Chapter One

Alek

“Are you ready now?”

Of course not. The man standing in front of me knows that I will never surrender. I won’t break. No matter what he does to me. No matter how many days of torture he forces me to endure before my heart finally gives out and I die, I will not break.

I think that’s what Nikolai Volkovich gets off on the most.

Even though it’s a futile endeavor that he’s undertaking, the bastard has always been a sadist. He likes hurting people just to see them scream. Something about him craves blood. Whether he’s inflicting bruises on his opponents in the boxing ring or with full out torture, he loves it.

I swear the bastard is circling me with a predatory half chub in his black slacks.

Not that I can see much of a bulge there. Guess that he’s not packing much inside of his pants. It would make sense that all his bravado and violence are a result of needing to compensate for a shrimpy, small dick.

I smirk. I can’t help it.

The very action makes my eyes water with pain – the one that isn’t swollen shut anymore.

Nikolai stops his circling appraisal of the carnage that he’s inflicted on my suspended body. My hands chained up above my head have been numb for at least the last hour, maybe two. Every breath that I suck in feels like I’m inhaling shards of glass. But if thinking about the likelihood of him being lacking in the manhood department keeps me sane? Who cares?

“Something funny?” Nikolai asks as he grasps my chin in his beefy hand so hard I wince.

“No, of course not.” I wheeze.

Nikolai snarls and releases me with so much force that I spin in a half circle where I dangle.

He’s got to have at least seventy-five pounds of muscle on me and he’s a good three inches taller than my six foot one. I have always been fast on my feet, but he’s a brick shithouse. It really wouldn’t even be match a fair match between us if I wasn’t chained to the ceiling of his rank ass basement. Those stains on the floor? Not just my blood. It’s rude, really, to bring me of all people into a room that he’s already tortured somebody in before.

At least bleach the floors or something.

I, Alek Ivankov, deserve a little more flourish at the very least. A private torture room isn’t too much to ask for. It’s not like the rich bastard can’t afford one with all his blood money.

Now my mind’s eye switches to a delusional scenario where I’m being led down into Nikolai’s basement and being shown various torture rooms like they are the finest hotel suites for me to take my pick before being shoved into one.

That thought makes me laugh out loud. The action might cause my bruised ribs to puncture my lungs. Only one of which is working right anyway. It’s been what – two weeks that he’s had me down here? With the lack of natural light everything blends together.

Nikolai hates when I laugh at him.

Sometimes, I think that my own defiance of him is going to break him first. What’s that saying again? Topping from the bottom? Does that apply here? Torture from victim or something? It’s just so funny that I can’t seem to stop.

At least until Nikolai’s brick fist collides with my kidneys and my laughter shifts to a spurt of blood from my mouth. That’s not so funny anymore. I gasp and strain to breathe. My feet don’t reach the floor so the very tips of my toes try to steady myself just enough to lift up to relieve pressure on my lungs as I swing in place. It doesn’t help.

“Much better.” Nikolai gloats before the chain holding me up is suddenly dropped and I collapse into the puddle of my own sweat, blood and drool on the ground. The chain from my wrist shackles is instantly shifted to the thick iron band around my neck that makes it almost impossible to hold my head at a normal angle – and I’m chained to the wall all over again.

Everything hurts.

No, this is something more than hurt. This is something that doesn’t stop. There’s no abating it. Nothing I do seems to make it better. I want to say something snarky to piss him off again, but I’m seeing double as it is. Vision swimming, consciousness only hanging on by a thread here. It’s not looking great in my world.

“Have it your way.” Nikolai speaks in a voice like razors. He swaggers toward me, full of false bravado and overwhelming ego. He squats down to talk to me, to relish in his little victory with a wry smile on his annoyingly chiseled face. “Tomorrow, you will tell me where that bitch is, or I’m going to start taking limbs.”

I believe him.

It still won’t be enough to make me tell him what he wants to know. I would rather endure his torture than tell him where my sister Helena is. My loyalty runs deep. If this is the very last thing that I can do for her, I’m happy to pay whatever price is asked of me.

My only acknowledgement that I’ve even heard a word that he said is a deep groan of pain as I struggle to roll onto my side so as not to choke to death on my own blood.

The sheer force of blood rushing back to my abused wrists and hands is painful enough that I almost don’t register the kick in my ribs that Nikolai finishes today’s session off with before he spits at the ground by my face. I don’t even have the impulse to flinch before he turns his heels, muttering under his breath in heated Russian, and slams the door to my prison.

Leaving me in darkness once again.

I’m not delusional enough to think that I’m ever going to see sunlight again. I know that I’m going to die in here.

I think maybe it would have been a mercy for Daniel Colombo to have killed me. His visit last week was unexpected to say the least. Was it only a week ago? Perhaps it was longer. Time has been blurring together. Maybe this is all just a nightmare. Still, his mug was yet another face that I never thought that I would see again. He has more of a reason to want me dead than Nikolai does. After all, Daniel thinks that I killed his sister, Lilian. I forgot how much they look alike. Looked. Nikolai had offered me up to Daniel in exchange for making some sort of deal with him. I couldn’t hear the terms of whatever it was that Nikolai wanted from him. But I do know that Daniel refused him and went on his way without taking my life. Talk about character growth. The Daniel I knew before, he swore he would kill me with his bare hands the last time we spoke.

The image of Lilian’s face swims to the forefront of my mind’s eye. And, for a moment, all the pain in my body disappears. Her lovely visage floats there, her smiling, laughing at something dumb that I said. And then it shifts to the portrait of rage that she was wearing the last time I saw her and the pain returns fast.

I’m almost thankful when oblivion pulls me under.

The black inky unconscious nothingness might be kinder still than the thought that maybe… just maybe… I deserve everything that I’m getting.

Time loses meaning so quickly.

There’s no way to know how long I’m passed out for. Even with my eyes open it’s dark enough in this little room that it’s hard to tell where the floor meets the wall apart from when the occasional sliver of light appears under the door. It’s not constant. They don’t feed me on a schedule, so unless I want to start obsessively counting the seconds, I have to let the concept of time fade entirely.

It could be hours, or maybe it has been days before the door opens again.

At no point does my body stop hurting. The gnawing in my stomach is just as bad. Never mind the rest of the bodily functions that I’m pointedly ignoring.

I don’t expect Nikolai to come back too soon – but when the door opens again I am ready with a sarcastic quip that doesn’t leave my lips because the body standing in the doorway is far, far too small to be Nikolai.

Something dark and anxious flops in my stomach.

For all the death jokes that I’ve been making to myself during my lovely stay here, I certainly didn’t think that I was actually going to die.

The silhouette of a woman that can only be described as heavenly comes quickly into the room. The little sashay of her hips is all I can make out of her features until she comes closer to me – the light behind her is so brilliantly bright that I can hardly even look at her for more than a second before my eyes burn.

The woman stops in front of me, and I can make out stunning olive skin and exotic features with a metal box in her hands.

She speaks, but in my delirious state I can’t really understand what she’s saying.

What game is this? Some new fresh hell, or have I died and this is it. An angel has come to patch up all the hurt.

“Am I dead?” I don’t even really recognize my voice as I speak because it sounds so much rougher than I expected it to. “Finally kicked the bucket?”

The angel smiles. A light all of its own.

Water – cool and crisp runs over my lips and I flap my mouth like a fish on land trying to guzzle every bit of it down. Moments later her cool, soothing touch is on my forehead before she replaces it with a damp cloth as she fishes around in her metal box of healing for something to help patch me up. I try my best to remain still. I don’t want to scare her away. It doesn’t matter to me if she’s real or not – or if she’s only helping patch me up with the express intention of hurting me all over again. If this face is the last one that I ever get to see, it will have been worth it.

“Stay with me.” She says in a sweet voice as she blots up blood and gingerly dabs salve on my bruises. Normally I detest physical touch but I’m far too weak to do anything but appreciate the soothing contact as she tends to me.

The angel asks me to stay with her, and I want to. I want to do anything she says. And anything is better than the state that I’ve been in until now. Except eternal sleep, which would certainly be the easier. But there is still a lot of work left for me to do on this mortal coil.

“I’m sorry if this hurts…” She mutters in a voice full of compassion as she tries to dip that same ointment from her kit between the ruined skin of my wrists and the thick metal of my cuffs. I watch as she eyes the thick band around my neck with what I can only assume is pity. She lifts her hand to touch it, and I flinch away. “…I’m sorry.” she mutters again.

I catch her hand, something my body protests violently, but I am shocked by how real she feels. I stare at the place where I’m holding her wrist in disbelief. My thumb passes over the inside of her wrist, seeking her pulse because I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like. I need to know if she’s real or if she’s an angel to carry me into the afterlife. I don’t think I would fight her. It would be better passing than I could have imagined myself worthy of.

“You have to let me go if you want me to help you.” She teases with a hint of a smile on her voice.

My blue eyes finally lift to her and study the fine details of her lovely face. “Help me?” I ask in disbelief. “Angel, I’m beyond helping.”

Chapter Two

Anya

I’ve been hearing screams coming from the basement for weeks. Weeks of forcing myself to endure the fact that, despite this brand-new house in a brand-new state, Nikolai’s already put in a torture dungeon.

Not the sexy kind that was in our last place in Vegas either.

I don’t even know why I’m surprised.

Nikolai has always been the sort of man to get off on violence. He is the very best at what he does and most of the time he’s a scary bastard. But he’s my scary bastard. My protector.

But even still – there’s only so much that a girl can take.

I’m not the kind of person that can just sit around and allow somebody to hurt when I have the power to do something about it. I don’t have the stomach for it. Even if I had never taken the Hippocratic oath – I still couldn’t have done it. I’ve been helping his personal doctor since we arrived here in Houston. It’s not exactly going to get me my legal nurses’ license but at least it allows me to practice. All the work that we do is strictly off the books and primarily pertains to the men that Nikolai brings in from this war that he’s in with Daniel Colombo.

The same war that’s been keeping him out of the house for several hours of the day – every day.

Nikolai will be furious with me when he finds out that I’ve stolen his key. I hope that he won’t notice until I’ve had a chance to help as much as I can. He’s expressly forbidden me from coming down here. Says that it’s where he’s working. Since we’ve moved here to Houston, he’s made it expressly clear that I’m to be kept wholly separate from his work now.

More than just at arm’s length.

I don’t love that he’s been pushing me away. We haven’t been married for nearly long enough for him to use that as an excuse either. I tried asking Nikolai why he was keeping the man in the basement and he just said that he deserves it. I can’t imagine what this man might have done to deserve enough pain to fill my nightmares for weeks. I can’t sleep. More than that, I have to be able to live with myself.

I just have to hope that my meager training in first aid will be enough to help in some capacity. Even if I can’t do much to help, I have to try. If I can just give it my best shot and know the extent of his injuries, then maybe I can finally get some sort of sleep tonight.

At least that’s what I’m going to tell Nikolai if he happens to catch me.

The very walls of this giant house feel like they are conspiring against me as I sneak down the large winding halls and stairs. I still have a hard time coming to grips with the fact that this is something I have to do inside of my own home. But it doesn’t really feel like that these days, does it? Whatever magical thing that makes a house into a home? This one doesn’t have it.

I sneak down into the basement with the help of Nikolai’s key and instantly wish that I had grabbed a sweater or something to fight off the intense cold lurking in the concrete halls. I hug my metal first aid kit to my chest as I wrap my arms around my body and slink down the long, winding hall. There’s nothing and nobody down here. Which is for the best. I don’t want to run into one of Nikolai’s men when I’m already breaking so many rules.

Most of the doors are unlocked and slightly ajar. But there’s one that’s locked and so I unlock it and brace myself for what I’m going to see inside of it. It’s so dark that it takes a moment to spot the lump of a man in the back corner of the room. The smell coming from inside of the room isn’t something I want to put into words.

“I’m a professional.” I mutter to myself and summon what is left of my courage before heading inside. I’ve attended to gun shots and stab wounds aplenty in the clinic. Broken bones and contusions. I can do this. Nothing that I can see in here can look any worse than what I’ve seen at the clinic – and then I see him. It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I’ve seen Nikolai’s men in just about every state and all manner of injuries from the war that he’s in with the mafia – but this is something else.

For a moment I’m frozen in the doorway.

My husband did this. This brutality. My husband, my Nikolai, is the one that inflicted these wounds and put this body in this state. I know he’s capable of violence. Some of it I like even, but this is on a whole other level. This man looks like he has one foot in the grave. There’s a wheezing rattle coming from his chest each every time he inhales and exhales. I don’t even know where to start. This is way beyond what I know how to handle – but I have to try.

It takes everything I have to keep my hands from shaking as I go closer.

This man is a stranger. Clearly, he’s done something truly horrible to Nikolai for him to have done this. He’s far too injured right now to be of much danger to me though, so it’s a risk that I’m willing to take.

Only one of his eyes seems to be able to open and he looks up at me with a crystal-clear blue eye. Like ice in the dead of winter when the sunlight hits it just right. He doesn’t move or flinch from me as I start to blot at some of the worse wounds. Everything looks like it’s clotting at the very least. I offer him water – and that’s the first real response that I get from him. The bottle is gone in seconds. Who knows the last time that he was given anything. I don’t even know if they have been feeding him. Not much. That’s obvious. There are hints of the man that he once was when he looks up at me again. A little less crazed, a little less distant. I don’t even know if he’s capable of really seeing me or feeling what I’m doing for him but I hope it helps. Even if it’s just a little.

Then he speaks. A rumble of words from somewhere deep in his chest. His voice sounds like he’s close to death, knocking on the gates of hell. Maybe that’s why he keeps calling me angel.

When he grabs my wrist, his touch impossibly soft and cold. He keeps a cage of fingers around my wrist without actually holding too tight, like somehow I’m the fragile one, while he claims that there’s no saving him.

“That’s impossible.” I force a tight-lipped smile. “There’s no such thing as being beyond helping.”

“Why else would an angel be here to take me to the afterlife?” He asks. I can tell that he means it. I wipe a bit more of the grime off him and try again. I can’t imagine the sort of pain he’s suffering this very second if he’s asking me questions like this. My stomach ties into knots and I bite back tears. No point in crying, I have to help him.

“I promise you I’m no angel.” I force another smile. Maybe if we both relax a little, it won’t feel so hard.

“Look like one.” he grouses and slips back down to where he’s lying on his side. The purple bruising on his torso bothers me the most. The pants that he has slung low on his hips are filthy. It can’t be helping. He’s seconds away from raging infections if he doesn’t have any already.

“How can you tell? Having only one working eye and all.” I tease, hoping to bring some levity to the situation.

The corner of his lip quirks upward and it transforms his whole face. Even as battered and swollen as it is, I can see more of the man underneath it all. I can’t imagine how strong he must be to not have broken.

“Careful, he doesn’t like it when I laugh. Walls probably have eyes.”

A single fingers of his moves, attempting to gesture to the walls around us. His brow knits and he stares at his hand for a moment like he doesn’t understand why only one finger moved when he meant to move the whole limb.

I don’t want to think about what that might imply.

“Do you have a name to go with your sense of humor?” I ask, hoping to bring him back into himself.

“Maybe.”

“Very unique name. I’m sure you got a lot of crap for it in school, didn’t you? Teacher calls attendance and you’re just like, maybe.” I laugh at my own lame joke. More of a nervous gust of air than anything else.

