Author: Faye Pierce

Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.

Chapter One

Riley

“Did you hear about the girl that went missing last week?” The conversation I overheard earlier in the subway keeps playing in my head, as if I hadn’t been second-guessing my decision already.

“Wasn’t she a stripper? It’s pretty common for night workers to go missing.” Her friend sounded as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for a stripper to disappear without a trace.

“I guess so… But it’s still scary.”

And it is scary. I happen to agree with the stranger on the subway. Yet here I am, waiting in a room with my friend Mia and six other girls, to audition for a stripper at the Gentlemen’s club Eden. The most elite club in the city.

“Riley, are you still worried? You look a little pale,” Mia hands me a bottle of water from her bag and I immediately take a sip.

“I just can’t stop thinking about that conversation from earlier,” I return the bottle to her, feeling a little better.

“Hey,” Mia gently places her hand over mine and when our eyes meet, I see how determined she is to go through with this. “We’re not doing that. We’re not that girl, you have nothing to worry about.”

I look over at the staff at the other side of the room. They keep leaving and entering in a rush, non-stop talking with someone over their walkie-talkies. “This place makes me nervous, and the auditions being late doesn’t help.”

I glance at my wristwatch. 10:37 PM. With my exam being tomorrow, I need to get back home and study. If the audition doesn’t start in the next few minutes, I’m screwed.

“That’s all normal,” Mia smiles. “I imagine it must be complicated to run an audition for such a big night club, and things tend to happen, like tech failure and stuff. Just try to remember why we’re doing this.”

She’s right. My course isn’t going to pay for itself, I really need this job. Maybe even more than I’m willing to admit. Besides, Mia managed to get us these auditions and I’m beyond grateful to her. I know she wouldn’t have brought us to audition in some hell hole.

“I guess you’re right.” I look myself in the mirror behind Mia. My dark blonde hair is in a neat high ponytail, allowing the golden straps of the stage costume to show on my fair skin. “And it pays way better than being a waitress.”

My only free time is at night; therefore I never had many options to choose from in the first place. A few nights ago, I went to a different club to interview for a waitress, but the pay was painfully low. After that Mia came with the news about the audition and the thought initially scared me. But I ended up agreeing to try it out.

My job as an intern at the hospital is unpaid, and I’m studying to be a paramedic. I can make use of any penny I can earn and the life I aspire to build requires sacrifices. Besides, I have a clear idea of what I’m willing to sacrifice and working as a stripper falls into the first category.

“God, you’re so gorgeous, you’ll drive everyone crazy,” Mia laughs, noticing that I’ve been checking myself out.

“As long as they just look and no one tries touching,” I try to make it sound like a joke, but on that long list of things I’m not willing to sacrifice for the money is my body. “If even one dude tries to lay a finger on me, I won’t even stop to think before quitting.”

“For that to happen, first you need to get hired, and only then can you kick everyone’s ass the moment they even look at you wrong,” Mia winks at me. “But jokes aside, that’s why I chose this place. Their reputation is solid and they really go above and beyond to protect the girls.”

What stands out the most from what I managed to find about Eden from a short googling session, is their “no touching” rule. They do offer private dances to their clients, but only with security present and even then, men are not allowed to touch the strippers. To make things even better, there isn’t a single corner in the club without cameras.

I notice the audition manager when she walks back into the room. “Excuse me, I really need to use the restroom. May I go quickly?”

“Of course,” she responds without ever lifting her head from the tablet. “Just go to the one near the private offices. The one here is broken.”

I take mental notes of her instructions and thank the audition manager and walk outside into a long, dark yet classy, hall.

“Turn left and then the second passage on the right,” the place looks like a labyrinth after my first turn and I have to remind myself of the directions. “It’s at the very end of the hallway. Fifth door.”

On my last turn, a few steps into the hall, the air gets a lot colder, as if someone has left the windows open in the middle of winter. I shake, immediately regretting not having taken my jacket.

Wait, didn’t she say the fifth door?

The fifth door is far from being the last door in the incredibly long dark corridor. If anything it looks like it’s somewhere in the middle. I still try opening it, hoping that I’ve somehow managed to come to the right place, trying not to think about the fact that I’ve probably gotten lost, but it’s locked.

I hate this.

Now I’m really regretting leaving my jacket behind. The place is eerie despite the expensive furniture and the fancy wallpaper. And with the lights off it makes me feel like I’ve walked into a horror movie rather than an elite club.

There is a murmur coming from one of the rooms down the corridor and I decide to follow the sound, hoping someone will help me find the restroom. The further I walk down the hallway, the darker it gets, with the only light coming from the room where the voice is coming from. I notice the voice is incredibly low.

The closer I get, the louder the voice becomes and I can now understand what the guy is saying. “I’m going to ask one more time,” the voice is cold, almost cruel. “Who is taking the girls?”

The room is barely lit, but I spot a tall, painfully gorgeous figure standing in front of another man in chains. The chained man is unrecognizable beneath the blood and sweat covering his body. His head hangs low, dark curls plastered to his forehead, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.

My eyes drift to the long metal rod in the handsome man’s hands. For a second, my brain refuses to understand what I’m looking at. The low lighting turns everything soft around the edges, making it appear unreal, until he suddenly swings it what I now think is a polished steel baton.

A loud thud echoes through the room as metal crashes against flesh.

I flinch so hard, I barely manage to keep my balance and avoid falling.

The sound the chained man releases is unlike anything I have ever heard. Completely broken and raw, dragged violently from deep inside of him, it’s the kind of sound that makes my stomach twist before my mind can even process it.

The man in chains jerks against the restraints, the metal rattling over his head, but he doesn’t say a word. I wonder if he was trained to endure torture. I remember once watching a documentary about Navy SEALs and how they all underwent a program called SERE. I don’t remember what the name stands for but it was a special training teaching them how to get through a not so friendly interrogation. Though the guy looks nothing like a Navy SEAL, and I’m pretty sure that this isn’t a military operation.

I notice the blood spatters everywhere around him, and I have to fight the urge to throw up.

The worst part is probably that the man torturing him doesn’t look affected by any of it.

His expression remains calm, almost as if he’s bored. I wonder how someone can be so beautiful yet monstrous all at once.

As he raises the steel baton again, my heart drops and I gasp.

“Oh shit…”

The words barely leave my mouth before he turns around and our eyes meet. I see my whole life flash before my eyes.

For a short heartbeat, he just stares at me from across the room. The look on his face is cold, terrifyingly calm, and that somehow manages to scare me more.

“Oh shit, shit, shit!”

I sprint down the hallway, my heart beating so fast, I’m worried it might jump out of my chest.

He’s at least 6’4 and being a petite who doesn’t do cardio, I don’t manage to get far before he catches up to me without even breaking a sweat. His hand lands on my shoulder and before I know it, I’m pinned against the wall, his tall figure towering me.

Up close, he’s even worse. Beautiful in a way that feels unfair. Dark hair and sharp jaw. Eyes so green, an emerald would be jealous of them.

But there is blood splattered across his collar.

Yet, his smell invites me in, a mix of smoke and expensive cologne, dangerously clean beneath all the chaos.

“Oh shit…” I release a breathless whisper, as his gaze drags over my face painfully slowly.

All the years of self-defense classes kick in and before I can lose my nerve, I drive my knee upward as hard as I can.

He curses sharply, his body folding just enough for me to bolt.

I don’t even know how, but I manage to return to the dressing room backstage, bumping into some of the staff members at the door.

“Finally!” Mia walks up to me. “They’ve been calling us, we need to go on stage like right now!”

“No, we need to leave this place immediately! Something’s off!”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I don’t know,” I struggle to catch my breath. “But if we stay, we’re going to get in trouble and it’s the last thing we need.”

Mia nods, taking my hand as we, both step out into the corridor. However, the moment we step out of the room, a staff member grabs my arm.

“Your turn,” she says, coldly, dragging me in the opposite direction of where I came from just minutes before. I try to get out of her grip, but no luck.

Behind me, Mia is being dragged by another staff member. “I’m sorry…” She mouths as we are both lined up with the other girls on a small stage.

The lights are bright and my heart is still racing from earlier. I can’t even think straight.

“Whatever it is that scared you, try not to think about it,” Mia whispers next to me.

Maybe she’s right, I should just focus on doing what I came here for in the first place. Maybe I should forget about the handsome guy and the chained man and just dance the best I can and get hired. That’s why I came here in the first place, to get a stable income.

My attention goes to the man sitting on the couch on the right, but the stage lights are too strong for me to notice any of his features. I assume he’s the one we’ll have to impress in order to get hired.

Why did I ever think I could do this?

I wipe the sweat off my hands on the tiny skirt, hoping the guy won’t notice how out of it I am.

As we’re being introduced, I notice another figure joining the first guy, but he’s walking strange.

Are they looking for me?

“And now, we present to you the future of Eden!”

The music starts.

Chapter Two

Ezekiel

My brother has been waiting for me to start the auditions and when I finally join him on the couch, I have to sit down slowly, like a fucking 80-year with bad knees. Any wrong or sudden move results in a sharp reminder of the kick.

Wait until I have a word with you.

