Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Go inside,” he says, staring at me in the rearview. “They’re expecting you.”
“My bags?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond. I get the picture.
I climb out of the car and rub my shoulder to stay warm as the sun begins to rise.
This place must be worth a fortune. Whoever lives here is filthy rich, the kind of rich that can buy a small country, that can afford to choose if someone lives or dies. I walk to the steps and hesitate outside of the door, but it pulls open before I can knock and another large pale man, this one bald and scowling, gestures for me to follow.
The house is beautiful. Hardwood floors, modern decoration. I’m led into a sitting room that’s designed to look like something the British royal family would use: stuffy, expensive, powerful. I can’t bring myself to sit on any of the pristine couches, and instead linger near the fireplace beneath a massive oil painting of a lonely ranch surrounded by a sea of grass, almost incongruous with the sleek aesthetic of the rest of the room.
A man enters a minute later. He watches me from the doorway for a moment before closing it behind him. He’s older, graying hair, handsome and well dressed, with light eyes and a scar along one lip. “Kacia Florakis,” he says and I recognize his voice.
“Pakhan Damir Novalov.” Even though I’ve never met the man, my father taught me how to greet the heads of all the crime families, and I figure I’d better be polite now that my life is in this man’s hands.
He smiles and nods. “That’s right. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard of you from your father several times over the years, but we were never introduced.”
I taste vomit in the back of my throat. This man was supposed to be my ally, and yet now he’s my antagonist. The Russians and my father’s association worked closely together, and it’s strange knowing that this man likely visited my home, spoke with my brothers, shared a drink with my father, and now he’s using my friend to blackmail me into doing what he wants.
But that’s life in the families. They’re all friends until someone decides it’s more profitable to turn into an enemy, and then all hell breaks loose.
“I told you I’d come and now I’m here. I want to see Adrienne.”
He waves me off. “Not quite yet. I’d rather talk business first.”
“There is no business without Adrienne.”
“That is a very good line, Kacia. Very strong negotiation. Your father would be proud.”
I glare at him, jaw working. “I’m not playing some game, and I don’t want to talk about my family with you.”
“And why not? Family is everything, Kacia.” He paces around the room toward the bookshelf where he pauses and takes down a photograph. He studies it for a moment and touches it fondly before bringing it to me.
I hesitate, but I look down at the offered picture. The metal frame is cold in my fingers. “Is this my dad?”
“And me, yes, when we were young. Did you know that we were friendly with each other for years?”
I didn’t know that. Dad rarely ever talked about the Russians as more than a force in the world. He referred to their business deals, and he talked about their strength and how they were better off together, but he didn’t mention knowing Damir or anyone in the Russian family personally.
It’s strange, looking at a picture of my father. I realize suddenly that I didn’t know the man at all, that he never bothered opening up to me about his past and I didn’t want to try to ask. He was always a terrible asshole, always a black presence in my life, and I don’t know why seeing this picture of him as a young man puts a lump in my throat. I don’t know why tears roll down my cheeks. Maybe because he looks so young, so full of hope and promise. He and Damir sit together on a dock, grinning, holding fishing rods, looking back at whoever is taking the picture. A Greek and a Russian. The future heads of two horrible crime families. They look like skinny children, although they’re probably around my age.
Now one is gone and the other wants to wipe me off this planet.
How did they end up here from there?
One step at a time.
I hand the photograph back. Damir returns it to its place on the bookshelf and sits down on a couch.
“Please,” he says.
I sit across from him, my back straight, and wipe my face. He doesn’t seem to mind the tears, and I bet he’s used to watching women cry in front of him. Tears of rage and sorrow and pain.
“What do you want from me? Why did you show me that? How did you know my father?” The questions spill out and I have to stop myself from asking more.