“Stop, smiling hurts.” He wheezes and lets his good eye close. “It’s Alek.”

“Got a last name?”

“Ivankov.” he runs his tongue over dry lips. I move for the water bottle as the weight of his surname crashes around me. One that’s not uncommon but only one person with that name would have meant anything to Nikolai. The woman that he almost married. The one who caused enough damage that I had to repair him.

“Helena’s brother?!” I blurt with more affliction than I mean.

He rolls his good eye toward me. “Maybe.”

He is probably wary of me now, but I can’t stop. I can’t help myself. “I’m sorry…”

He doesn’t answer me at first.

“For your loss… I mean…” I mumble pathetically. How can I feel guilty or jealous over a deceased woman? What does that say about me?

“She’s not dead,” is his only answer.

My eyes widen in shock. Of course she’s dead. Nikolai told me how he did it. He told me what happened that night. There’s no way that somebody could survive a fall like that. I never thought to ask what he had done with the body, if anything at all.

“Don’t put that on me, either. My sister is very much alive. And Nikolai is keeping me here until I tell him everything about her, but I won’t. I have ruined a woman’s life, that’s true, but I will not ruin hers. I’m guilty enough without adding more to it.”

“What are you talking about? Whose life did you–”

Whatever else I might learn from the conversation with this man is cut short by the door banging open wider behind us. Nikolai’s hulking frame fills most of the open space and the rectangle of light that I was sitting in just moments ago is now in the shape of his large body.

I whip around to look my husband in the eye. I know he’s going to be mad at me for doing this. I know that I’m going against his orders but until this very second the only punishment that I thought that I was going to get from it was a sound spanking. Which, I’ve never minded from him before. But the look on his face is something that I’ve never seen before.

Nikolai and I have been through a lot. He’s done some not awesome things to me before the nature of our relationship changed. He wasn’t always the man that I love – but I’ve never been afraid of him before right this very second.

“What the fuck do you think that you’re doing?!” Nikolai snarls.

I scramble to close my first aid kit, but my hands are shaking. Why? I try to stuff everything back into the compartments as sloppily as I can, but it doesn’t help – Nikolai closes the distance between us in the span of a heartbeat and then his hand is a vice grip around my bicep. He yanks me off the floor and drags me toward the door so fast that I can’t get my feet up under me.

My hand goes to where he’s holding me, attempting to pry his grip loose on instinct alone. “Stop! Nikolai, stop, you’re hurting me!”

“Let her go!”

There’s a clanging of chains and a rustle of metal against the concrete before the resounding clang of the man that I had just been helping clearly reached the end of his allowance. He must have hit that chain hard to make it make that sort of noise. I claw desperately at Nikolai’s grip but chance a glance back at the man holding the chain attached to his collar in both hands – his swollen, battered face a mask of pure rage that twists something primal low in my belly.

“Got something to say, finally?” Nikolai snarls at the man.

“Let her go! It’s me you have an issue with!” The man yells at Nikolai. There’s such authority in his tone that I can feel it.

Nikolai drops me. Hard.

I fall to the ground, my first aid kit wholly forgotten.

Nikolai punches the man so hard in the stomach to shut him up that I recoil from the force of it. The man spits blood straight onto the concrete floor and Nikolai scoops me up before I can fully process what’s even happening. He throws me over his shoulder and the last thing that I see before Nikolai slams the door to the man’s cell shut is that striking blue eye trained directly on me. His mouth moves – and I focus on his lips to make sure I hear whatever is so important for him to say even if Nikolai has my blood ringing in my ears. There’s a wild sort of desperation in his eyes. “Ask him… about… Lilian…”

The door slams shut and the lock automatically clicks into place.

“Put me down!” I demand.

Nikolai ignores me until we’re upstairs. He deposits me heavily on one of our plush couches and holds his hand out expectantly. “Key.”

I don’t care for his tone.

I scowl at him and fish the key out of my bra where I had hidden it and slap it into his hand with as much indignation as I can muster. I refuse to cower. I don’t break eye contact as he glares at me.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” He demands as he shoves the key back into his pocket. “I told you not to go down there. I forbade you from going down there!”

I sit up on the couch – but he’s clearly not done yelling at me. “And that gives you an excuse to manhandle me like that?!” I scream right back.

“Do you have any idea what could have happened?! Do you have any idea what he could have done to you?! You were right up next to that bastard, Anya! He could have hurt you. For fuck’s sake he could have killed you with his bare hands, Anya!”

I start to reply. I start to get indignant, but then I see the look on his face. The worry that knits his brow. The actual fear that something could have happened to me. Whatever I was going to say dies on my tongue as he sinks down onto his knees in front of me so that we’re eye to eye.

“Whatever he said to you Anya, that man is one of the most ruthless, merciless, blood thirsty criminals that I have ever encountered in my life,” Nikolai says as he cups my face in his hands. His thumbs sweep out over my cheeks as he tilts me face up to his. Softly, I place my hands over the top of his.

“I’m all right. Nikolai, I can handle myself. He was chained to the wall. He couldn’t–”

“He could. He would have. I promise you, he was just biding his time with you before acting. He doesn’t deserve your pity or kindness and he sure as fuck doesn’t deserve your cures.” Nikolai insists.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry… I’m sorry…” I answer automatically.

“He didn’t touch you?!” Nikolai asks with a far softer tone to his voice. “Are you sure that you are unharmed?”

I nod and smile softly. He loves me so much. “I promise. Nikolai, I’m fine.”

Nikolai kisses my forehead sweetly, his lips lingering for a long moment before he pulls me into his arms tightly in an embrace. “I’m sorry for reacting that way… I just… seeing you near him… I couldn’t…”

I wrap my arms tightly around him, holding him so that he knows I’m here. I’m solid. I’m okay.

“I’ll make it up to you. Dinner. Wherever you like. Anywhere at all – dress up nice and make a whole spectacle of it.” Nikolai offers as I pull back from him.

My heart soars. It’s been so long since we’ve been able to be alone with each other. It’s been even longer since we’ve been able to go out in public. My eyes lift to him, hope fluttering in my chest.

“As soon as this war is over, we will go out.” Nikolai continues.

That hope plummets like a rock in a lake. Of course he doesn’t want to go until business is over. Now that I know Helena is alive… that’s got to be why he uprooted everything. He was only moving on because he was coming to grips with killing the woman he loved… who betrayed him. He had moved on. To me.

At least I thought that he had.

How long has Nikolai known that Helena is alive? Is that why he moved us here? How do Daniel and his father’s mafia fit into all of this? There has to be more to this story. I’m supposed to be his person, the one he tells everything to and I have clearly been excluded from a lot more than he’s let on.

Is Nikolai lying to me?

I look up at him and his dangerously, painfully handsome face. The same eyes that I fell in love with. The man who I took vows for and tied my life to. I never had any reason to doubt him before right now, but the man in the basement had no reason to lie to me. I can’t help him, I can’t set him free. There’s nothing to gain from being anything other than honest. If Helena is his sister… there’s just too much that I don’t know.

But more importantly… who the hell is Lilian?

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Chapter 1 

Emanuele 

“Eva, take those things out of my study,” my gaze shifts to the sea-blue eyes and the tresses of coal black. That used to be the color of my hair before the gray showed through, now even more visible under the ring lights and reflector she has arranged in front of my desk. 

Thanks to her, I know the names of this equipment, and while that might score me a best dad of the year title by actively participating in his daughter’s career, I would like to draw a line at how much harassment I can take. I’m having a cup of coffee, she is taking shots. I’m trying to read through the newspaper, she is taking shots. I am trying to bloody work right now, and she invading my space with equipment to take shots. 

“Dad, just this time,” she drops her camera on the desk and hurries to connect the extension to a socket, “It will be quick and painless.” 

“Eva, I’m not in the mood to have my pictures taken,” I look at the antique clock on the desk and see I might still have some time before Vittoria and her father arrive. “Go take a picture of nature or something else,” I pick up my cigar from the ashtray and puff, then tap the butt to let the ash fall. 

“Dad, they love you,” she flips the switch, “my page does not have the same buzz as when I post your pictures,” she takes hoppy steps to me and hugs me from behind, then plants a kiss on my cheek, “It turns out they love you more than they love nature.” 

“Who is they?” I know who. She fills me in on everything, whether I care or not. And I care. 

“My fans, who are sort of like your fans now because they are pining for more pictures of my hot dad,” she smiles sheepishly, saying the hot dad part through joined teeth. 

“Are these the kind of people you surround yourself with?” 

I know it’s not the point, and I’m not a saint myself, but I don’t joke with her. She is still my little Princess, no matter how grown she is. It will always be my duty to watch and protect her. 

“Dad, they are online, so it’s not a physical thing,” she says, dragging her oversized denim pants up to her stomach, then hopping back to the ring lights to set them. 

“But they’re in your circle, aren’t they?” 

“Let’s look at the good side here,” she ties her oversized neon t-shirt into a knot around her waist. I’m a fan of her style. She dresses in oversized denim pants and t-shirts, and she sometimes wears glasses. When she isn’t being a prickly daughter, she spends most of her time editing on her laptop or taking pictures. 

“What’s the good side?” I fold my hands across each other and rest them on the desk, making sure the cigar is visible between my fingers as I pose. 

She knows how to get me. My little bubbly offspring of trouble. I always knew she would be this way, from the night I held her in the hospital room when she was born. With those eyes like her mother’s, there’s not much I can refuse her. There’s not much I have denied her. And Eva has never asked for anything I couldn’t do. I built a bubble around her, and I love how she has stayed in it, never wanting anything more. 

“Be quick,” I snap my fingers at her, and she blows me a kiss. 

“You are the best, Dad,” she flips the first ring light on and then hops over to turn the second one on. She picks up her camera. 

“I like how you’re sitting, now look at the camera, please,” she angles the camera to snap. 

I do as the professional has asked. She is talented. Every year, she sells her pictures for charity, and it’s good for the family name, and people get their money’s worth. 

The shutter clicks, and she smiles brightly. 

I take it she is satisfied. 

“To put it out there, you have female and male fans,” she takes another shot. 

“You don’t have to put it out there,” I lift my eyes to look at her, and she takes another shot. I’m about to scold her when the noises from outside pique my interest. 

She hears it, too. 

“That’s quite some shouting,” she snorts, “Salvatore is finally losing it.” 

None of my domestic staff would dare to ramble so loudly that I could hear it from my study. And not even Salvatore, or the women he changes more than his underwear, would violate the estate’s solemnity in such a way. I wouldn’t put it past him, except this time he is not around. 

“Stay here,” I stand and walk to the door of my study. It’s a stringy lady’s voice and a harsh baritone belonging to a man, “Don’t come out.” 

Eva nods, “I will start editing the pictures,” she is on her laptop as soon as she sits on the navy-blue sofa. 

I open the door meticulously and step out. My study is on the second floor, and from here, I can see what is happening on the ground floor. 

I drag my cigar and puff, seeing them through the fogginess of the smoke. 

Looks like my guests are having a moment. 

Vittoria and her father, Giuseppe Mancuso. 

She has her back to me and intersects his line of sight because she is on six-inch heels. Her legs are covered in black stockings that disappear under the red coat she has on. 

But I can see the top of his bald head and the lines on his forehead deepening from aggravation. Giuseppe is leaning on his walking stick and I have no doubt he has a pipe between his lips. He wears his darkness like a second skin. 

“Give me a break,” Vittoria grits and balls her fists, as if she could punch him if he wasn’t her father. And I bet she can. I have heard enough about her to know she is as ferocious as they come. 

“You will do as told and not cause me any more trouble than you already have,” he grunts, “This time, I won’t go easy on you if you make a mess and bring me shame,” he points at her with shaky fingers, “Once is a mistake, but twice,” he spits his last words out, not completing the sentence. 

“Whose fault was it that Massimo said no to your proposal for a slave?” She throws one hand in the air in a poised way. 

Her audacity. That thing about the offspring of a beast not seeing what everyone else sees when they look at their parents. 

She is standing her ground, making her look like a strong, firm woman, but all I see is a brat that needs to be tamed. She has been given too much freedom, and it’s hard for her to know where the lines are drawn. 

Giuseppe makes a guttural sound, “I’m happy I’m getting you out of my home.” 

“That makes the both of us…” 

Her words have no landing as the back of his callous hand swings into action and smacks her hard on the cheeks. 

No, not that. 

Not under my roof. I get that she is a spoiled brat but hitting her is going too far. There are many ways to clip her wings, and I will take pleasure in… Salvatore would take pleasure in taming her. I correct myself and clear my throat loud enough to get their attention. 

I start climbing down the stairs to welcome them when she turns in my direction, and I almost stumble on myself. 

Bloody Saints. 

I grind my teeth. 

To say she is easy on the eye is an understatement. 

I am dazzled. 

She exudes a pure magnetic charge and bloody hell, I feel like I’m being pulled in with each step I take down the stairs to them. To her. 

I hold her gaze, her eyes like coal, only they smolder, and she has the defiance to hold my gaze as I walk down; standing straighter and lifting her chin like I didn’t just see her being hit and humiliated. Like ink on her pale skin, her hair is wrapped up in a polished bun. 

The closer I get, the straighter she stands. As if daring me. And that glare in her eyes, like she has already dragged me beneath her and placed herself above as the one with the power. 

Oh, she is a fiery one. A wild cat that I want to curb. So many ways to tame her. So many ways to train her. So many bloody ways to put her and her smart mouth to good use. 

I clear my throat again to sweep the contaminating thought out before it infects my mind any further. She is Salvatore’s soon-to-be wife, and whatever needs to be done to her, for her or with her, is his sole responsibility. Not mine. 

I close the distance, and if not for the fact that Giuseppe is in the room with his hovering sourness, which I need to remind myself about, I wouldn’t have been able to tear my eyes away from her to look at his face, as unpleasant as that might be. 

But his face is where my eyes should stay. They have no business sampling her any more than I have already. The legacy of my clan is hanging on her and Salvatore’s marriage. I should never forget that this deal is one way to strengthen my clan and give me a partnership with La eMe. 

Her engagement with Salvatore must go as planned. She holds the key to too much, despite Giuseppe showing he has no regard for her. 

By the way she carries herself, she knows her place and what she can make me lose. 

For some bloody reason, I find myself longing for hell. 

And that fire in her eyes tells me she is not afraid to play.  

Chapter 2 

Vittoria 

The fall of Vittoria Mancuso. 

A play proudly sponsored by Giuseppe Mancuso, my father. Even though he keeps showing how undeserving of that title he is with every single passing day. There’s nothing that can be done to alter the script, not when the show has been set, and especially not when he is the one directing it. 

Oh, to be a normal girl born in New York, allowed to choose her own career, have normal friends, go out on dates, fall in love, live her life with the people she loves and who love her. To be able to have a favorite TV show to watch, extended family holidays and to argue about which snacks are the best, the salty or sweet ones. To talk about fashion trends with your girlfriends or gossip about the neighbors with your mom. 

Oh, what I would give to not have to exist in this world as a daughter to the man beside me. 

But the show must go on. 

The shit I will have to act through… I know as fucking hell I will have to give a grand performance to the very end. Till the curtains close, the hall is emptied, and I’m finally hollow. 

For a moment there, I felt untouchable. Now, I wouldn’t dare to think I’m valued any more than exchangeable stock. 

