Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“We’re going to join with them,” he says, as though it’s already decided. “Together, we can run the entire West Coast, but you know what the Petrovs are like. Skittish. Violent. Paranoid.”
He could easily be describing himself.
“To that end, I have arranged for you and Mila Petrov to marry. She’s a nice girl, by all accounts—”
“She won’t be when she becomes a Sokolov,” I growl. “She won’t be when I cheat on her every weekend, when I belittle her, bully her, hate her for not being what I think I deserve when I’m not even one-tenth of what she deserves.”
He doesn’t have to ask who I’m really talking about—him and my mother.
“You don’t have to like it,” he says flatly, “but it’s happening. To ensure this, we’ve put it into writing.”
“Put what into writing?” I say, voice dark.
“Nikolai Petrov and I have agreed that if Mila Petrov doesn’t become a Sokolov by the fall, he will have free reign to take over all our off-the-books operations. Several of my key men have also been notified of this.”
I grit my teeth, my head feeling light. “Do you have any idea what that means?” I growl. “If we let the Petrovs take over this town, within weeks, they’d flood it with their dirty drugs and God knows what else. We’ve kept this city clean—”
“I don’t care what they do,” he cuts in. “I won’t be around for much longer. I would’ve sold all that myself if I had their connections and if our other businesses weren’t so lucrative. Mila will arrive tomorrow. Would you prefer her to stay at the family home or your apartment?”
“The family home,” I say straight away.
The family home is a big compound outside the city, with enough food for several weeks, safe rooms, pools, and lots of luxury. It’s where I grew up, a place I’m not fond of. Right now, I think Ania, my half-sister, is the only one staying there.
“So if I don’t marry Mila, you’re going to kill dozens, if not hundreds of people.”
Another man might deny this. My father might say I’m twisting his words, but he just smiles, lays his pipe down, and leans forward in his chair. Suddenly, he looks like the man I’ve always known, the towering giant who always gets his way.
“Yes, that’s right. Don’t look so upset. You look like a woman when you pout like that. It’s easy, anyway. Just marry the bitch. You can still screw whatever you like on the side.”
My father disgusts me.
“Is there anything else?” I say.
“Maybe a hug, my dear son, for a dying father?”
I stand up and hurry from the room. My father’s security watches me as I leave. The Sokolovs are supposed to be one cohesive unit, but my father has men who would do anything he says.
Getting into my car, I drive through Vegas, avoiding the strip, my head thumping. I’ve spent my life keeping my head down: working, working out, trying to keep the legal business and the family going, and trying to stop Mikhail and our father from killing each other.
Speaking of my little brother, my cell phone rings, and I quickly switch to speaker to answer. “Yeah?”
Mikhail laughs, sounding lighthearted as usual. I wonder if I’m the only one who can see through that shield. “Hello to you too, brother.”
“I just met with Father,” I tell him point-blank.
“Not good, I’m guessing?”
“I’m getting married.”
“Ah,” Mikhail sighs. “We both knew this day might come.”
He’s right. We’ve talked about the idea before.
“You always said it didn’t matter,” Mikhail goes on. “Our procreators ruined marriage for you anyway, so who cares, right?”
“Yeah, but that was before it was real, and I had to think about walking down the aisle, trying to be a good husband, and trying to care when I know I can’t.”
“So, so grim,” Mikhail says. “Maybe you’ll like her.”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
But I’ve never liked anyone. I’ve been cold and distant, the way a Sokolov man is supposed to be.
“Did you know about the cancer?”
Mikhail grunts. “No, and I don’t give a damn.”
It’s sad, maybe, two sons who are mostly indifferent about their father’s passing, but it’s not like he ever gave us much reason to care.
“I need you,” I tell him, “in the office as my righthand man.”
Mikhail groans. “I’ve already got a job…”
“I know,” I say, “and I’m sure this video game you’re working on will be fun. I’m sure people will love it, but this is bigger than that. Our father’s got men loyal to him, not the Sokolov name.”
“I don’t know, brother.” I can almost see Mikhail sitting at his computer, his glasses perched on his nose, stroking his short beard with his long hair flopping over his face. “I’m called the spare for a reason.”
“He calls you the spare,” I say. “I’ve never called you that, and I never would.”