Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
An older man is cooking soup at the stove. “Welcome home, Tigran,” he says, walking slightly stooped. He’s got wispy graying hair and a very kind, gentle smile. “And this must be your wife.”
“Dasha,” I say, introducing myself.
“This is Vito; he runs the house.”
“Lovely to meet you. Technically, I’m Mr. Sarkissian’s valet, but I do most of the cooking and coordinate the staff. If you ever need anything, and I mean that literally, come find me. I’ll help.”
“Thank you,” I say, totally overwhelmed. My father had staff, but they only came around occasionally to clean twice a week.
“I’ll get her bags upstairs,” Tigran grunts. “That smells good, Vito.”
“You’ll enjoy it, I hope. Just a little something I threw together.” The older man’s eyes sparkle and his smile is shockingly calming. “Nothing like nice, warm soup to make you feel at home.”
Tigran heads to a back staircase. He lugs my bags up, muscling them all alone. I hurry after him, and he takes me to a room on the right.
“This is yours,” he says, taking a key down from the top of the doorframe and handing it to me. “Nobody else has one. Only you and me.”
“That’s… good?” I don’t know how to feel as he pushes inside.
There’s an expansive, comfortable sitting room. Couch, coffee table, a television over what looks like a real, working fireplace. Bookshelves filled with books and tasteful portraits of barking dogs and a summer village on the walls. It’s like straight out of a magazine.
“Living room, bedroom, bathroom.” He gestures around him and walks over to the windows. “And a view of the harbor.”
I follow him and stare down at the water. “It’s beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself. I glance over, thinking he’ll make fun of me, but he’s staring outside too.
“Yeah, it is,” he agrees, and he seems much gentler than I would’ve expected.
But it only lasts a moment. He turns away, gesturing impatiently at my bags.
“Unpack and get settled,” he commands, heading to the door.
“Wait,” I say, a sudden panic coming over me. “What am I supposed to do?”
He pauses to look back. His face is cloudy and dark.
“Get settled. Live your life. What else is there?”
Then he’s gone.
Leaving me alone in a strange room, in a strange house, surrounded by total strangers.
The reality of my situation hits me. I feel small, crushed, ground to a pulp. All the panic I’ve been suppressing finally hits, but instead of curling up on the couch like a catatonic mummy, I surprise myself.
By ripping the art off the walls.
I don’t even know why I do it. I start with a nice little house in a meadow somewhere and toss it on the floor. I knock over a statue of an elephant, yank books off the shelves, and pile them in a corner. I toss stationery off the desk and root around in the bathroom until there’s not a single monogrammed towel in sight.
I rip the place to shreds, piling all the fake, soulless decorations in a corner, and when I’m done, it looks like the place was hit by a hurricane.
Finally, I feel calm enough to drag myself into the bed and bury myself under the covers.
Chapter 7
Tigran
Arsen puts a cup of coffee down in front of me and slides another across the table to Aunt Sona. She accepts it with a curt nod and purses her lips to blow some steam off the top.
It’s strange. Not all that long ago, Sona would’ve happily stabbed Arsen in the throat and smiled as he bled out. Now she’s one of his top advisors and most important members of the Brotherhood, and he’s making her coffee.
“How’s the wife?” Arsen asks, settling himself down into his seat. We’re clustered at one end of a conference room in the skyscraper the Brotherhood owns. Baltimore’s spread out below us like little plastic toys.
“Getting used to things,” I tell him because that’s all I know. Last night after getting home, I decided to give her time to herself. That trip was obviously a lot for her, and I figured she needed a little space to settle herself down.
“Going to be hard getting used to you,” Aunt Sona says, smiling as she flips open a folder. “I feel for the girl.”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” I grumble.
“Anytime. But this is good. I have some numbers here from the Zeitsevs, and they’re better than we expected.” She slides some pages over to Arsen. They look like dense spreadsheets. “They’re importing more than we realized. Once we tap into that flow, we’ll have some serious cash to push out onto the streets.”
That’s Aunt Sona. Both accountant and ruthless general. She may be the oldest person at the table by thirty years, but she knows her business, and she’s not soft about it.