I know a handful of people who are having a field day at the outcome of my life. The ones who think I probably deserve this much and the ones who wish I would get more than I’m getting now. 

Then there’s the club of men like the one whose sad semen brought me to life, who are clinking their glasses in celebration of the benefits they will reap from the miserable outcome of my life. 

My father doesn’t care for anything other than expanding his wealth and affluence. Sometimes, it’s like he doesn’t even care about his own life. 

That makes the both of us. 

I sneer, the vexation burning and running through my veins, rushing straight to my brain. It’s scorching every cell and licking up any functional nerves. 

Forlorn. I should slap it on my forehead and ride through a cloud of thunder with that miserable word. 

If I could sum up my shit life using one word, it would be pitiful. I deluded myself into believing that at the end of a rough life like the one I’ve had, I could find reprieve. I tricked myself into believing that somehow, something that feels like a miracle of some fucking sort could happen to me and get me as far away as possible from the only life I’ve known. 

But delusion time is over. 

Reality slaps harder than papà can ever hit me. 

There’s nothing I can do to change that or reverse the course of my life. It has set sail, and I am nowhere close to the helm of that ship. And it is pathetic to wish for a storm to steer it in another direction. 

This is what my life has been reduced to. 

Hate it as I may; I have no fucking choice but to live it. 

Giuseppe takes his pipe from his mouth, daring me to say another word. I know he is capable of burning me with the thing. He has done it before. I have a body that feels like a display of his artwork from the ridges left by healed wounds. It’s why I always cover myself up. 

Someone harrumphs behind me, and I take my time as I circle from shooting fireballs at Giuseppe for his assault, although I’m used to it and I probably saw that one coming, to looking at who I’m expecting to be Salvatore. Another degenerate I’m here to see. 

I don’t mean to judge, but I never knew Giuseppe to do business with men of unlike minds. The closest he was to doing things differently was with Massimo, but my father’s reputation preceded him, playing a huge part in ruining that for everyone. 

The grimace on my face loses its hold and begs to deflate as my eyes drop on him. The cold from his stapling sooty eyes, almost like the dark strands mixed in the gray of his hair, sends shivers from where our eyes meet down my spine. Any funny move, and I will disintegrate. 

He is entrancing, to say the fucking least. Old, no doubt. But age has only given him his attributes an acuteness that should be considered illegal, the same as his choice of business. 

I swallow what feels like pricking pins, my throat tight. It both hurts and tingles. 

I have a new theory for how the devil looks. Up until now, I could use papà’s face as a pictorial reference, but seeing the darkness in the eyes of this man, sensing the air that surrounds him as he takes valiant steps down the white-marbled stairs with gold rails, I agree with everyone who has ever suggested that the devil looks nothing like we know. 

My heart beats faster, in rhythm with my breathing, with each step closer he gets to us. To me. 

Giuseppe had to choose his kind. He didn’t even think of picking someone at least age-appropriate for me. I must have lost my market value to be given to this man. Or he offered something way above what Giuseppe would have expected in exchange for me. 

Not that he is anything like Giuseppe in appearance. The irony is that his choice of color is black, and Giuseppe’s is white. Black dress shirt for a buff body and muscles that radiate authority. Black dress pants for firm legs with powerful strides as they close the distance. A hole in one of his coal-black bristled eyebrows to show he had a wild youth. 

Most of his long, firm, thick fingers are covered in black ink and rings. 

I lift my eyes back to hold his slithering gaze. It’s like he can tear through my fort and see that I am cowering inside. Like he can see deep inside how much I’m shrinking and hurting from this arrangement. 

My jaw ticks now, and my teeth grate against each other. The fire in my brain is shooting across like fireworks, and my sinuses are prickling with tears that will never make it to my eyes. It’s been twenty years since I last cried. And no matter how vexed I am at this moment, it’s not fucking enough to break the dam. 

He is staring intently as he stands before me. Like I summoned him. Like he is some dark lord ready to fulfill some prophecy with me at its core. 

His hooded eyes are dispatching encrypted messages to me, and my vexation-swaddled brain is trying to decrypt them. Whatever they are conveying seems important, and I want to know. But, as piercing as his eyes are, there’s a shadow that does not allow looking past what he wants a person to see. 

The hair at the nape of my neck spikes up. 

It’s a staring contest, I guess. 

He is trying to gauge me. To weigh up his new toy. He can get in line. Giuseppe has tried even to break me my whole life and he yet has to get the desired gratification from his hard work. Whatever he thinks he can bend me with, I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the hell my father put me through for years. 

I take him up on his silent dare. Staring contest it is, then. A little annoying, but thrilling nonetheless. It’s the most thrilling thing that has happened to me in a while, and I can make due with a little excitement in my progressively tedious life. 

Papà is observing us, but he just insignificant right now. The man in front of me knows how to guzzle attention when he walks into a place. 

We are both determined to see this one to the end. 

Then, he drops his eyes to the side of my face. The same side that was hit by Giuseppe minutes ago. Meaning, he saw me get hit. He saw my humiliation, how I wouldn’t want the man I have been handed to as a trophy wife to see me in. And he is letting me know he saw it, to remind me of how little I mean even to my father and to let me know that he also knows how to keep me in place when I falter. 

But I will not falter. 

It’s a promise. 

A fucking oath, if I need to draw my blood and swear on it. 

I won’t let anyone make me feel so little. I am Vittoria Mancuso, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about my predicament; I will keep my head high, my eyes ocean-still, my spine vertical, and my will to fight for myself and retain whatever self-worth is left in my life unshaken. 

So, I boss up my chest. In my mind, I seize him up with a leash and strip him till he shrinks. I keep him where I keep them all—underneath me. I don’t care about the power this one emanates. I don’t care if he threatens to turn the wheel and use my leash against me. 

I don’t fucking care if Giuseppe dived into hell and brought the devil out with him to give his daughter to. 

He is beneath me. 

And beneath me is where he will be for the rest of this shitshow. 

A glint of amusement flickers in his icy eyes, and I sup up. It’s the first opening he is giving me. The first anything I get from him other than the dark threat in his eyes.  

“Giuseppe,” his voice bellows with the thick, dry texture of a tree bark. “Welcome. How was the flight?” He turns his head in the direction of Giuseppe. No smile. Not even a subtle welcoming hint. It appears Giuseppe has found his twin. 

“I beat death again,” Giuseppe grunts, moving closer with the aid of his walking stick. He once again makes it clear that I mean nothing by standing in front of me, giving me nothing but the back of his glossy bald head. 

I know he can manage on his own, but he chooses to use the walking stick as a guise, so people think he is vulnerable, and they let their guard down around him. 

“This must be her,” that stormy voice again, making me want to zero out every other voice in my head and narrow it down to only his. 

“This is my daughter,” Giuseppe offers, stepping aside slightly. On the bright side, if there’s any to this arrangement, at least I won’t have to listen to his screeching voice any longer. 

“I would say I that see, but…” he snorts quietly. 

“She took after her mother,” Giuseppe chortles abrasively, “She is lucky. What good would she be if she had this face?” 

I would carve the face out myself if that were the case. If life had dared to not only give me him as a father but also make me even a sliver of an image of him. It would feel like a punch in the gut every time I looked in the mirror. 

“She has your tenaciousness.” 

He doesn’t know me. I’m nothing like my father. 

If anything, I’m worse. 

“It has cost me,” Giuseppe replies, looking around, “I don’t see Salvatore.” 

“He is around somewhere.” 

“You are not Salvatore?” I don’t want to show the nip of disappointment in my maniacally twisting stomach. 

“Would you want me to be?” He turns to me now, then shoves his firm hands into the pocket of his dress pants. His stare has the same effect as a thunderbolt. It strikes. 

It’s my turn to harrumph, “I thought you were my fiancé.” 

“Is that so?” He lifts both brows, eyes almost shimmering from the effect of the bright white light overhead. 

Cheeky laughter breaks through the intensity in the air before the person laughing pokes her head from behind him. Everything in this estate appears to be on a different plane of beauty. 

She practically bounces over to us with coal-black curls, vibrant blue eyes, pink flushed smiling cheeks, wearing an oversized neon shirt tied to the back, baggy denim pants, and holding a camera. 

“That would be awkward now, wouldn’t it?” She sneaks her free hand under his arm and plasters herself to his side. 

She looks too bright to be around someone with such a sullen aura. I flick my eyes between them, observing the stark contrast. Tight-pressed lips and lips curved in a smile. Darkness and light. Maybe a storm and rainbow. 

“Salvatore is my brother,” she wraps her hand around his waist now. “Wouldn’t it be awkward if my father was your fiancé?” She cranes her neck to stare at him. “I know he is easy on the eyes,” she smiles, the kind of smile that says how much she cherishes him, “But nah…” She shakes her head, scrunching her nose. 

Her father. That’s the piece to complete the puzzle. As a pair they are like a work of art I can’t figure out, no matter how much I stare at it or try to delve into the artist’s mind. 

And as if it’s not enough, he smiles at her and wraps his strong, protective arms around her. 

His daughter has so much life pulsing through her that it is impossible not to have some of it spill on you. A daughter who looks like she has been allowed a freedom I can never dare dream of. I observe how bold she is to not only approach her father but to fling herself on him, even with a guest like Giuseppe groaning disapprovingly alongside me. 

This starts a spiral of longing inside of me. 

Shame on you, papà.

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Chapter One

Katya 

“What the hell?!” 

There are very few things that can ruin a lovely vacation. And that was the sort of phone call that could ruin not only a vacation, but one’s whole damned life.  

I wanted it to be wrong. I wanted to have misheard it. 

Honestly, I wanted to cover my damned ears so that I could pretend that I had never heard that string of words in that particular order ever again.  

“Please tell me that you’re joking.”  

My voice trembled, and I couldn’t even bring myself to hate it in the way that I normally would. I’m not the sort of person that is prone to emotional displays. But, this? This ripped the world right out from underneath of me and tilted everything on its axis. 

My skin felt cold. I could feel myself paling as the damnable words came from my family’s assistant straight into my ears once more.  

“I’m so sorry Katya… but your mother’s death has been confirmed by our people. Stay where you are, and await further orders. I repeat, stay where you are until Alexei gives orders.” 

Moments ago, I had been allowing the September afternoon sun soak into my fair skin. 

I had been having my feet rubbed by the hunk now awkwardly pawing at my back. Not the best travel boyfriend that I’ve ever had in my life, but he’s stupid handsome and looks incredible in a suit so I can’t complain much. Standing at a good foot taller than me and covered in glorious, bulging muscles and tattoos, he certainly looks good being photographed next to me on the beach for my Instagram. He can’t offer me much in the way of conversation, but that’s not what I want him for anyway. He’s not marriage material. Not by half. But, he will do for now.  

Certainly good enough in bed to keep me fully satisfied. 

What else would one want from a leisurely trip to Valencia, in Spain, if not to have a lot of good sex and sangria? 

“What is it, babe?” Derek muttered as his large hands rubbed up and down my biceps. He tried to kiss the cap of my shoulder but the last thing that I want right now is to be touched. 

I shrug out of his hold, wading across the pool a couple of inches away from him.  

“What the hell happened?! Where is she? Her… her body, where is it? I can go and collect her tonight.” Even as I said the words, I knew that I was not going to be given permission to fly back to Russia tonight and collect her body from whatever pop-up morgue they had her in. I can’t even remember the last time that I was given leave to fly back home to attend to anything. Guilt surges through me at the knowledge that I, being the horrible daughter that I am, have not seen my mother in years. When was our last conversation? Was she alone when it happened? Was she scared? 

The thought of her lying there cold and prodded at by strangers is almost more than I can stomach. I might be sick.  

Derek tries to grab me again, pulling me by my hips back into the warm, broad expanse of his muscled chest.  

“Stop,” I mutter dismissively. Can’t he see that I’m busy right now? Can’t he see that something important is going on right now? I turn my focus back to the phone call. “Does Alexei know? What did he say?” 

This time, Derek seems to not want to take no for an answer. 

The grip on my hip tightens as he yanks me back toward him. Roughly enough that my phone slips and falls right out of my hand and into the pool. 

Whatever my family’s assistant was about to say to me about my brother becomes a gurgly mess.  

“What the hell?” I half shout as my palms collide with Derek’s chest.  

Something shifts on Derek’s face.  

He is no longer the mostly stupid boyfriend that’s been entertaining me for the past couple of months. 

No, he just transformed into something darker. Something that I don’t even have time to process before I’m being yanked under the water.  

My lungs burn. 

For a brief, delusional moment I think that he’s just being petty or something because I ignored him. But then his hand knots roughly into the crown of my long platinum blonde hair and doesn’t budge. 

He’s trying to kill me. 

Panic explodes through my body as my ‘fight’ mode kicks into overdrive.  

I swipe my feet at his, hoping that I can knock him off balance, but he’s so much larger than I am and his grip on my hair is so tight that it feels like he’s going to pull my scalp clean from my skull. 

This can’t be how I go out. I refuse to allow this to be the way that I die. 

Absolutely not. 

I’m a Levine for Christ’s sake. Does he not have any idea? 

Guess the meathead just doesn’t care. He might not have any sense of self preservation, but I sure do.  

I surge forward under the water and grab a hold of his junk as hard as I can, twisting and pulling with every bit of strength that I have left in my body. 

Dark spots are forming on my vision, but it works. 

I can hear him yowling in pain even from under the water. Enough that I can scrape my manicured nails into his arm like talons to free my hair from him and kick away. 

With a final burst of energy, I kick the heel of my foot into his face as hard as I can before swimming for my life.  

Shaking so hard my hands barely work, I gather up all of our clothes and belongings and book it to the elevators. 

I glance over my shoulder long enough to see that the pool water has bled red in a ring all around his frame. 

Derek’s eyes glint with absolute murder and rage as he slowly attempts to wade toward me.  

The elevator doors ding and I burst inside and awkwardly fumble the room key against the lock.  

It’s certainly not going to delay him for very long that he doesn’t have a key to the room, but I will take every second that I can possibly get.  

I throw myself into our hotel room and slam the door shut, barricading the thin wood with the dresser. Adrenaline must be on high time overdrive because the heavy wooden furniture is not something that I would have been able to move on my own before. I don’t think that I’ve ever managed to pack quite this quickly in my whole life. 

I am a hurricane as I tear through the room moving on instinct more than anything else. 

I know that if I stop moving, even for a second, reality is going to catch up with me. I can’t allow myself the time to process whatever the fuck just happened to me. 

I have to move. I have to get somewhere safe. Then I can call Alexei. 

Everything will be okay. That’s what I have to keep telling myself.  

I leave behind everything that isn’t absolutely mandatory for my survival.  

It feels far too much like my childhood to be comfortable.  

Scrambling to hide. Throwing everything into a backpack and mindlessly running until I know that I’m safe. 

Alexei is my safe. He’s always been the one to take care of me – but now my brother is tucked away in New York City and a hell of a long distance from Spain.  

The violent pounding at the door is even more triggering. 

Only, it’s not my father on the other side of the wood this time. It’s an enraged giant of a man whose nose I likely broke a few moments ago after his failed murder attempt. 

My heart thumps into my throat and my shaking is even more violent as I throw my backpack on and lace my shoes as best I can before heading to the balcony. 

