Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Last time I checked, he was trying to kill Rolan.”
“He’s not dead.” I chance a glance at Sergei. “Right?”
“No, he isn’t,” my granduncle confirms.
“Then…where is he?”
Julian forms a steeple at his chin. “I suspect something went wrong.”
“What?” My voice sounds as spooked as I feel.
“When I was talking to him, I believe he was interrupted.”
“Interrupted by what?”
“The question is who.”
“What happened?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Julian stares at his watch. “If Rolan has a demand, he would make it about now.”
“You think Rolan has him?”
“I’m almost sure. Kyle went there to kill him, and since he’s not dead, that means the situation slipped out of control.”
I brace myself against the chair, sucking in a deep breath. The idiot. Why did he have to go there? Why did he jeopardize himself like that?
He’ll be okay, right? It’s Kyle, after all. No one will be able to hurt him.
Sergei’s office phone goes off, its ringing echoing in the silence of the space. My head jerks up at the sound.
Granduncle picks it up and puts it on speaker. “Sergei Sokolov.”
“Rolan Fitzpatrick. How have ye been, Sergei?” The unmistakable voice with the Irish accent slips through the phone. My fingers dig into the cushion of the chair.
“Good, good.”
“Unfortunately, the piece of news I have might ruin yer mood.”
“What happened?”
“Sadly, I was attacked by one of your closest men. Your grandniece’s husband, I believe. How unfortunate.”
“Where is he?” Sergei asks slowly, not losing his cool, which is far different from how I’m barely holding on.
“He’s with the lads downstairs. How unfortunate, indeed.” He has a provocative way of speaking, slow, but meant to get on your nerves.
“What do you want?” Sergei asks.
“Not much. Just the territories you’ve been slaughtering my lads over. Hand me those and I’ll hand ye yer in-law.”
“You think I would ever give up brotherhood territories?”
“Does that mean you’d rather give him up? Unfortunate. Very unfortunate.” Rolan pauses. “I’ll give ye a day to think about it. After that, I’ll send ye his head.”
The line goes dead and I stagger against the chair. My stomach churns and I grab it as I slowly sit down.
“Are you okay?” Sergei asks me.
“I’m…not.” My voice catches at the end, but I swallow and meet his gaze. “We have to do something.”
“I won’t give up Bratva’s territories, not even for my own daughter. After all, dozens of men died to secure them. The leaders would choose to kill Kyle themselves instead of making the brotherhood appear weak.”
I know that. I know it, and yet, my brain is fried. All I keep thinking about is the image of Kyle’s head.
Shit.
My stomach lurches again and the need to vomit hits me out of nowhere. I breathe deeply to shoo the sensation away.
I can’t fall down now. If I do, I won’t be able to protect Kyle and our unborn child.
Sucking in a deep breath, I face Sergei. “Can you call a meeting? I have a plan.”
30
Kyle
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”
Mam? Where are you?
The place is pitch-black like a cave. It smells rotten too, as if a dead animal is decomposing inside it. My legs get lost in something sticky underneath, but I can’t see it.
I can’t see anything except for darkness.
The sound of weeping gets louder the more I walk. It’s my mother. I’d recognize the sound anywhere, even though it’s been thirty years.
“Mam? Where are ye?” I don’t know why I’m speaking in a Northern Irish accent, but all of a sudden, it feels as if I’m back to being that small boy. The only difference is that I’m trapped in a grown-up’s body. “Mam!”
The only answer is the sound of weeping. It’s long and wretched as if her grief is clawing out from the grave.
“Mam, come out. I can protect ye now. No one will hurt ye.”
The weeping ceases and a rustle comes from right in front of me. I halt, the sound of the sticky mud under my feet stopping too.
The darkness slowly dissipates like fog in the early morning. A slender woman stands in front of me, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her face is soft, petite, and her nose is straight, like she’s from aristocratic origins.
Her hair has a reddish hue and freckles are like specks of dust on her cheeks and nose. My mother used to tell me it’s unfair that I look nothing like her and resemble my father instead.
She’s wearing the trousers and the jacket from the day when she held me in her arms and attempted to run. Her blue eyes that match mine aren’t sad like back then, though. There are laugh lines around them, even as tears continue streaming down her cheeks.
So this is how she looked. I had started to forget her face, and it has turned into a white halo over the years.