I’m still fuming after the encounter I had with that girl earlier. Not only did she wander somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be and witness me beating that guy senseless, but she also dared to kick me in the balls. No one kicks Ezekiel Kavanagh in the balls without paying for it.

“Is everything okay?” Malachi says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Did the questioning go wrong?”

“It got us nowhere,” I try to make myself comfortable by spreading my legs and leaning forward but it doesn’t do much to ease the discomfort. “The guy doesn’t have a clue about who hired him. He doesn’t even know anyone above him.”

“So he just followed orders like a dog?” Malachi doesn’t even try to hide the disgust in his voice.

“Yeah, apparently he was in it for some easy cash,” I nod. “But don’t think I’m going to let him off so easily.”

“Never thought you would.” My brother, knowing me a little too well, hands me a cigarette and lights it up for me. “What the hell happened to you? You look like a car ran you over.”

Instead of answering, I give him a warning look and he backs off immediately. Malachi might be my advisor and strategist, as well as the second hand of the Kavanagh family, but he knows his place. Not even he gets to cross the line with me.

It’s one of the advantages of being the head of the Kavanagh family. Ever since I took over, the fear and the respect people have been showing me has been nothing short of amusing.

Nonetheless, every now and then, the thought of what life would look like if I hadn’t been born a Kavanagh slips in. Or if my parents were still alive and the crown hadn’t landed on my head.

But it’s useless.

The dead stay dead and there’s nothing anything can do about it. Being the head of one of the most feared Irish-American crime families in the city means that the city knows my name. And not just that, people fear me and they bend over backwards to please me. They show me respect and no one dares to even look at me in the wrong way. I have people doing the dirty work for me, even though I don’t hesitate to get my hands dirty when necessary. And right now, all I’m able to think about is how I made a mistake and allowed that girl to humiliate me.

The music starts and the first girl starts dancing. Objectively, she’s very good looking and knows her way around the pole. Her act ends quickly and the next one comes on stage immediately. Malachi writes something down in his notes.

I should be focusing on the performance and evaluating each girl alongside Malachi, but my head is in a different place entirely. It doesn’t help that the girls are far from the standard that we’re looking for, making it even harder for me to focus on their dance.

“They’re missing the spark,” I say and my brother nods.

“I liked the first one,” Malachi shares his notes with me and I see that he’s been scribbling down ratings for each girl and their performance. “But she doesn’t have the stage presence we’re looking for here.”

“I agree,” I lean back on the couch, regretting it immediately when the pain spreads through my crotch. The worst part isn’t even the pain. I’m no stranger to pain. What makes my blood boil is that every twinge is a direct insult and a reminder that she caught me off guard for half a second. That half a second was already half a second too long.

The other girls continue their performance, but not a single one of them stands out.

I make a mental note to have a chat with the person in charge of casting. Eden is an elite club; we don’t do mediocre. Whether it’s strippers or drinks, we only offer the best to our customers.

After some time, my mind goes to the incident from earlier again.

“There was someone in the corridor,” I tell Malachi and he leans in closer to hear me over the music blasting from the speakers. “She saw me, but she ran away before I could catch her.”

“Did you recognize her?” Malachi stops looking at the dancers and turns his entire focus on me.

“No,” I shake my head. “But we need to find her and see how much she saw. I gave an order earlier to keep the club under lockdown and not let anyone in or out.”

Before I came to join my brother and judge the auditions, I had a conversation with the head of security, instructing him to lock all the entrances and prepare the camera footage for me to check after the auditions. I’m not going to let anyone set foot out of Eden until I find the girl.

And maybe make her pay.

“Do you think she works for the Devlins?”

“It’s possible,” I nod. She could easily be a spy for the Devlin family, or anyone else foolish enough to try and go up against us. We all know what happens to those who try to challenge the Kavanaghs. “But whoever she is and whoever she might work for, she’s not going anywhere until I speak to her.”

A lot of people came to the club today because we are also holding interviews for service at the club. That’s what makes me uneasy, the girl could be just anyone. Even if I go through all the names, it might take a while until I find her. And if she’s smart enough, she w be terrified right now. But that’ll also make things harder for me and more difficult to find her.

“I can’t believe this!” My brother throws his notes on the couch a little too aggressively, making the girl closest to us look in our direction. He lowers his voice when he realizes that people are watching. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a security guard making sure no one walks down the corridor?”

“There was,” I crush my cigarette into the ashtray. “But there was another incident, so he was missing from his post to take care of it.”

“We will have to have a serious conversation with the staff here,” he picks up his notes again, and starts scribbling, though I doubt he’s writing evaluations right now judging by how pissed he is.

“Oh, absolutely,” I agree. “The incident is not a valid excuse. He’ll still get the punishment he deserves.”

“You have enough on your plate, I can take care of it,” Malachi suggests and I nod. If there’s anyone I trust with something like this, it’s the oldest of my younger brothers. He is the most strategic and organized one.

Another girl catches my attention briefly, but her short pixie cut and the polished looks still don’t make her seem like she’s on the level of Eden.

“Where are Cain, Elijah and Levi?”

“They’re in the private room,” Malachi explains. “Waiting for us to finish here so we can discuss everything.”

“Good,” At least something is still going according to the plan.

Eden is the crown jewel of the Kavanagh empire, though you would never guess it from the velvet ropes and the neon façade. To the outside world, it’s just an elite playground, but to my family, it’s the lifeblood of our operation. This is where the city’s most dangerous and powerful men come to shed their skin. They come to drown themselves in top-shelf liquor, buy expensive, temporary pleasure, and lose fortunes at tables hidden far from the public view.

More importantly, it’s where the real machinery moves. Behind closed doors, deals are signed, and millions of dollars in dirty, blood-soaked cash are quietly funneled through our legitimate books. It is, without a question, the most seamless, valuable laundering machine we own, all while being disguised beautifully as a den of sin.

But lately, Eden has started spiraling out of control. Tonight’s pathetic lineup of auditions is undeniable proof of that downward trend. People are scared to work here because of the many rumors going around. A large number of girls suddenly quit, while others have disappeared. And that’s something we cannot allow to keep happening.

Even though Malachi may be handling strategy and the family’s higher-level operations now, I still feel responsible for the club and this has been keeping me up at night. I’m under the assumption that someone is trying to weaken the club and my gut is never wrong, so whoever that is, when I find them, they will regret the day they were born.

“We need to find a solution quickly,” Malachi says, more as a broadcast of his thoughts than a continuation of our conversation. “If we don’t, we’re screwed.”

He’s right about that and I agree with him. While from the outside it might look like no big deal to just open another club, we will be losing a lot more than just the income.

That’s why I’m here tonight, overseeing the new round of auditions, which is not something I usually participate in. Even though officially I run things from my family’s main office building downtown, with Eden being our most profitable front, I spend a lot of time at the club. But my job is taking care of the money, not watch the girls audition for a stripper. Still, I can’t let things slip out of my hands. Not when so much is on the line. And if that means personally taking care of every little thing in this place, I will do it without hesitation.

Really wanting to catch the son of the bitch that’s been trying to bury me and my family is a great motivator.

“Cain has been getting really impatient,” Malachi continues. “You know how obsessive he can get, and with all of this, he’s becoming more and more anxious about catching this person.”

“I can’t say I don’t relate to that feeling,” I pour myself a glass of whiskey before briefly glancing at the current dancer on stage. She looks like another replica of every single girl that auditioned before her and I immediately lose interest. “But we can’t lose our heads with this. We have to play it smart.”

The hazel eyes staring straight into mine in that hallway earlier flash before my eyes and I take another sip of whiskey to calm myself down. I might not be able to catch whoever is trying to take us down tonight, but what I will make sure of is that I will take care of her.

“Agree,” I notice Malachi is still scribbling something down in his notes, evaluating the girls. His ability to multitask never fails to impress me.

He always thinks several moves ahead. Malachi doesn’t get distracted by minor inconveniences and his strategic mind has always been one of his strong suits. I would dare to call him a cold-blooded, psychologically ruthless genius, and even if we weren’t blood related, I would want someone like him to be my right hand. I do not envy those standing on the opposite side of him.

Just as I’m about to say something else, the music changes to a sensual song, one that I really like, and both Malachi and I look up at the girl dancing. She’s a little stiff at first, as if she doesn’t feel comfortable being here, but once her body starts moving to the rhythm, something takes over her and I can see her immerse herself in the dance, the song taking control of her body. It takes me a minute, but I recognize her as soon as I take a closer look, even with the lights dimmed.

Her features appear softer as she’s dancing, and I notice that her body is incredibly strong. She’s on the shorter side, but the taller girls who came before her pale in comparison to her natural talent and charisma.

My balls are what is making me eager to get her into my office and have a word or two with her. They aren’t so willing to forgive her for that kick earlier just because of her pretty face and hot body.

Her beauty is nothing like the practiced glamour of the girls in Eden, and it’s what makes her stand out even more. Suddenly my pants feel tight and I try looking away, but the way her hips move to the beat keeps me captivated, making me even more eager to be alone with her and question her to find out what she knows.

Our eyes meet briefly but I know she doesn’t recognize me under the stage lights. She continues moving to the slow beat, her blonde hair catching the red neon lights, making her look almost ethereal.