Not the best option, I’ll admit that. But, if it’s death or death, I will be damned if I don’t choose pavement splatter when the other option is man.  

Over the balcony and down the drainpipe. I’m nearly down to the ground when I hear the door of my hotel room shatter. 

The angry crunching of wood splintering and furious shouting is the background noise to my heart threatening to suffocate me and a desperate desire for him to not look down.  

I dive into the first taxi that slows. I don’t even wait for it to stop before shouting at the man to drive me to the airport. “Hurry, please. I’ll pay double if you get me there in the next twenty minutes.” 

The man clearly wants to ask me handfuls of super annoying questions but I don’t have time for it. He must read it on my face because in the next moment, he’s peeling down the road so fast it would have made my Russian grandmother incredibly happy to see. I glance anxiously behind me to see if somehow Derek is running behind the taxi on foot. I wouldn’t put it past him.  

Almost trembling too hard to dial Alexei’s number on my phone.  

He doesn’t pick up until the third ring.  

“Brat?” I mutter softly. I hope that by speaking like this, I can hide how terrified I feel right now.  

“Da? I am very busy right now, Katya, what is it?”  

Even though he sounds annoyed that I’ve interrupted his day, just hearing his voice is soothing to me.  

“Has Ms. Lagunov not called you yet?” 

“She’s tried, but like I said – I’m busy right now.” 

“Mama is dead, Brat.” I whisper. 

Saying it out loud makes it real. It makes her actually dead and all at once, the pain hits me. 

The pounding, angry headache that throbs and the burning in my lungs all seems to fade away into nothingness as the reality of the situation sinks in. “Ms. Lagunov just told me. She is with her body now, the mortician is finishing up the autopsy for formality’s sake… but Brat, she is gone.” 

There’s a series of hushed, angry swearing in Russian from the other end of the phone and I know he’s likely covering the receiver with his hand in some futile attempt to shield me from his temper.  

“You are certain of this?” Alexei demands harshly. 

He’s always like this. Business first and emotions second.  

“Why would she lie?” 

“Those damned Italian bastards.”  

Something breaks on Alexei’s end of the phone. I don’t know if he’s punched something or thrown something, but it doesn’t really matter. “I warned those mafia pricks what would happen if they stepped out of fucking line. I warned them! Listen to me, Katya, I will handle this. You are to stay put until I say otherwise. I mean it. If they are making moves, I will not risk you getting in harm’s way.” 

“Yes.” I mutter lamely as I try to keep myself from blubbering.  

“Are you safe where you are?” 

I almost don’t want to answer that. I don’t like lying to my brother. “Yes.” I mutter. I mean, I’m as safe as a person in a taxi can be.  

I don’t tell him about my own murder attempt.  

They have to be related somehow. The timing of it is just too perfect. 

Alexei will go completely off the rails if he knows that somebody tried to hurt me and that somebody managed to find our poor mother. He would have every man in his considerable army mobilized in the hour if he knew… and avenging mother comes first.  

Besides, I’m fine. Mostly. I can take care of myself.  

“We are at war, Katya, do not make trouble. I will send word soon.” 

Just like that, the line goes dead on his end and I’m stuck with the taxi driver and the chaos of my own thoughts as he pulls the taxi around to the entrance of the airport. 

Alexei can tell me to stay put all he wants, but there is no way in hell that he can make me actually do it. He’s not going to cut me out of this situation as easily as he might like. 

He really ought to know me better than that by now.  

I’ve always been more of an act first and ask forgiveness later type of gal anyway.  

He can yell at me all he likes for it when I show up at his place in New York City.  

Chapter Two 

Luca 

‘Russia target eliminated. Standby for confirmation for Spain target.’  

“Well, would you look at that?” I chuckle bitterly to myself as I dab the corners of my mouth with my napkin. 

What started out as a nice lunch with my most trusted right-hand man, Dario, was turning into something truly lovely. Paired with the stunning weather outside, good wine and now this? 

Yes, it was setting me up for a damned good day.  

“Luca?” Dario questions as he sips on his expresso.  

“Looks like my father got busy again. Making even more plans without bothering to loop me in on things. How well do you think that is going to work out for me the next time I have to meet with him?” I ease back into my chair and let the cloth napkin rest on the table in front of me. 

I close my eyes and inhale slowly through my nose to remain as calm as possible.  

It’s not the first time that my father has done something like this. 

This damned war he’s gotten our family involved in is a constant struggle. 

Logic rarely matters when Enzo has the lead. He gets a hair up his ass about something or another and runs with it. In truth, he would rather prefer not to have to tell his son anything if he didn’t have to. I’ve always been the black stain that he can’t seem to rid himself of. But, as his only heir – he’s stuck with me. He certainly doesn’t care to run his choices through his son before acting on them.  

Even if those choices are completely against Cosa Nostra’s moral code.  

Something else that he tends to forget in his cursed wars.  

My phone vibrates with the alert of another text message that I pick up before I can think better of it.  

‘Update received – Spain target en route to NYC. ETA 4:37pm’ 

The updates are coming to me and not my father for a reason. 

It means that he has folded me in and made me responsible for these tasks and hasn’t bothered to tell me. 

Again. 

Some days I swear that he wants for me to fail. 

I’ve done everything that has ever been required of me, and yet it never seems to be good enough.  

And now, he’s put me in charge of this task when apparently only one of the two targets that he wanted killed were actually properly taken care of. Which means that I’m going to have to give my father a bad report.  

“Everything all right?” Dario asks, already packing up his belongings from the table and signaling for the bill. Most people mistake Dario for my older brother based on our looks. Not dissimilar in features despite the fact that I stand a couple of inches taller than him. He doesn’t have quite as many tattoos as I do, but we are matched scar for scar. Guess it comes with the territory. He’s got seven years of age on me, but you wouldn’t know it to speak to him. It’s not something that has ever gotten in the way of our working relationship.  

“No. We will have to reschedule our meeting, Dario. Looks like my father needs to speak with me.” I answer as I tuck my phone down into my pocket and take the car keys from the table. 

I don’t bother to wait for Dario, he will manage on his own. 

Every second that passes between my getting those texts and not showing up in my father’s office will be counted against me, and Dario is my closest and most trusted man – so he understands. 

There is very little that he would ever blame me for.  

My black range rover zips through the city that I’ve called home long enough to know it like the back of my hand. 

It takes almost no time whatsoever before I’m pulling into the parking garage of my father’s skyscraper. 

I pass the keys to the valet and adjust the fit of my black suit jacket before stepping into the elevator coded specifically to work for my father, myself, and our inner circle.  

I see that even those security measures aren’t quite enough for the old man, as the red light of a newly installed camera sits in the top corner of the elevator watching my every blink until I reach the penthouse. 

I can feel my father’s strange mood in the air the moment I enter his residence. It looks more like a sterile art gallery than a home that somebody could actually live in. A cartoonishly sharp version of hyper modern. All stainless steel, sharp edges and matte black everywhere that you look. 

My oxfords make no noise whatsoever as I move to father’s office, where his sweltering fireplace is already lit. 

He’s standing with his back to the door and a glass of brandy in his hand, swirling the contents of the glass around the tumbler as he holds it casually near his hip.  

I have been told that my father and I look a lot alike. 

I haven’t decided yet if that flatters or bothers me. 

The man tends to favor heavily on paranoia so he had nearly all records of his history and life destroyed save for a small album of baby photos in my late grandmother’s house. But the album was buried with her for the same paranoid reasons. 

He stands at a lean six foot, while I am three inches taller and a good deal bulkier than he is. While his head of thick black hair has turned mostly silver with age, hints of the true color still remain in his full beard and mustache. We have the same deep olive skin and russet brown eyes, though he lacks the dimples that I got from my mother.  

“Tell me that you have good news, son.” He addresses me without turning to look at me. 

Son? If that isn’t an indicator that he’s in the mood to play games, then I don’t know what is.  

Honestly, his constant power trips and games have become almost comforting at this point. 

Predictable in their consistency. No point in sugar coating things, get right to the point.  

“Levine’s mother? Are you out of your mind?” I blurt a touch more bluntly than advisable. 

If it was not just the two of us in this room, he would have had beaten the crap out of me for such a comment. 

Instead, he turns slowly, his eyes impossibly darkening with rage over the disrespect that he would interpret my words as.  

“It was supposed to be both of the Levine bitches. A swift strike to eliminate most of the remaining bloodline.” His words are condemnation and explanation both as he slowly sips the contents of his glass. “But apparently, the little bitch managed to give our man the slip somehow.” 

The clinking of the ice cubes around the edge of his glass is the only noise in the room between us for a long moment.  

I understand that he’s pissed that Alexei Levine’s younger sister isn’t dead but he doesn’t seem to understand how serious of a move he has just made. We’re not supposed to go after wives and mothers. Women and children are supposed to be off limits and yet my father has chosen to make his move by going after Levine’s immediate family? That is punching below the belt. This war has been going on for too long, I know that better than most, but this is not the way to move forward. 

However, even if I voiced my opinion here, my father wouldn’t listen to it. His way is the only way. His opinion is the only opinion that holds merit.  

“You know how this is going to go. This war that you’re obsessed with – there will be no turning back now. You’ve opened season on all of us.” Anger starts to bleed into my words as I speak. 

He might be the boss, but his long-term thinking has always been severely lacking.  

“You have no one, besides me, so what do you care? Is it not as if they can kill your wife or daughter as retaliation.” Enzo shrugged.  

“And our men? Those with families? Because you needed retribution for a few clubs and a slight dip in profits… you felt that this was warranted? Going against all of Cosa Nostra’s values? What does this mean for our clan?” 

“My clan, son. You have a long way to go before you get to claim that you have any rights to this family. Do not speak higher than you can reach.”  

“You are telling me that you find your actions to be fair? Especially when you know for a fact how volatile Alexei Levine can be?!” 

I take a step forward as father places his glass down on the mantle of his fireplace. “You said no innocents. It was your cornerstone, father, and yet here you are – murdering a woman who had nothing to do with any of this. I doubt that she had even the slightest idea of the war that her son was involved in. You know as well as I that there have been no reports of them even being in contact for years.” 

“Innocent?” Enzo answers, as if that were the only part of my words that he has picked up on at all. “You stand there and have the balls to tell me that any of those Levine bitches are innocent?!”  

His eyes narrow into slits – something that used to cowtail me into submission when I was a child – but that was a long, long time ago. 

Now I can just feel the muscle in my jaw clenching, knowing how much his impulsive, reckless actions are going to cost all of us.  

“Every one of those bitches is connected to him. That little roach that keeps getting in my damned way!” Enzo’s voice never changes pitch or volume, but somehow it becomes barbed and lethal when he speaks. 

Something about the way he can glare daggers at the person he speaks to, that seems to inflict actual physical damage, is something I have never understood and have also never quite learned how to master yet for myself.  

This whole war is wrong, but I know that I can’t say that to him.  

He wouldn’t listen anyway.  

I think that some part of him knows that I don’t support this war, and that I haven’t fully supported his choices in a while now. 

Maybe this is all just another test that he’s putting me through. 

He’s probably just trying to push me to see where I will break and what the final straw will be that makes me defy him. 

That day will come, I am certain, when I will no longer be his obedient son, and I will become one more name on his ever-growing list of enemies.  

I don’t know which one of us will survive that day either.  

“Care to explain to me why only one of them is dead, instead of both?” Enzo broke the silence, expecting an explanation from me that I just don’t have.  

“I have men on the way to the airport to intercept her as soon as her plane lands.” I answer through my gritted teeth.  

Enzo smirks. “Oh, good. For once we are on the same page about something, son.” 

He lifts a hand and condescendingly pats me on the cheek.  

“I want you to ensure that there are no more fuck ups on this job. I want you to personally go to the airport and pick up the young Levine bitch, and I want you to bring me her head. I will have her stuffed and mounted and pictures sent to that meddling twat of a brother of hers before the day is finished.” 

Just the idea of doing what he asked of me makes my stomach roil. 

It is not because I am not capable of great violence, but this girl didn’t do anything to deserve the horrible, depraved things that I know that my father would do to her. 

Not to mention, it is a damned insult to send me out on a petty wet work job when I’m supposed to be getting groomed to take over as the head of the family.  

“Unless you think that you can’t handle it? Son?” Enzo continues, his thin lips curling up into a devious smirk.  

“Consider it done.”  

It’s the only answer he would accept anyway.

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Chapter One

Mary 

The Bensons were many things, but quiet was not one of them. 

I crashed through mom’s door, carrying a dish of wedged potatoes that was just a little too hot to be holding with my bare hands, as my red hair whipped into tangles from the wind. 

I felt like a mess—and I looked one too. I certainly didn’t look like a fashion school graduate.  

I shouted out an ‘I’m here!’ into the house, dropping the potatoes -almost literally- onto the table in the foyer.  

I expected mom to come around the corner with her oven mitt on, smiling at me and telling me to get in there, or to hear my brother hollering from the dining room about how late I was. A part of me still expected to get swept up into my dad’s bear hug, even though it had been almost four years now. 

Instead, the house was silent, and the minute I realized it my spine tingled with apprehension. 

It had been a difficult day. 

The magazine had me writing an incredibly boring article on the miraculous powers of a liquid dish soap.  

I had taken a journalism course in college alongside my fashion design major in the hope that I could work for a prestigious fashion magazine whilst designing my own line of clothes one day. I had yet to write an actual fashion article, no matter how hard I tried, and none of the fashion magazines in the area were hiring. Or at least, they weren’t hiring me. 

I’d ended up needing a hot shower to destress, but it stopped being soothing the minute I stepped out and caught sight of the clock. 

I’d lost track of time and had only thirty minutes to get ready for the Benson Monthly Family Dinner (trademark pending). 

Those thirty minutes were a whirlwind of me dodging from one end of my room to the other, trying desperately to put myself together enough to convince mom and Pietro I was doing alright.  

It probably worked, at least for them. 

I’d put on a sage long-sleeved dress with gray leggings underneath, which was just the right mix of flowy and flared to create an illusion of the curves I didn’t have, with a chunky, spiced-pumpkin sort of orange scarf keeping my pale neck and collarbones warm from the fall chill. 

The slouchy hat matched, but the ankle-boots were a light tan that didn’t fit the rest and I hadn’t had time to put any earrings in, let alone add bracelets or a necklace. 

I’d had to tie my hair, still wet enough to look brown more than copper, into a messy braid, and I’d had to try to do my eyeliner on the bus. 

If I’d had a few more minutes to put it all together I would have been able to make it cute, and to most people it would probably still be passable, but it felt painfully incomplete to me.  

I paused and forced myself to take a breath. 

I didn’t want my family to worry, and besides, it was all going to turn around soon. I just had to bear it a little longer and then I wouldn’t have to force a little extra cheer onto my face.  

“Mom?” I called again. “Mama, I’m here.” 

My stomach sunk when no one answered me. 

“Mom? Pietro?” I started down the hall towards the dining room as the frenetic energy that carried me in flatlined into something heavy in my gut. 

I tried to shake it off. Sure, something unusual was happening, but that didn’t mean I had to teeter down the hallway with my heart pounding like I was in some horror film. 

I should check my phone—maybe they had just gone to get something from the grocery store last minute and I just hadn’t seen the text— 

Then mom rounded the corner, eyes distant and a letter clutched in her hands. Instantly I knew that something was wrong.  

