake my head. "No. It seems as if things are at peace for now." For now. Isabella and Lev have their men combing every inch of the city, and they have taken great risks to make sure that there’s no blowback.