I grin, taking another sip of whiskey.

She thinks she escaped me, but she has no idea she walked straight into my cage.

“This one,” I tell Malachi when she finishes her dance. She’s the last girl to audition and we are supposed to take some time and discuss the decision before announcing it. “I want this one. What’s her name?”

“Riley Monroe,” He responds after taking a quick look at his notes. “But we need to hire two girls, so we still need to share our evaluations and…”

“Did she come with a friend?”

My brother checks his notes once again before speaking. “Yes, someone named Mia Bennett.”

“We need to hire both of them immediately,” I put my drink down. “You can let the other girls go home and inform the security that there is no need for a lockdown anymore.” But I will still take a look at that security footage and see what Riley has been up to since the moment she sat foot inside.

“All right,” Without questioning my orders, Malachi gets up from the couch and steps up on the stage, announcing who the two selected girls are. “We want to thank all of you for auditioning tonight and we hope you had a great time. Thank you!”

I watch the look on her face turn from neutral and composed into a complete terror as she recognizes me when I get up and join my brother on the stage. I grin, taking the microphone from him. “Riley Monroe, please head to the manager’s office to take care of all the paperwork and documentation. As for Mia Bennett, everything will be taken care of right here.”

My eyes never leave hers as I step down from the stage, and oddly enough she doesn’t break eye contact. I can still see the terror behind her eyes, that same fear that made her kick me in the balls earlier. Yet she remains composed and professional, making me wonder if she’s used to wearing a mask even when her entire world is crumbling.

I can’t wait to know more about you, Riley.

“What’s all of this about?” Malachi asks as I move past him, heading to the office.

“It’s her, Mal,” I turn around to face him as I put my hand on my brother’s shoulder. “The girl who saw me beating up that guy.”

My brother’s face turns pale. He doesn’t say anything, instead he nods, his eyes finding her. I can see him thinking and I recognize that look in his eyes. I would be willing to bet I have that same look.

“We need to find out how much she saw, who she really is and whether she’s just an unlucky girl who happened to witness something that she shouldn’t have,” I glance at her one more time. “Or if she’s another problem I have to bury.”

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Chapter One

Calina

Laughter spills out of me as Milana and I stumble through the club doors into the cool night air. The bass still throbs behind us, and I so badly want to go back in there and continue dancing but unfortunately, we have to leave.

I hook my arm through my sister’s. She stumbles a little in her heels as we make our way toward the valet stand.

Darn, it’s still so early. A long queue of people snakes down the sidewalk, dressed to kill, all of them eager to get inside.

I wish we could stay longer. But we really, really can’t. Milana leans into me, giggling. “Are you drunk?”

I grin. “No. I only had one drink a while ago. I’m fine.”

“Or should we just call a cab?” she teases.

“I can drive,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Unlike you.”

Milana chuckles, the sound light and carefree. “I’m not drunk. I only had two drinks.”

I look at her and something warm settles in my chest. It’s rare to see Milana like this. Loose. Happy. Laughing without any care in the world. Out of the two of us, she’s always been the more reserved one, the quiet observer who keeps her guard up, even at home. Tonight, for a few precious hours, she got to be twenty-three instead of a Morozov princess.

The valet finally pulls up with our car, the black Porsche 911 Carrera that Artyom gave me for my twenty-sixth birthday. I tip the valet quickly, snatch the keys, and slide into the driver’s seat. My sister drops into the passenger side, still smiling.

“I wish we didn’t have to go home,” she says wistfully as she buckles her seatbelt.

“Me too.” I start the engine and pull away from the curb. “But we have to get back before Artyom comes home and realizes we’re gone.”

Milana groans. “He’d be so pissed if he found out we snuck out.”

“That’s why he’s not going to find out,” I reply, keeping my voice light even as nerves twist in my stomach. Our brother’s control has only gotten tighter since everything that happened with our father. He means well, but sometimes it feels like we’re suffocating.

Milana leans her head back against the seat, staring at the passing lights. “It was fun though… dancing, being free for once.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “I know. I enjoyed every second of it.” It was her first time ever stepping foot inside a club without a million guards, and God, it was great.

Milana turns to me, cheeks still flushed. “Do you think we can do this again?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “We’ll just have to find another night when we can sneak out without Artyom finding out.”

She looks out the window for a moment, the city lights sliding across her face. Then her voice gets quieter. “We’ll really be in trouble if he finds out.”

I slow to a stop at a red light and turn to look at her. The carefree glow from the club is already fading, replaced by that familiar worried crease between her brows. I reach across the console and brush my hand over hers.

“Hey. Don’t worry. If he does find out, I’ll handle him.”

Milana’s lips twitch. “Imagine what he’ll say if he does.” She sits up straighter and drops her voice into a perfect imitation of Artyom’s cold, commanding tone. “I can’t believe you two, sneaking out like criminals. You will remain in this house until you are thirty.”

I burst out laughing. She keeps going, mimicking his stiff posture and icy glare, and soon we’re both cracking up, the sound filling the car until tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

For a short while, we feel like ordinary girls. Not Morozov daughters. Not sisters trapped inside a dangerous family name. Just two girls who snuck out for one night away from our brother’s iron control.

Artyom has always been protective of us. He rarely lets us out of his sight, and when he does, his men are never far behind. But ever since he became Pakhan, it’s gotten worse. He watches us too closely now, treating us like we cannot make a decision without his permission.

Not that I can blame him entirely. The past months have been brutal, between our father’s death, the attempts on Artyom’s wife Kira, and Irina, the wife of our other brother, Mikhail. I understand why he’s so concerned about keeping us safe.

Still… I wish he would let off sometimes. Stop treating us like fragile children.

We’ve been sheltered our entire lives. That’s why, at twenty-six, I still had to sneak out to go to a nightclub. The light turns green. I press the accelerator, still smiling.

“Should we tell Kira about this?” Milana asks, still grinning.

I shake my head immediately. “No way. She might tell Artyom.”

Milana snorts. “You’re right. That woman cannot keep a secret from our brother to save her life.”

We both burst into laughter again. I have never seen my eldest brother so completely whipped in my entire life. He and Kira are madly in love, and honestly, I’m happy for him. After everything he’s been through, he deserves that kind of happiness. We are close, but still, she’s loyal to him first.

My smile disappears when bright red and blue lights suddenly flash in the rearview mirror.

Milana’s laughter cuts off. “What’s going on?”

I ease my foot off the gas and pull over to the side of the road. I’m annoyed more than anything. We’re so close to home.

“Stay calm,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady. “I’m sure it’s just a normal traffic stop.”

“What if they arrest us?” Milana whispers, her earlier lightness gone.

“Why would they arrest us? We didn’t do anything wrong.” I glance at her and force a small smile. “Just stay calm and act normal. We’ll be out of here in a minute.”

In the rearview mirror, I watch one officer step out of the patrol car and walk toward us. He’s huge, built like a tank, broad shoulders straining against his uniform, thick arms swinging at his sides. The sheer size of him unsettles me.

Another figure remains inside their vehicle. I roll down my window, pasting on a polite expression.

“Good evening, officer.”

“Ladies,” he replies, his tone flat. “Where are you coming from tonight?”

“We were just leaving a club downtown,” I answer honestly. “Is there a problem?”

He doesn’t respond to my question. “License and registration, please.”

I reach into the glove compartment, pull out the documents, and hand them over. He studies them for a long moment under the beam of his flashlight.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” he asks.

“Yes, but only one drink at the start of the evening. Nothing to worry about.”

He looks at me for a beat, then says, “Step out of the car, ma’am.”

My heart kicks harder. “Officer, I’m fine to drive—”

“Out of the car. Now.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and push the door open, still trying to explain as I step onto the asphalt. “I’m really not intoxicated. We just—”

The second officer gets out of the patrol car and moves straight to Milana’s side. He’s just as built as his companion, massive, and muscular.

“Ma’am, you need to step out as well,” he orders her.

The night air suddenly feels colder. I glance at Milana through the windshield and see the same flicker of fear I’m trying to push down in her eyes that.

The second officer yanks open Milana’s door and hauls her out before she can even unbuckle properly.

“Take it easy with her! I just told you we’re not drunk.”

This doesn’t feel like a normal traffic stop anymore. I notice immediately that they aren’t listening to a word I’m saying.

“What’s going on?” I demand. “What is your name and which precinct do you work for?”

They don’t answer.

That’s when the unease settles. I look around the empty street, we’re the only ones here. The officers are too tense, their hands hovering way too close to their weapons.

“What is this about?” I ask again, louder this time.

Still no real answer. The officer beside me suddenly grabs my arm in a bruising grip. At the exact same moment, the other man seizes Milana.

“Get your hands off me!”

I twist hard, slamming my elbow back into the man’s ribs with all the strength I have. He grunts but doesn’t let go. Milana screams and starts kicking wildly at the man holding her, her heel connecting with his shin.

“Get your hands off her!” I snarl, fighting like hell. I manage to wrench one arm free and strike the officer across the face. For a second, I almost reach Milana, our fingers brush, but I’m yanked back by my shoulders. Just then two more men pour out from the shadows. And they don’t have police uniforms on.