“Mom?” I gasped, hurrying towards her with my hands out. It looked like she would pass out and I knew if she did I’d have to catch her, although I didn’t know how, given that I was the definition of a stick and couldn’t lift more than ten pounds on a good day. But wasn’t that what adrenaline was supposed to do? Make people stronger when they were scared? 

I grasped mom by the shoulders, looking up at her. Her eyes met mine and the first sob broke free.  

“Oh, Mama,” I whispered, walking her back so she could sit at the dining table. 

Immediately, I felt tears burn my own eyes; my mom was an emotional woman but she rarely ever cried in front of us. 

The last time was the day dad died. She’d soldiered through the funeral planning and the wake with the people bringing casseroles with dry eyes, sagging like the world was heavy and she was exhausted, but never breaking into sobs. 

To see her now, hyperventilating with this scrap of paper clutched tight to her chest, made me feel overwhelmed and helpless—and scared down to my soul.  

Pietro wasn’t there, and I feared the worst.  

“Mom?” I asked, a sob building in my throat. “Mama, please, what’s…” She shook her head and held out the letter. All it said was: 

Dear Mom and Mary—I’m sorry, but I’m going somewhere dangerous and I can’t take you with me. I’m not in trouble, but there’s something I have to do. Mom, I found out but I don’t blame you for keeping it secret. If everything goes well, I’ll be back in a while, but I’m begging you not to call the police. The people I’m with cannot know who I am, and if the police come looking for me, I’ll lose the advantage of anonymity. I know this is scary for you, but the best way to keep me safe is not to tell anyone I’m in danger. If everything goes according to plan, which I really think it will, then I’ll come back to you. I promise. Stay safe, and stay out of downtown. -Pietro 

I stared at the words, reading them over and over like they would suddenly say something that made sense to me. 

All I was catching was Pietro, danger, might not come back—it spun around in my head senselessly. 

Sure, we hadn’t heard from him for a few days, and we’d thought that was kind of weird since we were a very tight knit family, but this terrifying, cryptic message couldn’t be real, could it? 

I mean, Pietro could be a total annoyance, but he was never a troublemaker. He’d dodged some classes but never failed any, and he’d thrown some punches but never the first. 

He was smart and funny and personable, and he was my big brother.  

No, it couldn’t be real. Pietro was fine. 

This was a prank, or a joke, or he was filming from around the corner while snickering, or something. 

He’d pop out with a big grin, and then see us crying and apologize, saying he didn’t think we were going to take it so badly. He’d comfort us like he had after dad’s death, he’d hug me like he did after my first college boyfriend broke my heart, and I’d smack his chest and yell at him and be so, so glad he was there.  

But mom was struggling to reign in her rising fear, clasping her hands over her mouth like that could smother the urge to scream, and Pietro wasn’t anywhere 

I read the letter again. 

Found out—secret—they can’t know who I am—if the plan works—if the plan works— 

I felt like I would collapse. 

Pietro was gone. This letter was real. 

Pietro was in danger, and he was gone. I’m going somewhere dangerous, and I can’t take you with me. 

What was the plan? Where had he gone, why was it dangerous, why could no one know who he was when he got there? Would he ever come back? 

What had mom kept a secret, and why did it sound like it started all of this?  

It was handwritten, and it was Pietro’s handwriting. 

He did that stupid thing where he put a vertical line inside of every lowercase O, because otherwise no one could ever tell his O from his E, and the slant of the Ts and Ds were weirdly severe. I had that handwriting in every one of the 24 birthday cards he’d given me. 

There was no mistaking his penmanship.  

Mom took deep, heaving gasps, eyes closed, as she tried to pull herself together. As she tried to be the adult. 

I was never any good at that, someone else always had to pick up the slack, putting aside their own needs to help me with every curveball that came my way. And here mom was, doing it again. 

She pushed the fear, the grief and hysteria, back down inside of her, even though I was sure she wasnted to let it all out, and I needed her too bad to tell her not to.  

“Mary,” she croaked. “Ma-Mary.”  

“Mom?” I asked, voice small. “What—what does he mean, he’s gone? What is he doing?”  

Another sob half-broke out of my mom’s clenched teeth and she clenched her whole face until the moment passed. “He’s—I think he’s with the mafia.”  

As I already said, I had never been very good at handling bad news. 

When I was 12 and my bully had dumped her food tray on me I’d sobbed inconsolably for days, and when I got rejected from my first-choice college I’d thrown up. When dad died they’d had to hospitalize me for dehydration because I cried out all the water they tried to give me. 

This time I felt the room spin and let my eyes roll into the back of my head.  

I wasn’t unconscious for very long, according to mom, but I woke up on the couch with my mother looking near apoplectic beside me. 

“Mary!” she gasped, squeezing my hand so hard it throbbed. “Oh my god, baby, don’t do that to me—here, have some water. Does anything hurt?” 

“No,” I drawled, smacking my lips as I came back.  

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” mom asked, bringing a cup to my face and peeling open my eye like she had the medical training to diagnose a brain bleed or whatever. I pulled back from her, taking the cup.  

“I’m fine,” I said, pushing myself up. 

The events of my last few waking minutes slowly leaked into my brain. God, Pietro was gone. 

He was with the mafia. 

“Mom,” I said seriously, looking her in the eye with an uncharacteristic seriousness, “I need you to tell me everything.” She gulped.  

“I never wanted you to know,” she said. “Either one of you.”  

“Mom,” I said, firmer. Her lower lip wobbled.  

“You and Pietro are half siblings,” she blurted, squeezing her eyes shut like she knew my reaction would stop her if she saw it, and she knew I wasn’t going to accept half a story this time. 

Then, before I could process the depth of what she’d just said, she dropped the next bombs, one after the other. 

“He—his father r-raped me. I was engaged to Dad at the time, and I thought he was going to leave me, but he didn’t. We realized I had got-gotten pregnant, and there was no way it could be Dad’s, but Daddy wanted to tell everyone Pietro was his so no one would have to know what had happened to me. It was a different time, honey, we didn’t talk about these things, and we were scared what would happen if Pietro’s biological father,” she spat the words with disdain, “ever found out.” I was speechless.  

“O-okay,” I stuttered, trying to digest all of that. “So what—what does that have to do with now?” Mom swallowed thickly.  

“Because,” she said, shoulders rising around her ears as she tensed further and further, “the man who raped me—Pietro’s birth father—is Cristiano Pellico. The mafia boss.” 

I stared at her. I remembered a video where someone dropped a bowling ball into jello, and the way the bowling ball carved its way to the bottom, growing slower with every second of resistance but never stopping. At that moment, I felt like I was that jello.  

Pellico, Pellico… I didn’t know the first thing about the mafia, but I’d seen that name somewhere recently. 

“You think he found out?” I asked, half-numb. 

Mom nodded jerkily, eyes frantically pleading with me as we finally made eye contact.  

“I don’t know how,” she said. “I thought I’d buried our secret, not even your grandparents know. Daddy’s name is on his birth certificate, we registered him as Daddy’s son, I never wrote it down anywhere or talked about it to anyone but your dad. I don’t know how he knows, but he does.” 

“And now he’s… joining the mafia?” I asked, the words fitting wrong in my mouth. 

That was ridiculous. Pietro wasn’t a criminal. 

He wasn’t a scarred-up thug who roamed the streets looking for fights, he was the brother who had skipped high school parties to watch his little sister swim like the seven years age difference was nothing. 

He didn’t do drugs or any other weird stuff, he was just a guy. Just an average 31-year-old. 

He worked at a tire shop. He hated pistachio ice cream.  

“I don’t know,” Mom said, voice cracking. “The letter dropped through the letter slot maybe fifteen minutes before you got here, I haven’t—I haven’t figured anything out yet, but that is the only thing I have ever hidden from the two of you.” 

“But—but why?” I asked, lost. “Why would he join the people who hurt you?”  

Mom shook her head.  

“I don’t know,” she said morosely. 

Pellico! The image of my phone screen! My phone automatically opened to a news feed, that is where I had seen, in big red letters, the words “Nicola Pellico Found Murdered.” 

I gasped.  

“My phone,” I said, trying to stand and ignoring my mother trying to urge me back down. “I need my phone!” 

Yep, right there—Nicola Pellico, the only son of suspected mafioso Cristiano Pellico, was found just hours ago in his apartment with four bullet holes punched through him, face down in a puddle of his own cooling blood, gunshot residue on his hands, his gun nowhere to be seen. So far there was no evidence of a forced break-in or a stated suspect. Information was still being gathered from the crime scene.  

My mouth dried up, and my mom went rigid where she was looking over my shoulder. 

Nicola had been 26, just two years older than me, and he hadn’t done anything important or notable. The only reason anyone would target him was because of his father. 

His father, who was also Pietro’s father. 

If someone killed Nicola in order to get back at Cristiano for something, then wasn’t Pietro living under the same threat? Is that why he left, to keep us from getting caught in the crossfire? 

“We have to do something!” I said, shaking my head There had to be something we could do, right? Some way to go back to normal? Mom’s fists wrinkled her work blouse.  

“What, Mary?!” she snapped. 

I reared back, and she reigned in her voice a little. “What can we do? He’s right, if we go to the police he’ll get killed. With all of… this… Cristiano will be desperately looking for another heir, so if Pietro shows up he’ll probably be welcomed with open arms.” 

I tasted bile. 

“So—so if—” 

“If he joins, he’ll become a mafioso. The police don’t help mafiosos, they shoot them. And if the mafia finds out the police are looking for him they’ll think he’s a snitch, and they’ll do a lot worse than shoot him .” 

“But—”  

Mom shook her head, holding me tight. “We can’t do anything, Mary. We can’t do anything at all.” 

Chapter Two

Salvatore 

When people died, they tended to take their secrets to the grave, and I had to know everything Nicola Pellico had up his sleeve.  

Usually, when I was staring this intently at a photograph, it showed a crime scene. 

Or, occasionally, a future crime scene. 

I was not used to inspecting a series of photos of one dead man and a random assortment of people he’d apparently known.  

I sighed, rolling my head to loosen the tight muscles of my neck. 

Flavio glanced back at me in the rearview mirror; he was a good man, as far as mafia men went, and deeply loyal to me as the last Mastro. He knew better than anyone else how personal this situation was for me, and though he wasn’t stupid enough to tell me to take a break, I could tell he was keeping an eye out for anything he could do to help me.  

I returned to the photos in my hands. Each one was taken in a different location, at a different time of day, and even though Nicola was the constant in every picture he was the one thing I wasn’t looking at. 

After all, he was no longer a factor. 

No, the trouble I had was with the small group of people that seemed to revolve around him, only some of whom I could identify. 

Lorenzo Sprezza and Francesco Faci were both soldiers in the Pellico family, but neither of them held any importance within the organization; there were two women, one seen more frequently than the other, that my consigliere was working to identify, and two other men who were also yet unknown to me. 

If the rumors were true, and Nicola Pellico had been planning some kind of coup, these were the only people who could tell me about it.  

Truthfully, the idea amused me to no end. I despised the Pellico family, in part because they were the natural rivals of the Mastros but more personally because Cristiano had forced me to watch as he ended my family and my childhood in a wash of blood. 

The nightmares had never ended, and the rage only grew more bitter with each one. 

Nicola was just Pellico’s son, but that was enough for my hatred to extend to him. Nonetheless, that he could have been scheming right underneath his father’s nose, ready to upend his family and possibly send everything Cristiano loved and felt pride in crashing to the ground, brought me incredible joy. 

Part of me hoped that Cristiano figured it out before Nicola found the wrong end of the muzzle. The betrayal must sting something terrible.  

I wanted Cristiano Pellico to feel true despair before I put a bullet in his head. 

How awful would he feel, in his final moments, to suffer as my father did? His children murdered, his lineage snuffed out, his empire left kingless? Everything he’d worked for in his life gone? 

I rubbed absently at the scar Cristiano’s bullet had left in the center of my chest when I was too young to even know what kind of life I was born into. 

No, killing the man wouldn’t be enough. I had to destroy him.  

I refocused myself on the photographs. 

If Nicola really was planning a revolt and these people were on his side, then they were more loyal to Nicola than Cristiano and might tell me everything I needed without having to deal with the messy affair of torture. 

If they did, I’d offer them a swift, clean death. 

The men, at least—not like Cristiano Pellico. He had never held true to the Cosa Nostra law to keep women and children out of mafia business. I had experienced that personally. 

Unless the son had turned his back on that, the women wouldn’t know anything, and were more than likely the wives or girlfriends of the other men involved in Nicola’s plot. I wouldn’t go after them unless I had to, and I doubted I would. 

Even if the men didn’t want to talk, I had ways to make them open their mouths.  

“We’re here, Don Mastro,” Flavio said, pulling me out of my thoughts as the car rolled to a stop outside my home. I pocketed the photos with a sigh.  

“Grazie, Flavio. Will you be using your room tonight?”  

“No, sir,” Flavio responded. “If you don’t need me, I’ll spend the night at my place.” I nodded, sliding out of the car.  

“Very well. Goodnight, then.”  

“You too, Don Mastro.”  

My house was beautiful, and it was one of the reasons I pitied the bosses who were stuck in places like Chicago and New York, where the height of luxury was a penthouse suite. 

Nothing would ever match up to a freestanding home. I was often grateful to have been born into Buffalo—a city of significant size, yes, but with a far more suburban feel. The buildings here had individuality.  

I left my shoes and coat in the foyer, unsurprised by the silence that greeted me. 

It was far too late for the maids or cook to be here, and the house was far larger than I needed for just myself. 

For now it felt empty, but someday I’d fill it with my children. 

It was my job to revive my family, so I would need at least four kids to secure our lineage for the future. 

In the meanwhile, I had the space to have overnight rooms for my underboss or consigliere should our business run particularly late, so it worked well for now.  

I followed the curve of the stairs up to the second floor, deciding to head straight for the shower and neatly peeling my shirt and belt off on the way. My bedroom was massive, with high ceilings and enough space for two beds, but I barely glanced at it. 

I’d bought this house the day I turned 18, selling the home where my family was slaughtered, and had lived here since. 

Nothing about this opulence was unusual to me—if anything, I had downsized from the mansion I’d grown up in.  

I stepped out of my dress pants and dropped my clothing into my dirty laundry bin, not sure if the cleaning service could salvage them now that the blood spatter had dried into hard brown scales. If they couldn’t, no biggie, they’d provide perfect replacements. 

I didn’t care much about clothes, luxury cars, watches, or private jets. 

Money couldn’t buy me what I wanted. 

Sure, by most people’s standards I was living like a king, but it was all surface level. 

Until Pellico’s head was served to me on a platter, using my father’s fortune felt like spitting on his grave.  

I entered my bathroom, moving past the full-length mirror to start the shower. I barely bothered looking at my reflection. 

My body, like everything else, was a tool. 

My slightly above average height made it easy to blend in to crowds, my black hair just long and shaggy enough to help cover my facial features if I needed it to but could just as well be slicked back into the sharp, clean visage expected from a Don. 

I kept my body muscular so I could handle any situation with force, but leaned into a wrestler’s physique more than visible muscle definition, because defined muscle was intimidating but not as useful. 

I was less threatening this way, clearly strong and capable, but not in the way that made people stare. 

Staring meant you were noticed, and being noticed meant you’d lost your element of surprise. 

