Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
No matter how much I wanted to beat his ass until he was black-and-blue, I needed his alliance. It was the whole reason we’d arranged a marriage between the Bratva and Cosa Nostra.
I went back into the bedroom, saw that it was three in the morning, and also knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. I dressed in my workout gear, deciding to kill a couple hours in the gym before heading to do some work.
I heard the light click-clack-click-clack on the floor. A second later Sasha nosed the bedroom door open and strode in.
“Hey, beautiful girl,” I cooed and crouched down on my haunches to scratch the Doberman behind the ear. I pulled my cell out and sent a text to Rodion. After putting it back in my pocket and paying Sasha some attention, I stood to finish getting ready. Five minutes later there was a knock on my door.
I had security up the ass around this building, with state-of-the-art cameras, locks, and infrared surrounding all access points. I also had men stationed around the exterior because I didn’t fully trust technology. I could kill a man with the touch of a button if need be.
I let Rodion in, and Sasha trotted over right away, sitting at my side and staring at the other Russian. I stroked her head as I gave orders to the foot soldier.
“I’ll be back later. Have her home by then, and make sure you give her the steaks in the fridge after her walk.”
Rodion nodded and clicked his tongue, calling for Sasha to follow. They left the apartment, and I grabbed my duffel. I made sure I had my guns before pulling one out and strapping it to my side. I threw on a hoodie just as my phone pinged. I grabbed it, reading the text.
Mischa
He’s here for training. Should I have him start without you, or do you want to wait to see him train?
I didn't need to see how my newest fighter trained. I’d already witnessed how bloodthirsty he was in the cage. It's why I’d brought him into the fold. With my headliner, Razoreniye—Ruin—having told me he wanted out, I’d been in search of someone who could be a contender to the brutal savagery that Ruin had given the spectators. I’d needed someone just as psychotic. And I’d found him. He was known as d'yavol. Devil.
Dmitry
He knows what to do. Start without me. I'll be there later this morning.
I slipped my phone into the pocket of my hoodie and took the elevator down to the garage.
I owned the entire building, the basement level holding my vehicles, the other two floors storage, and then my place with the entire top level. I’d completely gutted it, making the space open and airy.
It was simple yet modern, with a minimalistic aesthetic that eased my normally chaotic mind. I had enough clutter and shit going on in my life that I didn’t want my house to reflect that as well.
I went with the Porsche 911, tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, and climbed in. I started the engine, revved it, then entered the code that let me out of the garage.
The car was too flashy for the likes of Desolation. A city that was a cesspool of criminals and degenerates. Men like me. Nikolai.
Twenty minutes later and I was pulling into the alleyway behind the gym the Bratva owned.
It was a rough neighborhood. The building itself was beat to hell and run-down, but inside we’d renovated it so it held all the creature comforts of what we needed to train properly.
I got out and grabbed my bag, seeing a few vagrants and drug addicts down the street.
They eyed the car curiously, but when their focus landed on me, they glanced away. They wouldn’t fuck with my shit, not if they wanted to keep breathing.
The dirty yellow glow from the streetlights washed everything in muted hues. I took the back entrance, where a Bratva guard was stationed by the rear door. He gave me a nod before opening it so I could step inside.
The gym was open twenty-four hours because career criminals like ourselves didn’t keep “normal business hours.”
Everything was still and silent. Perfect.
I wanted to beat the fuck out of the punching bag for a couple of hours before sparring and get some of this aggressive energy out of me.
I stood in front of the punching bag, taped up my hands, and then went to work on it. I slammed my fist into it repeatedly. One-two-two. One-two-two. I struck faster and harder. The bag swung wildly from the force. Before I knew it, I'd been at it for an hour, sweat dripping down my hairline and soaking my shirt.
I stripped down to just my boxing shorts and kept going at it. A lot of shit went through my mind as I beat the living hell out of the bag and then switched to free weights.