That’s when it hits me. These are not real cops. My blood turns to ice as they overpower us, dragging both of us away from our car, past the police car and toward a black limo waiting further down the shoulder.

“Milana!” I shout, still struggling, still clawing.

But it’s useless. They are too many, and we are completely alone. I shouldn’t have stopped; I should have kept on driving.

I scratch, claw, and swing with everything I have, nails raking down the arm of the man gripping me. Milana is right beside me, screaming and kicking, her heel connecting with someone’s knee hard enough to make him curse.

We twist and buck, trying to break free, trying to run back toward our car.

It’s useless.

My shoulder slams into the side of the black limo. “Get off me!” I snarl, still fighting as they shove the back door open.

Milana’s scream cuts through the night again, but they’re already forcing her inside ahead of me. I keep struggling, heels scraping the ground, until one of them lifts me off my feet entirely and pushes me forward.

I tumble into the cool, leather-scented interior. “Who are you guys and what do you want…” my words die in my throat as I see the man sitting across from me.

He’s sitting inside, one arm resting along the back of the seat, legs spread with lazy authority. He is not dressed like the fake officers or the other men who grabbed us.

Instead, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored black coat over a crisp black shirt, open at the collar, the fabric stretched across broad, powerful shoulders. Dark blond hair cropped short. Sharp, aristocratic features that look like they were carved from ice and stone. He is devastatingly good-looking in the most terrifying way possible.

Power rolls off him in waves. His presence fills the entire limo, thick and suffocating. Tattoos peek from beneath his cuffs and collar. His posture is relaxed, but there’s nothing soft about it. It’s the kind of stillness that feels dangerous, like a predator conserving energy before it strikes.

I know instantly that he’s in charge.

He looks at us, first at Milana, who is pressed against me, chest heaving, then slowly, deliberately, at me.

His gaze drags over my face, my disheveled hair, the way my chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. There is no heat in it. No obvious lust. Just cold assessment, like he is deciding exactly what exactly he’s going to do with me.

He doesn’t seem like some low-level thug or hired muscle. He seems like something far worse.

I hold his gaze, breathing hard. My arm aches where the man grabbed it, and I can already feel bruises forming. Milana is trembling beside me, but I refuse to let whoever these men are see me break.

I lift my chin and glare straight at the stranger.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice comes out a little shaky. “What are you doing? What do you want with us?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Those cold dark eyes slide from me to Milana, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. Then he leans back slightly, the movement elegant and predatory at once.

“I’m here to collect a debt.”

Chapter Two

Calina

I stare at him, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. No. This has to be a joke. Who the hell is this man? And what kind of debt is he talking about? How does any of this have anything to do with us?

“Debt?” I snap. “What are you talking about? We don’t even know you—how could we possibly owe you anything?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me, slow and unimpressed, like I’ve said something painfully naive.

“I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. You’ve got the wrong people. So how about you let us go, and we can all pretend this never happened?”

His mouth curves, barely. Not quite a smile.

“Nice try,” he’s calm as ever. “But I don’t make mistakes.” His gaze flicks between us, deliberate. “I’ve got the right girls. Your family owes me.”

A beat.

“And I’m here to collect.”

It doesn’t take long for the pieces to click into place. This has to be about my brothers. Some old grudge, some unfinished business with Artyom or Mikhail. He probably couldn’t get to them directly, so he decided to strike at the easiest targets, us. Their sisters.

Who is he? When he spoke, I caught the faint Russian accent. What could have possibly transpired between him and my brothers?

My mind races with worst-case scenarios. What is he going to do to us? My pulse is frantic, slamming against my ribs. I force myself to take slow, deep breaths, trying to stay clear-headed.

I glance around the limo, at the two stone-faced men flanking us on both sides, and the other two sitting next to the dangerous looking man. Every single one of them looks dangerous. Lethal. There is no easy way out of this car.

I turn to my sister. She is shaking beside me, small tremors running through her body. Tears glisten in her wide hazel-gray eyes. I slide my hand onto her thigh and squeeze gently. When she looks at me, I mouth the words slowly: Calm down.

She tries. She really does. But the fear in her eyes is so raw it makes my chest ache.

This is all my fault. I never should have pushed her to sneak out with me tonight. We should have listened to Artyom. We should have stayed safely inside the house like good little Morozov princesses.

We wouldn’t be here, if only we had listened. Now look at us, dragged into a stranger’s limo in the middle of the night because I wanted one taste of freedom.

I tear my gaze away from Milana and snap it back to the man watching us. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

“You won’t get away with this,” I say, forcing my voice to stay strong even though my hands are trembling. “Our brothers will come for us. And when they do, you’re going to regret ever laying a finger on us. You and every single one of your men will be sorry.”

He slowly crosses one long leg over the other, the movement relaxed, almost bored. The expensive fabric of his trousers shifts smoothly.

My gaze betrays me instantly, dragging lower before snapping back up. His hand curls around his knee, large and veined, the sleeve of his black shirt riding up just enough for dark ink to peek from beneath the cuff. My stomach tightens.

I can’t stop staring at his hands. At the tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric. At the slow flex of his fingers. And suddenly, horribly, I’m imagining those same hands on me, sliding over my waist, gripping my thighs, pinning me…

My eyes widen as the sensation spirals lower, soaking me through with heat. Jesus Christ, am I seriously turned on right now?

“Is that so?” his voice is low and steady.

I lift my chin higher. “Yeah,” I reply, trying to clear the fog in my head. “It’s not too late. Let us go right now and we’ll forget this ever happened. We won’t tell our brothers about this.”

“Nah, I want your brothers to know I took you.”

I swallow hard. “I’m not sure you want that, you really don’t want to know what my brothers are capable of.”

Something like dark amusement flickers across his sharp features. He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth tilts just slightly, like I’ve said something mildly entertaining.

“How about we wait and find out what your brothers are going to do, huh?” He shrugs one broad shoulder, completely at ease. “I’m curious.”

His calm certainty is terrifying. And I realize with a sinking, icy dread that this man is not bluffing. He doesn’t look even slightly scared.

And it terrifies me. The dangerous aura rolling off him is unmistakable, but his complete lack of reaction confirms this man is in a completely different league. He isn’t some hot-headed thug acting on impulse.

I swallow hard. “Maybe you don’t know who we are,” I say, trying to sound intimidating. “I’m Calina Morozova. This is my sister, Milana Morozova. Our brothers are Artyom and Mikhail Morozov. You really don’t want to mess with them.”

He rubs his temple with two fingers like my voice is physically painful, eyes half-closed in irritation. “I know exactly who you are,” he says flatly. “And I’m not even a little scared of your brothers. Now shut up. Your voice is giving me a migraine.”

The casual dismissal stings. Anger flares hot in my chest. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have taken us in the first place,” I snap. “You wouldn’t have to listen to my voice if…”

The look he gives me is deadly. It cuts straight through me and steals the rest of my words. I clamp my mouth shut instantly.

I turn to Milana instead. She’s breathing hard, jaw clenched tight, and her free hand is fisted in her lap like she’s fighting the urge to swing at someone. I squeeze her hand tightly, trying to offer some comfort I don’t even feel. She grips me back, eyes begging me to do something. I wish I could.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Milana grits. But he ignores her completely.

I look out the tinted window, searching for landmarks, trying to figure out where he’s taking us. We’re still inside the city. That’s something, at least.

“Where are you taking us?” I ask.

He ignores me completely.

I glance at my watch. Almost midnight. Artyom or the night guards will notice we’re not home soon. They’ll start searching. The thought gives me a small spark of hope.

But then the limo turns onto a familiar road. As I continue to look out the window, I realize this is the private access road that leads straight to Artyom’s office building.

What the hell?

I consider screaming for help the second we get close enough, maybe one of the guards stationed outside will see us through the window. But before I can even open my mouth, the limo glides to a smooth stop right in front of the office building.

He’s taking us to Artyom? This guy does really have some nerve. I turn to look at him, and still he’s as relaxed as ever.

The man beside Milana opens the door, and steps out. The man across from us tilts his head toward the exit in a silent command.

“Get down,” one of the fake police officers commands.

We obey and step out on shaky legs. The cool night air hits me. Two of Artyom’s guards patrolling the grounds immediately spot us and start walking over, confusion clear on their faces.

“Miss Calina? Miss Milana? Are you okay? What are you doing here at this—”

“Help us!” I scream, voice cracking with desperation. “They took us against our will! These men kidnapped us!”

Everything explodes in a single heartbeat.

Weapons are drawn on both sides, Artyom’s guards raising guns toward the limo and the men, the ones who dragged us here, instantly aiming right back.

One man clamps onto my arm, yanking me backward as another grabs Milana. Before I can even react, cold metal presses against my temple. I stand frozen between the two sides, heart in my throat.

And the dangerous man steps out of the limo behind us, like he’s arriving at a business meeting, completely unfazed by the dozen guns now pointed in his direction.

“Let the girls go,” one of the guards says, now pointing the gun at his head.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Everyone calm the fuck down,” he drawls, his voice low and bored, carrying that faint Russian accent. He looks at Artyom’s guards with mild irritation. “Put your guns down.”