Being underestimated, would only ever work in my favor.  

I had my father’s tan skin, and my mother’s blue eyes. My mother’s father had passed down the square jawline to me, and I never knew where my thick eyebrows came from. 

I knew where each scar came from, though. 

One long one running down the outside of my thigh marked where the surgeons had to cut me open to bolt my broken femur bone back into place, and both my knees were heavily scarred from repeated abrasions, and nearly invisible at this point was a small line across my forehead where I’d been pistol-whipped as a teen. 

Then, of course, the starburst of gnarled, darkened skin sitting low and tight on my sternum. 

Without any of my trappings, I looked more like a street rat than a Don. It was my favorite version of myself.  

I stepped under the warm spray and started kneading at my shoulder muscles, pondering over those photos again. 

The most recent one, in particular, had my eye; in it was Nicola, sitting at a table with two men on either side. 

I recognized Faci and Sprezza, but then there was another man with strawberry-blonde hair and lastly one with a tattoo on his neck. They were sitting at a table in a darkened venue that I couldn’t place, which meant it had to be owned by the Pellicos. 

There was a crowd, what looked like several tipsy people holding drinks and laughing, but the mood at their table was serious and tense. 

They were clearly talking business, and based on the somber looks on everyone’s faces, it looked like a war meeting.  

I had worked towards my revenge for more than two decades, and I was so close to finally looking Cristiano Pellico in the eye as I tore down his empire. 

Whether Nicola had really been trying to overthrow his father or something else was going on, I didn’t know. 

I could not let unforeseen circumstances derail me from my quickly approaching justice. 

I was going to hold Cristiano’s life in my hand, show him how useless it was, and then crush it. And no one else would distract me while I did it. 

I kept my shower short and utilitarian, dried off briskly, and didn’t bother to redress as I made my way to the kitchen. 

If I was going to be up all night trying to find these mystery men, I was going to need the fuel. 

I had one goal, one single-minded purpose, and I was too close to seeing it through now to waste time sleeping.  

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Chapter One

Sara

For once, nothing on my computer could distract me.

Not when right now, my best friend in the entire world, Lia Goldin, was breaking into a cop’s house across the city, fueled by the desperate that her crime could pay for her father’s debt to the Sons of Celt. The Sons were a criminal enterprise that were surprisingly wide-ranging in their pursuits—dabbling in everything from petty theft to white collar crime to enacting medieval-ass blood debts on innocent girls. How Lou Goldin had gotten into bed with them was beyond me, but the man excelled at outdoing his own stupidity. Somehow, he’d managed to convince them to give him an enormous amount of money, and then bailed. The Sons didn’t appreciate that.

Either way, now Lia had to pay—either in cash with interest, or with her life.

I swallowed hard as I pictured her, golden hair tied back, the hood of her heavy sweatshirt up, and the hazel of her eyes stern with focus. Her lithe form, too thin from not eating enough, stealing across a dimly lit street, darting around a small white house, and sneaking into a backyard.

Following her best friend’s instructions to cut the power and break in.

All while, me, her best friend, waited for her call to help her with phase two—breaking into the cop’s laptop in hopes of finding some incriminating evidence that would pay her enough to get her out of trouble with the Sons, who’d demanded a motherless art student pay back Lou Goldin’s stupidly large debt to them.

A mix of adrenaline and tedium kept me pinned to my seat, raging against the circumstances, my heart roaring at how unfair it all was. It shouldn’t be this way, the person I loved best being forced to walk the edge of a shadowed world because of circumstance and suicide.

I knew how unfair the world was. I knew that no matter how smart you were, no matter how well you prepared, the world would break you into pieces the first chance it got.

No, all I could do was sit and stare out my window, watching night fall too fast now that it was almost winter. The cold glitter of Boston filled the skyline, bright, sharp, and distant. My computer monitor, reflected in the thick glass, glowed blank and slightly blue. I could just make out my features, the slight pinch between my eyebrows, the tight press of my lips and the nervous drum of my fingers on the arm of my chair.

My other arm was clamped around knees as I burrowed back further into the chair, layered in sweatshirts and a winter hat, not so much out of cold, but to try and keep the worry from gnawing straight through my skin to my terrified, frantic, and furious heart.

Lia is out there. Alone.

Always alone.

It shouldn’t be this way.

For as long as I could remember, her father had barely been in the picture, which made Lou’s current dumbassery even more infuriating. Usually, when I thought of Lia, it was always her and her mother against the world. Until, last year, when out of nowhere, Marina “Fierce” Fioreno, badass Boston Lady Detective extraordinaire had committed suicide, and Lia’s entire world fell apart. School, money, and now this shit.

God, I hate Lou Goldin.

My fingers seized on the chair, and I was tempted to get on my keyboard, track him down, and somehow get him extradited back to the States. But he’d probably end up in jail, and with Lia’s luck, she’d still be on the hook of those awful, idiotic Boston thugs and their goofy-ass criminal name.

Why can’t she catch a break?

At that moment, my phone rang, and I fumbled for it, nearly falling out of my chair. Heart pounding, I saw the number I told Lia to call me from flashing. My hand was shaking so badly, I almost couldn’t answer, and relief made me almost woozy.

“Holy shit,” I blurted into her ear, too much air wheezing out of my lungs, as though someone were squeezing my ribs.

And Lia, lovely, irrepressible, fearless Lia—laughed her ass off at me.

Shaking my head, a rush of affection and annoyance going through me, I drawled, “Okay, yeah, sure, it’s hilarious. That’s what I get for being normal and worried.”

“Believe me, Sara,” she said, her voice warm and familiar in my ear, though with that haunting echo of strain and sadness always ringing through it, “I almost peed myself a few times.”

“But you’re in?”

“I’m in.”

The next few minutes were a blur as I walked her through next steps, the phone tucked against my shoulder as my fingers flew over the keyboard. Forward momentum kept me calm and focused, and I scoffed when I saw the cop’s cluttered desktop.

“Boomers,” I tried to joke. “Look at that mess.”

“Oh my God, you’re the best,” Lia breathed in my ear, and I suddenly wanted to tell her to stop, to just come home. To just let me pay for her life with my ridiculous tech salary. It would be even more once I graduated from school. But I could do that now, I didn’t have to keep thousands in the bank—I’d stopped looking over my shoulder.

Hell, we could have even more money if I gave up this swanky, super-protected Beacon Hill apartment. I could scale down to a regular luxury apartment instead of this uber-secure one.

“Thank you so much,” Lia was saying. “You got me in.”

“No problem,” I got out. Silence pressed at both ends and even though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I made myself ask, “Should I hang up?”

“Yeah,” Lia said softly. “I have it from here. Thank you.”

“Stop saying that,” I said, more sharply than I meant. “Anytime… Oh and, just in case, good luck.” My throat was tight, and my eyes burned as I looked up at the ceiling. “See you soon, right?”

“Of course,” Lia said softly, as though reassuring me. “See you soon.”

I went to speak but the phone slipped, and the call disconnected. The phone’s screen went black in my hand as I stared at it, picturing Lia hunched at the desk, biting her chapped lips, and staring at the cop’s desktop. Going through those folders, one by one.

What if he comes back early? What if—?

“No,” I said out loud, ignoring how my voice shook. “Lia’s got this. She’ll text me in no time at all, safe and sound at home.”

***

I jerked awake out of an old nightmare, one that I hadn’t experienced in over a year, and pressed a hand to my racing heart. You’re okay, you’re safe, I told myself, as I struggled to sit up and make sense of why I was on top of the covers.

Rubbing at my face, I blinked at the windows, and a hot whine of panic began in the back of my head. Something was wrong. Soft pink and gold light streamed through them, lighting up the room. As though daybreak had arrived—but that wasn’t possible because Lia hadn’t called.

I sat up straighter, shaking my head and patting my cheeks, trying to figure out when I’d gone to bed. My memories from the previous night were fragments of waiting and falling asleep, of aimlessly clicking around on my computer, and then sitting on my bed—just for a second…

I fell asleep. Now the panic in my head filled my entire body, a sense of being crushed on all sides, and I forced myself upright. My body seemed disconnected from my brain, movements jerky and automatic as I went to my desk, fumbling around through papers and notebooks for my phone. It wasn’t there.

Whirling around, I spotted it on the floor, and pounced. The battery was almost dead.

No text or calls.

“Lia, no—no,” I murmured. “Where are you—where are you?”

Tears blurred my vision. I had to be dreaming. The soft light filling my window could not be daybreak. It could not be the next day, with no word from my best friend. Any moment now, I would wake up and she would be okay, and my phone would fully be charged and full of messages.

Only the light got brighter, and the phone battery got weaker.

My entire arm trembled as I dialed Lia’s number.

“We’re sorry,” said the cold, automated feminine-coded voice. “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again.”

“No,” I said and went to throw my phone, before grabbing my charger and plugging it in. First, I attempted to track down Lia with the apps on my phone, before rushing to my computer, and whirling through every way I knew to track her.

But it was as though her phone had been wiped off the face of the earth.

Like Lia had been wiped off the face of the earth.

Here and then suddenly gone, just like her mother.

A sob shuddered between my gritted teeth. Okay, I had to try a different approach. I knew the name of the cop she’d gone after—Mickey Weiss, and yesterday I’d managed to sneak a peek at what Lia had been tasked to investigate.

The Michaelson family, notorious gangsters that lurked in the shadows of the Northeast.

That name had made my entire body go cold, and as I began to search them, the hits made it go colder. Everything I found told me a grim, bloody story of the previous generation—the brutal and horrific exploits of the “Rhino” and the “Reaper.” But both those men were gone now, and the family was under the control of the Rhino’s son, Tyler, and his cousins. By all accounts, Tyler and his capos were just as bad, if not worse—especially since they knew how to cover their tracks.

A pit formed in my stomach as I remembered the heavy muscle outside that Sons of Celt nightclub, the gangsters in suits with tattoos, guns, and cold purpose in their eyes. They’d pulled up right after Lia had gone in, and I remembered that twist in my gut, the timing too close a call…

They have her, said the pragmatic, blunt voice in the back my head. The Michaelson family has Lia. I put my hands over my face. And I’ll never see her again.

“No,” I growled and shoved away from my desk.

I took a quick, freezing shower, then got dressed, and made myself an espresso. When, I at again at my computer, I was more awake, more determined, and caffeinated. I then sent a quick message to my work, then my professors, apologizing for being out today and possibly tomorrow.

I would not leave this desk—I would not rest until I found my friend Lia.

Chapter Two

Sara

Hours passed, a blur of black windows with white text, blinking cursors, and dead ends, until I closed my eyes and saw meaningless words imprinted on the back of my lids. Occasionally, I’d stopped to drink coffee, snack, and jot down notes. But as the afternoon began to wane, I couldn’t eat or drink or make myself to get up.

Not when I was descending into a familiar, deadly kind of panic—a kind of fear that I’d only felt a few times before and had vowed to never feel again.

Ice-cold terror snarled up my arms as I hit another dead end and a scream of frustration built in my head. What the fuck was this? Why couldn’t I find one single answer? One lead?

Did the Michaelson family employ some kind of tech god? A hacker savant? An MIT student?

My jaw set to the side. I had gotten into Harvard and not MIT, and while I loved my Ivy League school—it had been my first choice—the MIT rejection still burned. But maybe I could use that, pretend the Michaelsons did employ some MIT incel bastard who hated women and was a decent coder but would be crushed under my stiletto.

I snorted. Like Zakary Frole at work. God, that fucking twat. At least calling out of work meant I didn’t have to see him and deal with his inability to take no for an answer.

And as though waiting for my petty grievance to pave the way, my computer chirped at me. Finally, I’d found something. Not what I was looking for, but a start—the Michaelson family’s virtual private storage, buried and locked under layers of protection. At least I had something, maybe a place to look for answers, instead of hunting for a place to even look.

You can do this, Sara Tailor. You are a badass tech whiz. Better than any gangster in Boston.

Getting into this storage, however, was presenting a real challenge. Chewing on my lip, my eyes flicked to my second monitor, where the project was that I was working on for my part-time tech job, a security-focused company called Moxi. They let me hack and chew all around their systems and client systems to find security flaws, and last month they had given us all access to a new, cutting-edge tool called Iris-X, or Iris-Beta, as it was still very much in beta.

We were not, under any circumstances, supposed to use it for anything outside of work until the product was done being developed.

But of course, I looked at Iris-X inside and out, copied it, made improvements, and had not yet deployed it. I called it my Iris-XS, my super sneaker, and excellent additions or not, it was a huge risk. I had no idea if Iris-XS could be detected—or if it even worked.

The alternative, though—brute-forcing my way in or even finding the physical server farm to try and get in that way—could take days. Weeks.

Heart pounding into my fingertips, I opened the Iris-XS application before I could stop myself and wielded it against the layers of security and firewalls around the Michaelson systems, cutting through them like a hot knife through butter. It was almost intoxicatingly easy, and a name flashed by during my furious search.

Hyperion.

That gave me pause in the tangled world of the Michaelson’s internal web that opened up to me. My lips parted as it hit me. No wonder it been so hard to hack into this—this wasn’t a typical virtual machine or series of servers. It was not like anything I’d ever seen. This was a whole world, with twists and turns, crafted by a genius who’d named it Hyperion.

“Holy shit,” I said and sat back, flicking my eyes through what I could see, trying to understand what I was looking at. It would take time to learn this, to fully appreciate this—

No. I need to find Lia.

But my hesitation cost me. Suddenly, I was kicked out of where I’d been within Hyperion, and almost locked out entirely. If my super sneaky Iris-XS tool hadn’t given me the ability to create backdoors and fake accounts, I would have been. But like a little parasite, I couldn’t be so easily removed, and I fled off to a different corner, trying to find a list of likely places they could have taken her.

What if they had hurt Lia? I swallowed as the computer screen seemed to fuzz in front of my eyes. What if they’re hurting her right now?

Hastily, I began to compile a list, addresses that I scribbled down, even as I sensed that whatever—or whoever had kicked me out before was closing in.

Sure enough, right before I was about write down the address for a place out in West Carlisle, I was locked out. A snarl tore out of me, and I slammed my hand down in frustration, then sucked in a sharp breath.

Final warning, ran the message on my screen. Your code might be lovely and your talent prodigious, Iris—but next time I won’t be so nice.

I gaped at the message, wondering how they’d done it—and even more mind-blowing, it acted like an old-school chatroom. I could type back.

Fingers shaking, I wrote out, Go to hell, Mr. Hype. Or should I say, Mr. Michaelson?

Oh, ballsy, came the response. Even though it’s pretty damn cold out today in Boston—you’re playing with fire.

“What?” I whispered.

Suddenly, another window opened, this time with a map. For a split second, it was stagnant, then it zoomed in to the Northeast, tilted over to New York, to the Midwest, and then jumped back Massachusetts.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I hissed as my tired, clumsy fingers attempted to stop Mr. Hyperion, to cut him off before he could find me. How was he doing this?

Yeah, I see you.

Now the map showed Boston and its environs. It hopped to Cambridge, to Harvard, and I swore, as it jumped across the river, to Boston University and Commonwealth Ave, and then moved East.

With no other choice, I killed my entire system, and my screen went black.

But not before I saw his final message.

Better run, because I’m gonna find your ass.

