Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
I’ve been tracking someone that was inside Abram’s Jeep. I don’t have proof it’s Abram, but chances are damn good. I found a trail of blood leading from inside the Jeep to the far side of the estate. I continue following the deep red drops through the grass until it leads me to a fancy courtyard. Jesus, there’s a freaking maze made of well-manicured hedges.
Samuil definitely has too much money on his hands. He doesn’t know my woman at all. If he did, he’d know that she’d never be truly happy in a home like this. The woman hates stairs. My Kitten always talked about owning a beautiful single level home that was close to the city but had privacy. She wanted a nice size yard, but nothing this huge. Gia wanted to be near the ocean but not right on it. Most of all, she wanted to be near family. This place didn’t check even one of those boxes—neither did the antique furniture that looked like it came from a castle somewhere in Russia. My girl preferred minimal fuss and lots of comfort. Thoughts of her make me smile. I want this done so I can get back to celebrating my marriage.
I slow down as I find a man breathing heavily and sitting on the ground, leaning on one of the hedges. Blood is trailing from his groin, down his hips and leg. It looks like he's been shot in the stomach. I feel joy bubble up in me because this is clearly Abram Levkin, and he’s in really bad shape.
I step out in front of him, watching as his almost glazed over eyes light on me. “I see the welcome committee beat me to thanking you for coming to my wedding,” I taunt. I keep my gun pointed on the motherfucker, praying he’ll give me an excuse.
“How did she con you into marrying her? She’s just another slut and definitely damaged goods. You’re as pathetic as my own son.”
“That’s odd. The only weak, damaged, pathetic excuse for a human here that I see, is you. You’re a waste of space that will soon be dead.”
“Go ahead, then. Kill me already.”
I shake my head no, denying him what he wants. “Now, Abram, that would just be too easy.”
“What are you waiting on?” he spits out.
“That would be us,” Sam says, as he and Ivan walk through the maze entrance.
“How fitting. If it isn’t my traitorous brother and sorry excuse for a son, Samuil. Did you come here to gloat? You’re both so pathetic that you had to let the DeLucas do what you couldn’t.”
“Sometimes, I can’t fathom how you could be my father,” Samuil says in disgust.
“That’s because your blood is weak because of your mother. I should have never made an American my wife, no matter her heritage. In the end, you killed her. That’s when I began to understand just how truly weak her blood was. She couldn’t even give me an heir without dying. It didn’t help that the one she did give me wasn’t worth licking my shoes.”
Sam apparently has heard enough. He brings his gun up and shoots Abram in the shoulders, one at a time. Abram grunts, his body vibrating with pain, but he doesn’t scream. I can almost respect that—almost.
“You can’t even finish killing me. See how weak you are, Samuil? First you give the woman you’ve always loved to the likes of this,” he scoffs, motioning towards me with a little tilt of his head. His hands are limp in his blood-soaked lap. “Now, you can’t even kill the man you hate.”
“I told you, I never loved Angie like that. She was always family, someone who was good to me when my own father was not,” Samuil denies.
His father closes his eyes. I can’t tell if it’s because of his injuries or if he knows he’s going to die and doesn’t care. Perhaps it is in annoyance that his son is arguing with him instead of helping him. I’m just not sure.
“That’s another problem with you, Samuil. You form emotional attachments. You’ll never be a leader because you can’t see beyond your own blindness.”
I ignore the father and son argument when Ivan Levkin enters my line of vision. He stands still, watching his brother and his nephew, not really moving. He somehow looks impeccable, despite having been in a gunfight and running the vast estate to find Abram. His arms are behind his back as he keeps looking at his brother in disgust.
“Dear brother,” Abram mocks. “Have you come to shoot me? Then, do it and be done. It could hurt no worse than your betrayal.”
“Sorry, Abe. You’re not worth the bullets.”
“Use my full name,” Abram demands weakly. Ivan ignores him as he pulls out a sword from behind him.
I guess that explains why he hadn’t moved his hands. I don’t even want to know how he carried that damn thing all the way here. I don’t really get intimidated anymore. I’ve lived through and done too much. I can admit, however, that Ivan Levkin is an intimidating motherfucker. He has dirty blonde-mostly brown hair. He’s covered in ink and has the body of a street fighter, and that alone is in direct contrast to the dark pressed suit, white silk shirt, and expensive shoes he is wearing. The bastard looks cool and calm.