My brother’s men don’t move an inch. “Let the girls go,” one of them repeats.

The man mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like stupid. Then he sighs. “Instead of acting like idiots, why don’t you call your boss and tell him Maxim Orlov is here to see him?”

Maxim Orlov.

The name doesn’t ring any immediate bells. I search my memory, but nothing surfaces. Whoever he is, he’s clearly someone who expects doors to open when he says his name.

The guards hesitate, eyes darting between us and him. I can tell they know him. Maxim snaps his fingers impatiently. “Are you deaf?”

One of the guards finally pulls out his phone, while keeping his weapon trained on Maxim. He speaks rapidly in Russian into the phone. There’s a long pause on the other end. Then he ends the call and gives a stiff nod.

“Inside,” he says.

They march us into the building, still pointing guns at each other. Thankfully, the guns are no longer pointed at us.

We arrive the elevator, and only six of us go in: Maxim, one of his men, Milana and me, and two of the guards. The rest stay behind outside, still facing off with Maxim’s people, guns still raised.

As the doors slide shut, Maxim glances at the armed men and says calmly, “Try not to shoot each other’s heads off while I’m gone.”

The doors close. The tension inside the small metal box is suffocating. No one speaks. The air feels ready to ignite.

As we ride up to my brother’s office, that’s when I realize, what this abduction might be about. Him bringing us here instead of taking us to an abandoned warehouse, or somewhere far where our brothers can’t find us.

Maxim didn’t want to kill us or torture us in some dark warehouse. I think he needed a way to meet with Artyom. If he had simply asked for a meeting, my brother could have refused him. But he knows Artyom can’t ignore a man who shows up with both of his sisters in tow.

But what of the debt he was talking about? What does that mean?

Milana’s hand is ice-cold in mine. I can feel her trembling. Maxim stands relaxed against the wall, looking almost bored, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

When the doors open on Artyom’s floor, we’re greeted by even more guns. At least six of my brother’s men are waiting, weapons raised and aimed directly at Maxim and his guard.

Maxim doesn’t even blink.

“Get those out of my face and lead the way to Artyom,” he says, voice smooth and commanding.

The guards exchange uneasy glances but comply, keeping their guns trained on him as they escort us down the hallway toward my brother’s office.

My heart is still racing.

Whatever this debt is, whatever Maxim Orlov wants… we’re about to find out. And my brother is about to get so pissed at us for sneaking off to a club.

It’s not long after we step into Artyom’s office and he arrives from home looking worried. His steel-gray eyes lock onto Milana and me first, scanning us from head to toe, checking for injuries.

“Calina, Milana, are you okay?”

“Yes,” we both answer at the same time.

The relief that flickers across his face is brief, and gone in less than a heartbeat. Then his expression hardens into pure ice. He draws his gun in one smooth motion and points it straight at Maxim’s head.

“Give me one good reason not to put a bullet in you right now,” Artyom says, voice deadly calm.

Maxim doesn’t look even a bit bothered. He drawls, “That would be a very stupid thing to do, considering I currently have your sisters.”

“They’re here now,” Artyom replies coldly, finger steady on the trigger. “I could end you before you even blink.”

Maxim lets out a low, almost bored sigh and walks straight past the guns pointed at him. He drops onto the leather couch like he owns the room, crossing one leg over the other with casual arrogance.

“Why don’t you and your men put your toys away so we can talk about why I’m really here?”

Artyom’s jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. I can see the fury rolling off him in waves. He wants to shoot Maxim. Badly. His knuckles are white around the grip of the gun.

“You have some fucking nerve coming in here like this, Maxim,” Artyom growls.

Maxim waves a dismissive hand. “You talk too much. Now I see it runs in the family.”

Artyom looks like he’s about to burst an artery. He takes a threatening step forward. “You have one minute. Start talking.”

Maxim leans back against the couch, completely relaxed, and finally speaks without emotion, like he’s discussing the weather.

“Vladimir Morozov owed my family a blood debt. He killed my adoptive father, Oleg Orlov. After the murder, a contract was signed between Vladimir and my father’s remaining allies. The debt was to be paid whenever the Orlov family decided to collect it. That contract is still valid. The debt was never settled.”

Artyom’s brows pull together in genuine confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? My father never mentioned any blood debt with the Orlovs.”

Maxim’s dark eyes narrow slightly. “Because your father was a coward who preferred to bury inconvenient truths. The contract was signed in blood. It states clearly that the Morozov family owes the Orlovs one bride as payment. I’m here to collect.”

The words land like a bomb in the room. I feel the blood drain from my face. Milana’s hand tightens painfully around mine.

Artyom stares at him, gun still raised, but I can see the calculations running behind his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Don’t insult me Arytom,” Maxim replies flatly. “The contract is ironclad under our laws. And I have chosen my bride.”

Everything is happening so fast. What blood debt is he talking about? Why would our father have gotten into a blood debt with him without letting Arytom know?

“The youngest one will do,” Maxim drawls, his cold gaze shifting from Artyom… straight to Milana.

The room goes dead silent for half a second.

“What?” Did I just hear correctly? No. This has to be some sick joke.

“No,” Artyom snarls, the single word sharp enough to cut glass. His gun stays locked on Maxim’s forehead, finger twitching like it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to pull the trigger right now. “Over my dead fucking body.”

Maxim shrugs. “That can be arranged.”

Shock slams into me so hard my knees almost buckle. Marriage? He wants to marry Milana? My younger sister, who we’ve all spent our lives trying to shield from exactly this kind of monster?

Milana makes a small, broken sound beside me. Her hand squeezes mine so tightly I feel the bones grind together. I can feel her terror vibrating through her fingers, raw, choking panic.

I expect Artyom to do something. To shoot Maxim. To throw this bastard out of his office in pieces. He’s the Pakhan. He’s supposed to be untouchable. He’s supposed to protect us.

“Get yourself off my couch and out of my office!”

But instead doing that, Maxim reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a folded document, holding it up between two fingers.

“I came prepared. Here’s a contract signed after my father’s death. Between Vladimir Morozov and the remaining Orlov allies. Just as I already said, it states the blood debt between our families will be paid whenever the Orlovs choose to collect. The payment is one Morozov bride.”

He pauses holding Arytom’s gaze. “You dismiss this and you risk open war… your choice.”

Artyom snatches the document and unfolds it. I hold my breath as I watch him read it. I’m dying to know what it says. Do we really owe his family a blood debt?

I watch as Artyom’s face twists with fury, and I catch the exact moment something shifts behind his eyes. The gun in his hand doesn’t waver, but his jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind.

He looks up and our eyes meet. I don’t see victory in his gaze. The realization crashes over me like ice water. My brother, who has ruled this city with an iron fist since our father died, is trapped. And Milana is the one who will pay the price.

Fear for my sister claws up my throat until I can barely breathe. Milana is only twenty-three. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve to be handed over to a man like Maxim Orlov, a man who looks at her like she’s a chess piece instead of a person.

I can’t let this happen.

“Artyom,” I say, my voice cracking with desperation as I step forward, pulling Milana half behind me. “Do something. You can’t… you have to stop this. Please.”

My brother’s eyes flick to me for a split second. I see the storm of rage and helplessness there.

Maxim watches the whole exchange with that same bored, predatory calm, and he knows he’s already won.

My heart is pounding so violently I feel sick at the thought of Milana being forced to marry this man, of her being taken away, locked in his world.

I take another step forward, positioning myself directly between Maxim and my sister.

“You can’t marry Milana.”

“Calina, stay out of this,” Arytom drawls, his tone dripping with annoyance.

“I’ll take Milana’s place,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can even think them through. “I will marry you instead.”

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Chapter One

Irina

Mexico, six months later…

The humidity in Cancun doesn’t just stay stagnant, it clings to you like a desperate lover you’ve been trying to dump for months.

I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, the salt stinging a tiny scratch on my knuckle. Outside the tinted glass of Oasis del Sol, the Caribbean is a flat, mocking sheet of turquoise. Tourists are out there drinking watered-down margaritas and getting sunburns they’ll regret by dinner, but inside, the air conditioning is cranked high enough to preserve a corpse.

It’s been six months. Six months of being Elena Sokolov.

Six months of kneading the knots out of the shoulders of middle-aged men from Ohio who have no idea that the woman touching them was once destined to be the Queen of the New York underworld.

I’m not the best at being a masseuse. Honestly, my technique is mostly just aggressive poking fueled by ten years of suppressed rage, but the pay is in cash and the location is a goldmine for the kind of information that doesn’t end up on Google. In this world, the powerful talk when they think the help is invisible. And I’ve become very good at being invisible.

I’d like to say I’m enjoying this life, but at least I’m not married to a mad man.

“Elena? Stop staring at the ocean and get the lavender oils ready,” Sofia, my boss, calls out as she bustles past the reception desk.

She’s a sharp-eyed woman who knows I’m lying about where I came from, but she likes my “firm hands” and the fact that I don’t gossip with the other girls. In this town, a woman who can keep her mouth shut is worth her weight in gold.

“I’m on it, Sofia!” I call back, my voice smooth, the Russian accent I hide softened into something unidentifiable.