***

Daniel

“Dramatic,” I murmured to myself as the trail vanished, the hacker—who’d I’d dubbed Iris, after managing to glean that the program they were using to hack into Hyperion was called Iris-XS—clearly killing their entire system to prevent me from finding them. “But effective.”

Too bad it was too late—I’d narrowed their location down to a fifteen-mile radius within Boston proper. All I’d needed was a fifty-mile radius and I could hunt them down with days. As it was, by tomorrow, I should have a name, an address, blood type, star sign, favorite kind of porn, and all the other interesting vices hidden in plain sight on the internet.

Leaning back in my chair, I thought I’d sensed them panic when the map had jumped to Cambridge, to Harvard Square. I didn’t think they were there, but they must spend time there. Maybe they were even a Harvard alumnus—though how they’d wound up on Hendrix’s payroll was beyond me. Perhaps prodigious Ivy League debt made the prospect of working for a gangster palatable. Blood money could be lucrative.

Pulling up their tracks, I sighed, and began to clean up their trail, trying to lock down the intranet I’d created for the Michaelson crime family. It was meant to be a web to catch any hacker, but this haphazard, clever spy had dodged every trap. Brute force and deft elegance let them get deeper than anyone should’ve been able to. Young but brilliant, was my guess. Perhaps not a graduate—but a student. Someone who took chances, someone who was willing to piss me off.

I blew out a sigh. Not good. Iris clearly had no idea how far in over their head they were. Or worse—did he have some kid on his payroll? It shouldn’t surprise me—there was no depth to which Hendrix would not sink. His family had become weaker since Ty had taken the lead of our family, and the word on the street was that his father would only give him the official role of boss once he managed to defeat Ty.

I drummed my fingers lightly on my keyboard, debating what to do. I wished I’d known how the little spy had gotten into Hyperion in the first place. Gotten in and then managed to stay in, which should not have been possible.

Staring at my computer, my mind whirled through dozens of possible plans, sifting and sorting. The smartest, most prudent thing would be to take down the whole system, and then bring it back, piece by piece, combing it over to make sure it was locked down and safe.

But then I couldn’t be sure that I’d ever find that hacker. At least, not without my full attention, and we had too much shit going on with Hendrix, the informant cop in the hospital, and the beautiful blonde who had my cousin, the Capo, in knots.

No, I had to play the riskier hand and leave Hyperion vulnerable, open a few doors to try and trick Iris into sneaking back in. Then I could trap them somewhere and study their skills at my leisure, while also finding a physical location.

I can’t believe they’re local. How reckless can you be? I shook my head. Part of me, however, was also curious about their skills—I’d never seen shit like that. It was as infuriating as it was impressive.

No matter what the cost, I had to protect my family stuff.

I had to find that little spy.

***

An incessant chiming came from next to my ear and I groaned, wincing as I tried to lift my aching neck, the inside of my mouth tasting like an ash tray, and my glasses crooked on my face. I blinked in confusion at the screens in front of me, then jolted awake in pure panic.

“Cazzo,” I swore in Italian, as my fingers tried to find the keys, stiff and useless from disuse. I’d been looking for the little spy, Iris, for almost twenty-four hours straight, with no luck. I’d kept meaning to take a break and had fallen asleep at my desk instead.

In the meantime, Iris had pounced. My brain seemed to hum as I woke up more, trying to catch them, screens popping up and closing, their quick, darting work making my jaw clench even as admiration unfurled in my chest.

Damn, Iris had balls.

I wish I could get you on our payroll, I thought, then I barked out, “FUCK,” as they almost found Tyler’s address—again. Heart pounding, I didn’t want to admit that I’d only narrowly stopped them. What the hell were they looking for—addresses to rob, to leak to the Feds, or a hit? Was Hendrix going after the Head of the Michaelson family? Didn’t we have enough to deal with?

I rubbed at my face, glancing at my phone, wondering how things were going with the blonde, and then I reached for a cigarette. Then, I paused when a message box appeared.

That was fun, but I think you’re all talk, Mr. Hype.

“No way,” I breathed. Iris had deconstructed my messaging apparatus, copied it, and was now using it to talk to me? “That’s so fucked—but also fucking incredible.”

Maybe I can teach you a thing or two.

A laugh huffed out of me. Maybe. You seem to have a death wish. What are you after?

Information. I raised an eyebrow as they seemed to pause, weighing their options. I don’t suppose mobsters might be bribed…

The word made my heart snarl, the tension in my spine enough to make it snap, and my head too heavy with the memories of the two biggest assholes in the universe, my uncle and my sperm donor. Their sneering faces, their chest-pounding pageantry at being mobsters, and their relentless cruelty.

Go fuck yourself, I typed and sent Iris hurtling through the Hyperion stratosphere.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I’d started to lay traps for Iris, but that wasn’t cutting it. The next hours were a blur of locking down the most vulnerable and important parts of Hyperion, taking breaks to nap, and plotting where Iris might live in Boston.

The next morning, I was out the door by nine, ready to hit every coffee shop and public wi-fi area around the Common. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but I had a feeling Iris was smart enough to keep moving, and staying private in public was their best bet at continuing to hack Hyperion and avoid me finding them.

Dressed like a college kid, I’d opted for a Northeastern University sweatshirt, a Boston Red Sox hat, and my most comfortable pair of jeans. I kept my hat pulled low and glasses on, trying to keep my expression neutral as I entered the Downtown Bean. But still, I saw the curious glances from people, the mix of admiration and nervousness, and my gut twisted.

Fuck off and stop staring.

I knew, deep down, I had not received the suave, stupid-handsome Italian genes that my cousins Ty and Luca had. Instead, I had a weird mix of striking features that made people do a double take, which I fucking hated to no end. Especially since, once they got a good look at me, saw the look in my eyes—they ran for the goddamn hills. Every time.

Sometimes, I might get a wild child of a woman to pursue me for the thrill of danger, but once she got close, once she sensed even a fraction of how broken and fucked in the head I was—she always vanished on me.

Now, I didn’t even bother beyond an occasional one-night stand, but even that had become less and less frequent. Once, I’d thought that maybe there could be at least one person who might be able to match me. Who might at least like me, who might be into the same things I was, and wouldn’t mind sharpening passion and intellect with me.

Probability-wise, on a planet with eight billion people, it seemed arrogant to assume otherwise.

These days, even that probability seemed like a fucking fairy tale.

I glanced out the window, at the busy stream of people crossing from the Theater District into Chinatown, the artsy kids from Emerson College smoking on the corner and laughing, the parents hustling kids with bouncing backpacks, and tourists ambling along.

The best you can do for Ty and the rest of the family is keep your head down, hack, and keep building Hyperion. Don’t get it twisted. You’re the monster on the Michaelson leash.

My computer let out a strange chime and I jolted, nearly upsetting my coffee. A few people looked over as it went off again and I touched my ears. I was wearing headphones. What the fuck?

Miss me? Ran a message across the screen. And it’s cute how you’re using café wi-fi. Great minds—but I prefer a different coffee shop. Also, there are a lot of public wi-fi places in this city, Mr. Hype. You’re out of your depth—and hiding something in West Carlisle.

Shaking my head, I typed, maybe that’s what I want you to think. With a few keystrokes, I made it look like I was in a different café, then a public library, and finally, an Emerson college classroom in the nearby theater. Or maybe I want you to know where I am.

I didn’t want that at all. Pressing back against the wall, I flicked my eyes over the room, but I saw no danger. Still, maybe sitting by the window wasn’t the best decision. Shattered glass and gunshots flashed through my head, and I let out an unsteady breath. I’d been witness to a drive-by once before and I never wanted to see that shit again, much less die that way.

You are pretty damn good, they wrote back, and I thought the tone was one of begrudging respect, which was kind of amusing. MIT?

Hm, well damn. I had indeed taken an accelerated program at MIT, at Ty’s insistence. Yep. Harvard?

They took a moment to respond. Maybe. And I didn’t know mobsters were so touchy about name-calling. I’ll be more sensitive to that, Mr. Hype.

A jolt went through me, a roll of surprise and excitement that had my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I almost typed out what I’d just realized.

You’re a woman, I thought, and a grin spread over my face.

I wanted to keep things interesting, Ms. Iris.

All that came back was a winky face before my computer rebooted and I yelped out, “Fuck.” The entire café went silent as heads swiveled to me and I gave a sheepish salute. “Computer died. Big paper due.”

Shoving upright, I grabbed the computer, and hustled to another café. There, it took me twenty minutes to get the computer working again. When I did, Iris was nowhere to be found, nor could I assess if she’d found anything.

And then my cousin Luca called me to set up a meeting with Boston Bratva.

Chapter Three

Daniel

After the unexpected outing with a bunch of fucking Russians, the bad news that a local Russian mob boss, Ivan Volskov had been offed, most likely by Hendrix, and having to keep Ivan’s nephew Kir and Ty from beating the hell out of each other, I hadn’t had a chance to check on Hyperion or Iris for almost a full day. For safety, I’d taken parts of Hyperion offline before the meeting with the Russians, and was now booting them back up, wondering if Ms. Iris was watching.

Ooh, did I spook you, Mr. Hype? Came the message.

Don’t flatter yourself, I wrote back, even though she had indeed spooked the fuck out of me. Maintenance.

Sure. Mid-week is a perfect time for that. By the way, those traps you laid for me were real cute. Again, offer stands to teach you a few things.

My lips twisted as I fought the urge to laugh. You’re just delaying the inevitable, brat.

I don’t think so, she wrote back. I think you like playing cat and mouse, Mr. Hype. Especially since I’ve piqued your interest by being in possession of a vagina.

At that, I did laugh outright, and Heavy, who was sitting across the room in the Crow’s Nest, the nickname of our building down the Seaport, slowly lifted his head and raised an eyebrow at me. I winked at him.

Of course, she continued. You thought I was a dude—so disappointing.

Is that why you nuked my computer? I wrote back. And I didn’t assume jack shit. If anything, though, I should’ve assumed you were a woman.

Oh, bullshit, she wrote back. But fine, humor me, why?

You’re persistent and adaptable. You think outside the box. You code with as much elegance as you do brute force.

For a moment, there was no response.

And compliments seem to be your weakness, I couldn’t help adding.

Meet me.

I stirred at that, something in my gut twisting, even as my heart beat a little faster.

Come on. I’ll make it easier. Meet me and let’s talk this out. I have money and—

I’ll stop you right there, I wrote, resentment filling me. I’m not “meeting” you, Iris. Fuck, how naïve do you think I am? I have no interest in having a bullet put in my head in a downtown café.

Perhaps I’d been a bit naïve, too, hunting Iris down with such recklessness. I’d thought her young, but maybe that had been an act. Asking me to meet, that shit was bold. A bit of an ingénue feint, too, trying to get me to let down my guard. Seemed Hendrix had sent an absolute pit bull after us.

Or—fuck. Was this a Fed? Waving money around like that? How fucking nauseating. I’d have to jump off the Tobin if I’d been bantering with a goddamn Fed.

Oh my God, that’s so dark, Iris replied. Christ, only a gangster would think that she wrote back. So, what, we go around in circles until you find me? I have a life, hello? Guess it must be nice not having a day job, being all above it as criminals, too good for the rules like the rest of us.

“Oh, Iris,” I said out loud, dazzled and delighted at her biting temper coming through the computer screen. “You just fucked up. You showed your entire ass, girl.”

I have several jobs, smartass, I wrote back. And yes, I like the chase. I also don’t believe for one second that you’d make it easier for me.

Except, I did. But it was too late to try and go that route. Plus, I couldn’t say for certain, but I suddenly suspected that Iris was a civilian, not Mafia. Day job, huh. Delicious. Especially since I was now pretty certain she wasn’t a Fed.

You won’t find me, Iris wrote. If you haven’t found me yet, you won’t, aren’t you smart enough to see that?

She was right. It had been almost four days, and I hadn’t found her. But what she probably had not anticipated was the danger of revealing anything to someone like me.

I, however, am getting lots of juicy information about Hyperion, she wrote, and I fought a grin. “Yeah, Iris, what I’m letting you find,” I said.

And I am persistent, Mr. Hype. Iris’s words were coming fast and furious now. I knew she had to be glaring at her computer somewhere. I will take all your shit down to get what I want. This is my last offer for a mutually beneficial compromise.

I appreciate that, Iris, I wrote back. But I’m not interested in compromise.

“I’m also not the one using company technology on personal time, young lady,” I said out loud.

“You good over there, cuz?” Heavy called. “’Cause you’re kinda freaking me out talkin’ to yourself and grinnin’ and shit. Look possessed.”

I grinned even wider, my demon’s grin, and I heard Heavy curse to himself. I’d ran a cross-search, and within five minutes, had pulled up the website for a company called Moxi. Located in downtown Boston, right in the Financial District, they were a world-wide expert on security technology, famous for employing hackers to test for weaknesses. And there’d been chatter about their propriety, cutting-edge security technology in beta, not even known to the market yet. A technology called Iris-Beta-22.

“Bingo,” I murmured. Louder, I said, “I’m fucking grand, Heavy.” He came over, a nervous hilarity on his face as he hovered, and I grinned wider. “Wanna take a field trip over to the Financial District with me? I’ll get you dinner.”

“Sure,” Heavy said. “Christ, you’re a scary bastard.”

“Thanks,” I said with a chuckle. Then I read the message from Iris, you’re going to regret this.

Nah, I wrote back. But I will see you real soon. And with that, I shut down most of Hyperion, save for one corner where I had Iris trapped. It would take her hours, if not days, to get out of there.

And in the meantime, I now knew where she worked. By the end of the week, Friday at the latest, I’d finally know who she was.

Looks like you’re gonna get that face-to-face after all, Iris, I thought as I stood up and grabbed my jacket. But I think I’m gonna enjoy it a hell of a lot more than you are.

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Chapter One

Massimo

Her.

I sit straight in my seat, adjusting my suit jacket as she shrinks from the too-bright spotlight on her.

I am beginning to feel bored out of my fucking mind, and two-finger taps away from bolting out of this glassed framed, semi-banquette-styled cubicle until they shove her toward and into the limelight.

I have been digging my fingers into the leather of the cushion and pushing the teak table in front of me with an untouched crystal glass of Negroni on it every single time they bring out a new girl.

I can’t do anything. It’s a fool’s errand. Besides, I am in no position to do anything to the men surrounding me when I am here for exactly the same reason as them. It doesn’t matter what my intentions are. I am here to buy, which makes all of us in our respective cubicles the same shade of twisted. The men selling, they’re on a different level of fucked up in the head. Caruso is the leader of that deranged bandwagon.

A thick bodyguard with a villain mask pushes her forward and manhandles her to stand still as her feeble legs give in, unable to hold her weight. Bruised and discolored knees knock together.

The condescending way they treat the women makes my blood boil, and my fingers ache to reach for the holster beneath my suit and open fire on them. And it is the propellant pushing me like a robot on a mission, so I just keep painfully digging my nails into the leather cushion of my seat.

I keep my eyes on her. The bonus sample, is what they call her. Item twenty-six, even though she is the eighth paraded for the exhibition today.

Alessandra.

Alessandra was announced as if she was walking in like this is some evening reality show, and we’re a family sitting at a fucking round table to watch. She is treated like a buy-one-gets-one-cheaper packages. No, more like the, we’ve sold our best products and decided to put out an expired one for a ridiculously discounted price to sweeten the pot for our loyal customers. A fucking clearance sale.

