Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Rustik’s going to kill me.
Just like he killed Liliya.
And if I go downstairs, down to where my father’s waiting with the rest of my family, with all the heads of the powerful American Bratva organizations, several senators and congressmen, and more than a few mafia dons and other organized crime bosses, I will be nailing my own coffin shut.
The people down there, they believe him. It’s convenient to close their eyes and trust in the Lion, so long as he keeps making them obscene amounts of money. No, it’s easier to accept that Liliya was an addict, and it was her drugs that killed her.
Not her sick husband.
There won’t be any saving me, not from Rustik.
Not once he owns me.
Which means I have a choice.
Die, or do something drastic.
The door behind me opens. The same older woman that fetched me from the bathroom steps out, looking pale. She’s got big, blonde hair, fake nails, bright red lips. I think her name’s Cathy, or Nancy, or something like that.
“You okay, hon?” she asks. “We can fix your makeup real fast, okay? Then you can—”
I interrupt her before she can finish. “Which way takes me to an exit?”
She looks confused for only a moment then her eyes go wide. I stare at her, my crying gone, my sobs swallowed now that I’ve made up my mind.
There’s steel inside me. I have to grab on to it.
“I don’t—” She starts, but clears her throat.
“Which way takes me outside?” I ask with all the force I can muster, a harsh whisper.
She pales, but she raises one trembling finger and points to the left.
My expression softens. Poor Cathy/Nancy. If Rustik learns she helped me, I’m sure he’ll kill her.
“Thank you,” I say, touching her arm.
“Good luck,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, voice dropping to almost nothing. “There are guards. Be careful.”
I nod, then start running.
Chapter 2
Alisa
Every step feels like a thunderclap. Even barefoot, my heels discarded at the far end of the hall, it’s like each step is loud enough to wake the dead.
I’m shocked Rustik can’t hear my heart racing. It’s pounding in my ear, painfully loud and fast.
I reach a staircase and listen. The sounds of the wedding party murmur up toward me, but they’re distant. I hear the clattering of dishes, a few shouts, a stressed conversation in Spanish.
With a deep breath, I take the stairs, going as fast as I dare.
It leads me into a back hallway. Straight ahead is a kitchen. Men and women dart around in black and white jackets, ferrying appetizer plates, cleaning glasses, ignoring everything but their tasks. To the left are a pair of doors, and beyond them is the party itself. I spot guests mingling nearby, older people I don’t recognize.
To my left is another hall.
I hurry away from the party and the kitchen. The sounds recede when I turn the corner. Ahead, there’s a heavy-looking door with a push-bar and a tinted window, dark enough that no light gets through. I run to it, a stab of excitement bursting into my chest.
This has to be an exit. I have no clue what I’m going to do once I’m outside, but at least I’ll be free of the house. I can run off to the woods, or maybe I can try to steal a car. There might even be a valet that takes pity on me, but that’s doubtful. I have to remember that these are all Aslan employees, all of them members of the Bratva. They are loyal to the Lion, not to his pathetic future bride. I’m nothing to them, and if anyone spots me, I’m finished.
I shove the door open and stumble out into a bright late afternoon.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I’m in a side garden, in the shade of the building. The back yard stretches off to my left, and the front driveway is on my right. If I run straight for about fifty yards, I’ll reach the edge of the woods. I won’t get far barefoot, but I don’t have a better plan.
I get about two steps before someone grabs me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The man’s voice is low, menacing. He smells like cigarettes. I struggle, try to yank free, but his grip is like iron as he drags me toward him. “Oh, shit, you’re the girl.”
I don’t recognize him. Dark hair, dark eyes, an uncertain scowl. He’s wearing a black tux with an earpiece in his left ear. If he radios, I’m toast. Forget about having babies—Rustik will kill me this afternoon.
“Please,” I say, panicking. “You don’t have to do this. I was just going for a walk to clear my head—”
“Boss gave me strict orders,” the thug cuts me off. “Nobody out through this door. You gotta get back in there.” He looks uncomfortable, but he starts dragging me back.