“Don’t give me that look,” she adds, pointing a manicured finger at me. “You look like you’re plotting a murder again. Smile. It’s good for business.”

“I am smiling,” I mutter, though the muscles in my face feel like they’re made of lead. “On the inside.”

I head toward the staff breakroom, my heart picking up speed. It’s Thursday. Mateo should be here.

I slip into the dim room, the scent of stale coffee and cheap floor cleaner replacing the hibiscus-scented air of the lobby. Mateo is leaning against the vending machine, looking perpetually confused with that scar through his eyebrow. He’s my only link to the world I left behind, a low-level runner who knows how to navigate the murky waters of international private records. “Mateo,” I whisper, my eyes darting to the door. “Please tell me you have something.”

He sighs, a heavy, defeated sound, and taps a cigarette against his palm, though he knows he can’t light it in here. “Elena, I told you. The leads you gave me, they lead to a dead end. I checked the registries in Mexico City. I checked the private hospitals. There is no record of anyone being transferred under that name ten years ago.”

Not again, I’ve been searching for so long…

I feel like someone just tipped a bucket of ice water down my spine. “The record exists, Mateo. My father doesn’t lose things. He doesn’t make mistakes. If he said there was a transfer, he meant he buried the paper trail so deep the devil couldn’t find it. Search the Jersey files. Look for anything that looks too clean.”

“Do you know how dangerous it is to even say that name out loud?” Mateo hisses, finally looking at me, his eyes wide with genuine fear. “The Russians in this territory… they don’t play, chica. They don’t have a sense of humor. If they think I’m digging into Petrov business, I’m dead before the sun sets. And you? You’ll be right next to me.”

I step closer, my stubbornness bubbling up, hot and sharp. “I’ve been dead for six months, Mateo. I’m living in a one-bedroom shack that smells like damp wood and rubbing oil on strangers until my wrists ache. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve earned this. You’ve got to help me find them.”

“I will try,” he mutters, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. “But don’t count on it, it’s like this person doesn’t exist at all.”

He slips out the back door without another word. I stay there for a moment, my forehead pressed against the cool glass of a soda machine. Six months. I’ve spent every spare peso, every waking hour of my “freedom,” looking for any trace of what I lost.

I will find what I am looking for. I must.

The grief is a dull ache in my stomach, competing with the physical reminder of the scar hidden beneath my white tunic. My father’s gift to me.

A sharp rap on the doorframe makes me jump. Sofia is standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, a look on her face I don’t like.

“Elena? I thought I sent you in here for lavender oil five minutes ago.”

I scramble, my face heating up as I reach for a blue bottle on the shelf. “I know, I was just… I was checking the inventory on the eucalyptus too. We’re running low.”

“Forget the inventory,” she says, her expression shifting from annoyance to something greedier. “Your shift was over, but a client just walked in. He didn’t want anyone else. He asked specifically for you.”

I freeze, the air in my lungs suddenly feeling thin. “Specifically? I don’t have regulars on Thursdays, Sofia. You know I like to leave on time.”

“He said he heard you have the ‘firmest hands’ in Cancun,” Sofia says, sliding a thick roll of bills onto the counter. It’s more than I make in a month, easily. My eyes widen at the sheer volume of cash. “He’s in Room 4. He paid for the premium package, and he told me I could keep the change if I made sure you were the one to handle him. He didn’t seem like the type of man you say no to.”

My stomach does a slow, nauseating roll. “I don’t do ‘special’ requests, Sofia. I’ve been very clear about that since the day you hired me.”

“He didn’t ask for that,” she says, though she looks a little worried now, her gaze flickering to the hallway. “He just… he looked like a man who gets what he wants. He’s big, Elena. And he’s rich. He’s in Room 4. Go. I’ll pay you double for the overtime. Think of it as a bonus for being so popular.”

I stare at the money. I think of Mateo’s face, of the Jersey records, of the one I can’t find because I don’t have enough leverage to make people talk. I need the cash. I need every cent if I’m going to find him.

“Fine,” I say, my voice a bit too sharp, my stubbornness winning over my instinct. “But if he so much as breathes on my neck, I’m walking out. I don’t care how much he paid.”

“Just give him the massage, Elena. He looks like he could use the relaxation. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in a week.”

I grab a bottle of neutral oil and head toward Room 4. The hallway feels different now—longer, narrower, as if the walls are leaning in to watch me pass. The scent of hibiscus is suddenly cloyingly sweet, like the perfume at a funeral for someone you didn’t particularly like. I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair under my cap and adjusting the collar of my tunic.

I push the door open. The room is bathed in a low, amber light from a few flickering candles. It smells of sea salt and something else—something cold, metallic, and strangely familiar that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

A man is lying face down on the table. He’s massive. Even under the white sheet draped over his waist, his shoulders are a broad expanse of hard, defined muscle. He’s a landscape of power, his skin tanned and stretched tight over a frame that looks like it was built for war.

I stop. My breath hitches in my throat.

Tattoos snake up his arms, peeking out from beneath the headrest. I can see them in the dim light—intricate, dark designs. I see serpents. I see stars. I see the brutal, geometric language of the criminal underworld.

What in the world is a man like this doing… here?

Is he Bratva? Probably. Cancun is crawling with Russian pigs looking for a place to wash their money and bury their sins. I’ve seen dozens of them in the last six months. They usually smell like cheap vodka and expensive cigars. But they don’t come into the massage parlor. This one… this one is different.

Nobody found you. You’re just Elena. A girl from nowhere with nothing to hide.

I stand there, the door handle still warm in my hand. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to turn around, to walk out, to run until my lungs burn. But then he moves. It’s a slow, languid stretch of his neck, and that’s when I see them.

Scars.

Long, jagged white lines across his lats. They aren’t from an accident. They’re the kind of marks left by a knife held by someone who knew exactly where to cut to cause the most pain.

Oh my goodness, what is going on?? I start before I immediately stop myself. Stop it, Irina. Stop overthinking.

I tell myself it’s just business. Just a Russian thug who tracked down a rumor of a girl with “firm hands.”

“Are you going to stand there all night, señorita? Or are we going to begin?”

The voice is muffled by the headrest, his face buried in the hole, but the vibration of it hits me like a physical blow to the chest. It’s deep, rough, and carries a cadence that travels through the air and vibrates in my very marrow. A jolt of electric heat zips down my spine, leaving my skin tingling in a way I haven’t felt in… ever.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. I can’t run. If he’s who I fear he is—just another Russian looking for trouble—running will just turn this into a game. And I’ve seen enough of those games to know that the predator always enjoys the chase.

“I apologize, sir,” I say, my voice steady, my “Elena” mask firmly in place. I move to the counter to pour the oil. “I was just checking the lighting. Would you like the deep tissue or the Swedish?”

“I like it deep,” he rumbles. The smirk is audible in his voice, even through the padding. The sound of his voice is like gravel and velvet, rubbing against my nerves in a way that makes my breath catch. “I’ve never been one for half-measures. And don’t be shy with the pressure. I’ve been told you don’t mind a little struggle. That you’re… efficient.”

I want to ask him who told him that, but I can’t because customers are Gods and you don’t question Gods. Something Sofia reminds me of on a daily basis.

I move to the side of the table, my fingers slicking with the neutral oil. My hands are trembling, a fine, frantic vibration I can’t control, but the moment I press my palms into his skin, the tremor stops.

He’s hot. Not just warm from the sun, but radiating a staggering amount of heat, like a furnace. As I lean my weight into the first stroke, pressing my palms into the base of his neck, a spark zips through my fingertips.

My fingers are tingling. It’s an involuntary, crazy reaction to the contact. It’s a pull, a magnetic attraction so intense it scares me. I’ve touched hundreds of men in the last six months—fat men, thin men, men who smelled like cheap gin and men who smelled like expensive soap—and I’ve felt nothing but a vague sense of disgust. But this? This is different.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

My hands move down his spine, and I can’t help but notice the way his muscles shift and roll under my palms. He’s solid, like granite covered in silk. My traitorous mind starts to wonder what those muscles would look like when they’re tensed in a different way. I imagine those scarred lats flexing under me, the weight of him pressing me into a mattress instead of a massage table.

Stop it, Irina. He’s a pig. A criminal. He probably has a wife and three mistresses back in the Motherland.

But the “Elena” in me doesn’t care. She just wants to keep touching him. I find myself lingering on the curve of his lower back, where the sheet dips low enough to reveal the top of a V-line that disappears into the shadows. My thumbs trace the ridge of his spine, and I feel a low, thrumming ache start to build in my own lower belly. It’s a heat I haven’t felt in years, a hunger that makes me want to rip the sheet away and see exactly what he’s hiding.

“Y-Your muscles are very tight,” I say, my voice sounding far away, as if I’m watching myself from the corner of the room. I dig my thumbs into the thick knots near his shoulder blades, leaning into it, using the strength of my whole body. “You carry a lot of tension here. It’s like you’re waiting for a fight.”

“I carry a lot of things,” he grunts, his voice a low vibration beneath my hands that I feel in my own bones. The sound of it travels through my palms and straight to my chest, making my breath hitch. “Tension is the least of them. Most people find my company… stressful.”

My mind is racing, flashing images of those large, calloused hands gripping my waist, pulling me against that furnace of a chest. I can almost feel the phantom pressure of him on top of me, his rough voice whispering filthy promises in my ear.

What in the world is wrong with me??

God, I’m pathetic.

I slide my hands up the sides of his neck, my fingers brushing the hair at the base of his skull.

A few months of celibacy and I’m ready to jump the first Russian who looks like he could snap me in half.

But goodness. The way he smells. Like ozone and expensive leather and something purely masculine that calls to a part of me I thought was dead. I wonder if he’s one of those men who like to do weird things. The ones who buy silence and skin.

Irina! What the hell are you thinking about?

Every time my skin brushes his, every time my fingers trace the edge of a tattoo or the ridge of a scar, my heart hammers harder.

He has such a massive presence. He takes up all the space in the room, making me feel small, exposed, and strangely, terrifyingly alive. My fingers are still tingling, the sensation spreading up my arms and settling into a heavy, wet heat between my thighs.

“How long have you been in Cancun, Elena?” he asks.

The name sounds like a joke coming from him. A secret he’s humoring because he finds it amusing. The gravelly depth of his voice sends a fresh wave of shivers over my skin.

“J-Just a couple of months,” I answer, lying easily, focusing on the curve of his neck, trying to ignore the way my tunic feels suddenly too tight across my chest. “It’s a good place to work. People are generous.”

“Are they?” He turns his head slightly in the headrest, though I still can’t see his face. I can see the sharp line of a jaw that looks like it was carved from obsidian. “I find that people only come to a place like this when they want to forget who they were. Or when they want to hide from someone who hasn’t forgotten them.”

“I’m not hiding from anyone,” I say, the sassy, stubborn Petrov pride I’ve been trying to kill for months suddenly flaring up in my chest. “I just prefer the sun to the New York winters.”

I freeze. I didn’t say New York. Why did I say New York? My heart is a drum now, beating a frantic rhythm that I’m sure he can feel through my hands.

“New York,” he repeats, the words tasting like a threat. “I’ve heard it’s a beautiful city. Very cold. Very… unforgiving.”

My skepticism about this “client” is turning into genuine alarm.

Is he a debt collector? One of Boris’s men?

“Why did you ask for me? There are girls here with years more experience.”

“I’ve heard many things about you,” he says, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper that makes my knees feel like they’re made of wax. “I heard you had a certain… fire. I wanted to try it for myself. To see if the rumors were true.”

The innuendo in his words is clear now, dripping with a dark, mocking intent. He isn’t here for a massage. He’s here for me. I become more and more agitated, my movements becoming jerky, my breathing shallow. The tingling in my fingers has turned into a dull, thumping heat. My mind is a chaotic mess of fear and a shameful, desperate curiosity. I want to know who he is.

I need to get out of here.

“Rumors are just talk,” I say, my voice trembling. “I’m just a girl working a shift.”

I step past him to reach for more oil, and that’s when it happens.

He shifts, his hand coming out from beneath the table with a speed that makes me gasp. His large, calloused hand brushes firmly against my thigh, his fingers lingering on the skin just above the hem of my tunic. The touch is like a brand, searing through my clothes and leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It’s a deliberate, suggestive move—a claim of possession that shatters my mask into a thousand pieces.

Of course, it’s just one of those stupid men who don’t take no for an answer. You chose the wrong person to mess with.

The agitation in my chest turns into pure, incandescent rage.

I don’t think. My stubbornness and my pride, the only things my father couldn’t take from me, explode. This man thinks he can buy me? Thinks he can touch me just because he threw some money at Sofia?

I reach down, my fingers tangling in his dark golden hair, longer than it looks.

“I told you,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous, the Russian heiress returning in a heartbeat. “I don’t tolerate anyone harassing me at my workplace. I couldn’t care less for this job, so I will kick your ass and leave you bleeding on this floor if you touch me one more time. Do you understand?”

The man doesn’t flinch. Instead, for my absolute surprise, he lets out a low, dark laugh. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph.

“If you like it rough, you should have stayed back home, dorogaya,” he says, the voice finally clear, no longer muffled by the table. “We would have been the perfect match.”

The blood drains from my face so fast the room tilts. My hands are still tangled in his hair, but my fingers are frozen. I don’t understand. I can’t breathe.

No, no, no, no.

“Back home?” I whisper, the words barely audible over the roar of the blood in my ears. “What are you talking about?”

I yank his head back with everything I have. I force him up, pulling his face out of the hole, forcing him to look at me. I’m ready to scream, ready to scratch his eyes out.

He shifts, his eyes catching the amber light of the candles. Dark blue. Wild. Glinting with a terrifying amount of amusement and a possessiveness that makes my lungs seize.

“New York, Irina,” he says, his voice dropping to a growl that settles deep in my marrow.

My heart stops. The world collapses into the space between us. I look at the face I tried to erase from my memory. I look at the dark blue eyes that haunted every dream I’ve had in this tropical purgatory. I look at the man I left standing at the altar.

“I want what should have been mine for six months now,” he says, his hand closing over my wrist with the strength of a steel trap. “I’m done playing, I want my wife.”

Chapter Two

Irina

No no no no… please no. This can’t be happening.

The air in Room 4 is 90% eucalyptus oil and 10% my impending cardiac arrest.

Mikhail doesn’t move. He just watches me with those dark blue eyes, his hand still clamped around my wrist like a shackle. I can feel his pulse against my skin—steady, rhythmic, and terrifyingly calm. Mine, however, is a mess, a bird trapped in a cage of ribs that feel too small for the amount of oxygen I’m failing to pull in.

“L-Let go,” I whisper. It’s meant to be a command, but it comes out as a plea. My throat is so tight I’m surprised any sound escaped at all.

“You’ve had six months, Irina,” Mikhail rumbles, his voice vibrating through the small space between us. He doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, drawing me an inch closer to the heat radiating off his bare chest. “That’s enough of letting go.”

I yank my arm back with a surge of desperate strength, and to my surprise, he lets me go. Not because I won, but because he’s already decided the game is over. He sits up fully on the massage table, the white sheet sliding dangerously low. I see the hard, tanned expanse of his thighs. I should look away. I’m a Petrov; I was raised with a sense of propriety that is currently being set on fire by the sheer, unapologetic masculinity of the man in front of me.

But I can’t look away. My eyes trace the ink on his skin, the scars that tell stories of a life I tried to leave behind, and the way his dark golden hair falls over his forehead. He looks like a god of war who took a wrong turn and ended up in paradise.

Goodness.

“Put some freaking clothes on,” I snap, trying hard to maintain my composure. I gesture vaguely at his lack of clothing. “Or is being a public nuisance part of the Morozov charm these days?”

Mikhail lets out a low, dry laugh as he stands up. He’s six-foot-three of pure, predatory grace. Even naked, he’s the one in control. “The only nuisance here is the wife who thought a fake passport and a bottle of coconut oil would be enough to hide from me.”

“I am not your wife!” I hiss, backing toward the door. “We never signed the papers. We never finished the ceremony. You’re just a man I left standing in a room full of expensive flowers.”

He reaches for the knot at his hip, and with a flick of his wrist that is unnecessarily graceful for a man with shoulders that wide, the towel hits the floor with a soft, mocking thud.

What the hell?!

My gaze is currently locked onto a very specific, very safe mole on his left shoulder blade. I am staring at that mole like it holds the secrets to the universe.

“We’re going,” he says, ignoring my jab. He reaches for a pile of clothes I hadn’t noticed in the corner—a sharp, Italian suit that probably costs more than this entire building. He pulls on his trousers with a fluid ease that makes my mouth go dry. “Move, Irina. Unless you want me to carry you through the lobby.”

“W-What?! I’m not going anywhere with you! I have a life here. I have… things I’m doing!”

“You have a boss who just sold you for the price of a mid-sized sedan,” Mikhail says, sliding into a crisp white shirt. He doesn’t look at me as he buttons it, but I can feel his attention fixed on me like a laser. “Your ‘life’ ended the second I walked through that door. Now, move.”

Fuck no!

I reach for the door handle, intent on sprinting for the back exit, but Mikhail is there before my fingers can even touch the metal. He looms over me, one hand resting on the door above my head, his shadow swallowing me whole.

The scent of him wraps around me. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and that traitorous tingling returns to my fingertips. I want to hit him. I want to scream, I want to run, but I can’t. I bite my lips hard to stop the tears from rolling.

“Don’t create a scene, dorogaya,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “It would be such a shame for Sofia to have to explain to the police why she allowed a kidnapping in her establishment. Especially when I’ve already paid for her silence.”

“You- You’re a monster!” I breathe, glaring up into those dark blue depths.

“I’m a Morozov,” he corrects, his eyes flashing with something dark and possessive. “And you’re mine. Let’s fucking go.”

He opens the door and steps back, gesturing for me to precede him. I walk out, my spine stiff, my head held high despite the fact that my knees are shaking. As we walk through the lobby, I see Sofia. She’s standing behind the desk, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the floor. She won’t look at me. She won’t help.

This is really happening!

Mikhail doesn’t say a word. He just gives her a single, sweeping look that makes her shrink further into her chair. His posture, the set of his broad shoulders, the way he moves—it all screams power. He doesn’t need to create a scene. He is the scene.

Fucking madman.

No one interferes. No one calls out. I am being stolen and the world is letting it happen.

“You won’t get away with this,” I mutter as he steers me toward the door, his hand firm on the small of my back. “The second I get a chance, I’m calling my father. He’ll have your head.”

I know I’m literally grasping at straws but I’ll do anything.

“Your father is the one who gave me the coordinates, Irina,” Mikhail chuckles. He is lying—or maybe he isn’t. With Boris Petrov, you never know.

We step out into the humid Cancun night. The strip is alive with neon lights—pinks, blues, and yellows reflecting off the wet pavement from a recent sun-shower. A black SUV is idling at the curb, its tinted windows looking like two voids in the middle of the neon chaos. A tall scary looking man stands by the door, opening it the second we approach.

“Get in,” Mikhail says.

“I have rights, Mikhail! I have… I’ll scream! I’ll tell everyone who you are!”

“Go ahead dorogaya,” he says, leaning down so his lips are a hair’s breadth from mine. “Scream. Let them know the Morozovs are in town. See how fast this street empties out.”

His arrogance is infuriating, but the way his eyes drop to my mouth makes my heart skip a beat. I want to bite him. I want to slap the smirk off his face. I climb into the car, mostly because I don’t want him to see how much he’s affecting me.

The door thuds shut, sealing us in the cool, leather-scented interior. The driver pulls away immediately, the lights of the street blurring past the windows. I sit as far away from Mikhail as possible, hugging the door, trying to stop the tremors that are finally taking over my body.

My life is officially over.

“You’re a coward,” I say, because I need to find something to say before I start crying. “Hiding behind your family name and your thugs. Is this the only way you can get a woman to stay in a car with you? Kidnapping?”

Mikhail leans back, his long legs stretched out, looking entirely too comfortable. He’s watching me with a predatory intensity that makes my skin itch. “You stopped having choices the moment you humiliated me in front of both families and vanished.”

“I saved us both!” I snap, turning to face him. “You didn’t want me. You were probably relieved I ran.”

“I was many things,” he rumbles, his voice turning into ice. “Relieved was not one of them. My pride doesn’t like being a punchline at the social clubs. You made me look weak. You made my family look weak. And in our world, weakness is a death sentence, you know that.”

“Oh, please. Your pride is fine. You just wanted a reason to go on a hunt.”

“And look how well it turned out,” he mocks, his hand reaching across the seat to trail a finger along my jawline. I flinch, but I don’t move away. The touch is electric, a spark of heat that makes my breath hitch. “You’re sitting in my car, going to my plane, to live in my house. You’re exactly where you were supposed to be six months ago. Only now, the terms have changed.”

“The terms haven’t changed! I’m still the woman who hates you!”

Mikhail’s hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back until I’m forced to look at him. His eyes are dark, a storm of blue. “Then you’ll hate me in New York. Because you’re never leaving my sight again.”

The drive to the airport is an agonizing blur. We arrive at a private hangar where a sleek, white jet is waiting. Mikhail leads me up the stairs, his hand firm and possessive. The moment we cross the threshold and the heavy door seals shut, the full reality of what is happening settles into my bones.

We are alone.

The cabin is a temple of excess, cream leather, polished mahogany, and a bar stocked with enough liquor to drown a fleet. The flight attendant gives Mikhail a quick nod and disappears into the cockpit, leaving us in a silence that is anything but peaceful.

Mikhail heads straight for the bar, pouring himself a finger of amber liquid. He doesn’t offer me any— bastard. He just stands there, swirling the glass, his eyes fixed on me. I pace the length of the cabin like a trapped animal, my sneakers silent on the thick carpet.

“How did you find me?” I demand, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. The roar of the engines matches the roar in my head. “I was invisible. I didn’t use the name. I didn’t use the cards. I was gone.”

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’ve been looking for you from the second you touched the grass outside that hotel, Irina. Did you think I’d just shrug and move on? That I’d let the insult stand?”

“I thought you were too busy being a Morozov to care about one runaway bride.”

“Once I decided to stop letting the world laugh at me, there was nowhere in the world you could truly hide,” he says, his voice low and absolute. “You could have gone to the moon, and I would have found a way to drag you back.”

I let out a dry, sassy laugh. “Is this really about the alliance? Or is your ego just that fragile? Did your pride really not survive a woman leaving you at the altar?”

“Both.”

Bastard!

“You should have been grateful I ran,” I scoff, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. “I saved you from a wife who would have hated you every day of your life. You could have married someone who actually wanted the Morozov name.”

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. “I don’t want a wife who wants my name, Irina. I want a wife who fears it. And as for hating me? Hate is just love with a different coat on. You were never indifferent to me. Even back in New York, when you were supposed to be Artyom’s, you couldn’t stop looking at me.”

“Are you crazy? I was looking at you because you were a train wreck!” I lie, my heart rate spiking. “You were the volatile brother who couldn’t stay out of trouble. You were the madman, I didn’t want to be anywhere near you! I was looking at you to make sure you didn’t set the curtains on fire.”

“Oh? Is that what you were doing in Room 4 tonight, dorogaya?” he asks, stepping toward me. He moves with that same slow, predatory grace, pinning me against the bulkhead without even touching me. “Were you checking for fire when your fingers were trembling against my skin? When you were digging your thumbs into my shoulders like you wanted to climb inside me?”

The memory of the massage, of the tingling in my fingers and the heat in my belly, rushes back, making my face flush. “I was doing my job.”

“You were hungry,” he murmurs, stopping inches away. He smells like whiskey now, sharp and sweet. “You’ve been starving yourself for six months, trying to pretend you’re someone else. But I felt it, Irina. I felt the way your body reacted to mine. You can lie with your tongue all you want, but your touch? Your touch is very honest.”

“Stop it,” I whisper, my hands coming up to rest on his chest to push him away, but they just stay there, feeling the steady thud of his heart through his expensive shirt. “You’re just doing this to humiliate me.”

“Then you shouldn’t have run,” he says. He reaches out, his hand covering both of mine, pressing them harder against his chest. “Artyom is the Pakhan, and he’s soft for his nurse. You were supposed to be the balance. And you ran.”

“I ran because I wanted a choice!” I shout, my stubbornness finally breaking through the fog. “I don’t want to marry someone like you!”

Mikhail’s expression hardens, the amusement vanishing. “The world doesn’t care about your choices, Irina. It cares about power. And right now, the power is in this room.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the small space between us. “You want to know how I’m going to punish you? I’m going to make you stay. I’m going to make you stand by my side at every gala, every meeting, every dinner. I’m going to make you play the perfect, devoted wife until your jaw aches from smiling. And every night, when the doors are closed, I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

“Y-You think you can force me to love you?” I ask, my voice shaking with a mixture of rage and a heat I can’t name. I refuse to let him see the fear—or the arousal—fluttering in my chest.

“I don’t need your love,” he says, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip, dragging it down until I’m forced to part my teeth. “I need your submission. I need the world to see that a Petrov tried to run, and a Morozov brought her back to her knees.”

I feel the heat of his body through my thin tunic. My fingers are tingling again—that same traitorous attraction I felt at the spa. I want to push him away, but I also want to see how far he’ll go. My stubbornness, however, is the one thing I have left.

“I’ll never do that,” I hiss, though the nearness of him is making it hard to think. “I’ll never be on my knees for you.”

“We’ll see,” he murmurs. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a promise of fire. “You’ve spent six months escaping me, Irina. Now, you’re going to learn the difference between escaping me and belonging to me. And I promise you, the second one is much, much harder to survive.”

He pulls back, leaving me breathless and reeling against the bulkhead. He finishes his drink in one swallow and walks toward the back of the jet where the bedroom is hidden. He stops at the doorway and looks back, his dark blue eyes glinting with a terrifying, beautiful light.

“Try to get some sleep, wife. We land in four hours. And the second we touch the ground, the ‘Elena’ act is over. You’re Irina Morozova now. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

He disappears into the room, leaving me alone in the cabin. I sink into one of the leather chairs, my legs finally giving out. I look out the window at the dark expanse of the Atlantic, the stars mocking me with their distance.

I’m back in the cage. Only this time, the hunter is right next to me.

I touch my lip where his thumb rested, the skin still tingling, still burning. I hate him. I hate what he’s doing, I hate what he represents, and I hate my father for starting this. But as the jet screams toward New York, I realize the gravity of his words. He doesn’t want a bride. He wants a conquest.

I close my eyes, the hum of the engines a low-frequency vibration that matches the thrumming in my own blood. Mikhail thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s brought me back to the board as his pawn.

He has no idea that the second we land, I’m going to start playing my own game. And if he thinks I’m going to be a “dutiful wife” after what he just threatened, he’s clearly got the wrong person.

I lean my head back against the leather, a slow smile spreading across my face despite the tears prickling my eyes.

I hope you’re ready for the fire, Mikhail. Because I’m going to burn your entire world down before I let you own mine.

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