I reach for the glass of Negroni, about to take a sip, then I remember the shark den I’m in. Alcohol on a night like this will not do me any good, especially with the irritation simmering in the pit of my stomach. Also, there’s the fact that this drink might have been poisoned. I’m on the Camorra’s side of New York City, and though we pretend to be on good terms when we talk with them, we never see eye to eye on anything, and I wouldn’t put it past them to seize the opportunity of a night like this to kill me.

I retrieve my hand. Shame. I love anything with Campari in it. I live for the bitter herb taste that lingers almost immediately after the sweet fruity taste hits. I turn my attention back to what is most important at this moment.

She will do the trick.

I place the index finger of my free hand, the one that some seconds ago had been trying to dig into the dark leather covering of the cushion, on the red button of the buzzer on the armrest of chair I’m sitting on.

The cubicle is soundproof, so you can and sample your products while waiting for the rest of the exhibition show. It is also dimly lit with violet light bulbs to aid your sexual need, with a display section for sex toys and torture weapons at your disposal but no provision for aftercare. The focus is not on taking care of the woman but rather on taking from her to care for your own needs. It can fit more than two people, even though the gold ticket admits one person per cubicle to this section of the exhibition.

The place is as sophisticated as a Royal ball party hall. The first area is the main entrance, where the partying takes place. A masquerade with adult shows, a distraction from what this night is really about. The second section is for auctioning precious stones and relics.

The last is only for the gold-ticketed people, and this is where I am. You walk in here with your mask on and get escorted to a shimmering gold cubicle with a glass front, that is dark when you look from the outside but clear as a crystal when you step inside. There’s a secret exit that leads to a car park and hangar. Anybody here for the auction leaves through the private door to their cars and private jets. Hefty-armed men in expensive suits wait strategically in place.

This section is for purchasing human goods. Women like her. Caught, groomed, and carted off to the highest bidder.

She will do the trick.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” the auctioneer in a gray two-piece suit and thick-looking goggles resting on his too-large nose hollers, like he has been doing all night, into the gold microphone wrapped in his sturdy palm.

There’s something about her. I can’t place it. Something that makes me want to leave this place with her.

I was beginning to think my listening to Claudio, my cousin and confidante, when he had suggested that this was the best way to fix my self-imposed problem, was futile. None of the girls interested me. They all looked the same to me, with hopeful eyes that they could somehow find freedom. But not her, she lacks life and the fight I’ve seen in others, although her every trait contradicts that hopelessness.

Her espresso hair mocks all the brutality she has experienced with its luster of lengthy richness and wavy strands styled upward in a pony tail draping down to her lower back. Those bottle-green eyes remind me of my first beer as an underage. The deliciousness of being lawless as I walked into bars and found no one bold enough to stop me from ordering Peroni. Then, the color of the leash she has around her neck, a color I like to see when I deal with an enemy. A color that makes the perfect bow for any present. Red. Her bare feet on cold black tiles ignite a kindred spirit in me, because sometimes it has been my only antidote for cooling off my roiling blood when triggered.

My eyes travel up to her face and down her naked, malnourished, and bruised body. The way her scar-masked skin covers her body looks like a balloon stretched over rocks. You can see every contour and feel every ridge. I scan with my eyes down below her knees, to her wobbly feet. Her bruised bluish-toes curl. She is trembling, not necessarily from fear but weakness.

Nothing my surgeon cannot fix.

My finger lingers on the red button with a paper light touch. Just a little more pressure and the buzzer will go off, allowing them to hear me when I speak and perhaps indicate where the voice is coming from. It is important to know when to make a move.

I wait.

No other buzzer goes off, nobody is rushing to buy this one like they did with the others. They were defiant and regal, regardless of the fear in their eyes, because they were yet to have masters as slaves. They feared their fate but had no idea what awaited them. The buzzers kept going off, it was like rush hour. The pricks around me wanted something whole so they could break it. The twisted psychos, who probably maimed their toys as children for no reason other than that they were theirs to toil with, kept bidding. Now they’re grown men with the same sick need to tame, break, and dispose of when bored.

But she is different. She is broken goods. She’s like a toy that has been hammered repeatedly by a temperamental kid and been disposed of.

Her trembling, propelled by her bitter past experiences from another owner, is glaring. She knows her fate. She knows what awaits her. The patches of bluish-gray on her skin are her badge of survival. That’s how I see it.

The auctioneer sighs heavily into the microphone, then sucks his teeth in a fit of irritation.

I keep my eyes on her.

The way she dips her head, the way her chin drops, and her eyes stay on the ground even though she can’t see any of us through the thick clouded frame of the cubicle. The way her fingers dig into her palms. I can feel her holding her breath from my cubicle. I can feel it because of the visible way in which her clavicle protrudes like it will break out of her skin.

Broken, that’s what she is. I am sure that when I will trace her skin, I’ll find ridges from poorly patched shards, like a broken mug glued carelessly and hastily together by a kid trying to outsmart his parent.

She is trying hard to look defiant, seeing no one is taking the bidding price for her. I’m guessing it will start dropping from one hundred thousand dollars to a number so worthless someone might take pity and take her home like she was a lost dog.

“One hundred thousand dollars for this one,” the auctioneer reminds us, just in case we might have forgotten or didn’t hear him the first time.

Now it will go down if someone doesn’t do something.

Or so I imagine. I have never been to these functions. I’m simply applying the rules of the business world. It isn’t that she is not worth more than that. If we’re being honest, no one exhibited tonight can compare to her. There is something striking about her. Like that good feeling you get about a property, even when it is nothing but debris. Even if the owner of the property sees it as having no value.

We want the gain, we have guessed the market value by just looking at it, but we will play the seller’s game till we get what we want.

I fiddle with my signet ring on my index finger with my thumb and glare at Claudio sitting across from me, in a black dress shirt and pants, with a brown leather holster strapped around his upper body. He glares back with black hooded eyes.

I should not be here. We should not be here.

If not for the godforsaken Mancusos, with their marriage proposal. Fucking crazy family, if they think I will come on board as a son-in-law. As if I would give my loyalty the same way I would to my family.

Their desperate need for heirs is about to cost me.

I didn’t think that was what the meeting would be about. I thought it would involve some underground business considering the urgency my father had attached to it, even though I knew it wasn’t anything that needed cleaning up with bullets. While I am the apex weapon for that, I will never do business the Mancusos way. They’re not to be trusted. Power drunk, recklessly disrespectful of human lives. They do not just go after their enemies but everything and everyone around them. They took innocent lives on their last operation because a partner decided it was time to end business with them. To get him through his grandchild, they’d blown up a school bus full of schoolchildren.

Assholes.

That is not the kind of family I want to marry into. We can do business, but no way in hell I’m joining our empires in marriage. A marriage between Mancuso’s only child and heiress, Vittoria Mancuso, and me, the heir to the Gaeta empire.

I can afford to get myself out of this situation because my family is heavy enough to tilt the scales . But the Mancuso family is still trouble.

The Mancuso family is undoubtedly king in the underworld, but there are people higher up than him the kingmakers. We, my family, are the Kingmakers. We have infiltrated the political system, and we twist and tweak politics to our liking. We say who gets power and how much of it. We decide who stays at the top of the food chain and for how long.

And as the underboss to the Gaeta empire, I can afford to twist and bend. But as with everything, wisdom is profitable to direct.

Everyone had already agreed that the marriage to Vittoria wasn’t a bad idea, giving their blessings before asking for my opinion. Fuck it. They invited me to tell me, Massimo Gaeta, about my wedding.

What my father wasn’t expecting, what none of them was expecting, was for me to say I had fallen in love with someone else, and that’s the person I want to be married to. That I had already given my word. In the underworld, for men of substance like us, for a man like me, our word is everything. I never take it back. I could say I have eight balls and they’d believe me immediately, no need for proof. But saying I had fallen in love was the most impossible thing they’d ever heard.

Knowing the Mancusos, I knew they’d bite. They don’t take no for an answer, but no one tells me what to do.

The silence that ensued in my father’s study when I refused was total. Eyebrows raised to question my reason for giving up such a merger, but no one dared pressure me They’ve seen how I get when I’m in love with something, anything.

It is the first lie I have ever told. I don’t talk if I can’t speak the truth. I have always felt lying is for the weak. No one intimidates me enough, and also, I don’t give a sparrow’s fuck about anyone, so I do not worry about hurting their feelings with the truth.

So I lied. Not just that, I went even further and told a second lie. That the nonexistent woman I’m so in love with, who made me turn down a business merger like the one presented to me, is engaged to me. And that lie is one-half of the reason I’m in this exhibition, surrounded by men like Louis Mancuso.

I’m no saint, but this is not my kinda place.

The other half of the reason I’m here is that I had said I would bring my fiancé to the family dinner a few weeks from now.

And as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I was fucked. That I had to make it happen. My words hold a weight, so if I say I will do something, I will, and I never take it back. If I say I have a fiancé I’m in love with and that I will bring her to the family dinner, then I sure as hell have a fiancé that I will be bringing to the family dinner. The love part is something to worry about, but I’ll think of that after I find my fiancé.

While this might not be the most conventional way to make a marriage proposal, this appears to be the best solution right now. I will own her for as long as I want. She will do what I command her to do without questions, not to mention without drama. For my peace of mind, this is the best way out and she fits the profile. I want Vittoria as far away from me as possible. I can barely stand being around people, period, but she is a different breed of nasty.

When Claudio suggested this idea, I almost threw my whiskey glass at him. But, after sleeping on it, I find that it’s a one-size-fits-all kind of deal.

“A hundred thousand dollars,” Mr. Auctioneer groans into the microphone.

Almost time.

She’s shaking harder now, no longer hiding it or trying to. Maybe she is just too tired from standing that long on weak legs.

“A hundred and five,” I make my bid, starting slow.

“A hundred and ten thousand,” a different male voice booms, and she lets out a weak gasp, not of relief but of fright.

The voice sounds Hispanic, but everyone here knows that no voice sounds anything like the real voices. The mics are programmed to alter voices and accents, but from inside your cubicle, you can see what cubicle the voices are coming from.

I lift my eyes to look at the micro screen at the top of my cubicle showing the number twelve. That’s Camorra. The fucker is always on my trail. Now he wants what I want?

“Going for a hundred and ten thousand dollars,” Botched Nose shrieks into his mic. He looks around like he can see us.

I press my index finger on the red button.

“A hundred and fifty,” I sit back, relaxing. I don’t have the time to play around with the Camorra.

Her lips part slightly, and she gasps again, her bony ribs showing her drawing in the air.

Claudio has a smirk on his face. He reaches into the pocket of his dress pants… let him not pull out a coin. Damn it! He pulls out a coin. That shit is distracting but calms him. He starts to toss it in the air, and I fight the urge to toss him and his coin out.

“A hundred and fifty,” Botched nose lifts his hammer to slam.

“Two hundred,” from the same damn cubicle.

“Three hundred,” I ball my fist.

“Three hundred and fifty.” Caruso is having fun.

Fuck me. He told me the number of his cubicle for a reason and waited until I walked into mine. He knows it is me. He has been waiting for me to make a bid on any of the products. This long dragged-out stupid game of who is superior is getting under my skin.

I fell right into his trap when I continued with the bid. I can let her go and just wait for another one to come out. I can let him have her, let him win just this time. But I like a good challenge. She is the first product he’s making a bid on, so it will be good to beat him to it in his domain. Sick, but I like it. There’s a part of me that likes to think that what is mine came with a little bit of challenge. That I earned it, just like everything else in my life.

I want her. It’s a matter of honor now, and I’m not one to lose. There’s only one thing to do to make him stop, set the bid so high he’ll think I’m insane. That is probably what he wants. Giving him that is not as bad as losing her to him.

“One million,” I offer. Let’s end this tussle. My tolerance is low.

I do not miss how, for the first time since the spotlight came on, she lifts her eyes to look at my cubicle.

Claudio is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. At least he is no longer tossing.

Why spend more on a property than the seller is asking for?

Because a few weeks from now, this property will carry a name that is one of the most powerful names in the whole of New York State.

This property will be my woman.

My wife.

Mine.

And that doesn’t come cheap.

I hope to hell she is worth every penny because otherwise Claudio will face my anger for this stupid stunt.

For his sake and hers, she better be.

Chapter Two

Alejandra

Please, not again.

My quaking legs knock and I almost stumble forward but find my balance by pressing my bruised toes onto the cold black tile floor beneath my feet. They still hurt from the last time Signor E had trampled on them repeatedly with his pointed shoes.

My eyes ignore the beeping green light at the top of booth number six directly in front of me and stay on the clouded glass masking the person I want so badly to see.

They have no right. No right to do this to anyone. No right to keep taking from me.

That person sitting in there just robbed me of my chance for freedom for an insanely high price. Not the type of freedom one is expected to hope for after living as I have for three years, but the kind that utterly sets free with no care or worry for healing and the future.

The future they robbed me of. I had worked and studied so hard to get a chance at the future I had dreamt of constantly as a child. I felt the universe was beginning to hear me when I got a scholarship to Naples. I felt I could finally be an architect. I could build something that would not only capture the eyes but enthrall the heart as well, like the Alhambra with its stucco walls, intricate plasters, and honeycomb patterns.

But that was long gone now.

Three years gone.

“One million for Alessandra,” the auctioneer announces like anyone would dare to bid higher than that.

I hate them all, but there is one thing we can all agree on tonight. And that is the simple fact that there is a madman in booth six.

One million for Alessandra. Not Alejandra. Not the dreamer who wanted to become an architect.

One million for the naked whore on this stage, passed down to master after master, to be used and reduced to nothing.

Not Alejandra, who enjoys sketching in the evening sun, who loves to run her fingers across the walls of grand buildings to teleport herself to another era and daydream of being there when it was being built.

That person is kept safe, locked away until there may ever be freedom for her.

I stopped trying to correct them on the first day when they asked my name and the man named Caruso, who was sampling us, said Alessandra instead of Alejandra. I had corrected him and got a fist bumped into my face. I felt the ring for days after.

He took my name away to strip me of my power and identity. But he didn’t realize he was giving me the strength to face the brutality. Knowing Alejandra is safe and away from all of this gives me something to hold on to. Something to look forward to.

One million dollars.

Why would he pay that much when he could have gotten me for way less? Why would anyone pay that much for me? What does he hope to do with me? What will he expect me to do to give him his money’s worth?

I bite down on my chattering teeth, fighting back every tear that’s prickling my eyes as I keep them on the glittering booth, breaking the rules.

How dare he? How could any of them? When does this end? Will I ever find freedom?

I was pounded, bruised, my bones broken, to stop me from meeting the eyes of Signor E when he newly got me. I started to realize that what I had been told back when I had a life I took for granted was true.

Back when I had friends I didn’t want to hang out with but pretended to like so I wouldn’t appear vulnerable. Back when I would deliberately skip meals and spend my time scrolling on social media. When I would rather stay in my bedroom reading or writing than hang out with family and friends on special holidays. I had been told then, by friends, families, and even strangers that my eyes sold me out. That they give away every secret I try to hide.

My eyes gave him everything he needed to know. They gave away my fear even when I pretended to be strong. They told him how hungry I was when I fought to stay on my feet after going days without food. My eyes gave him satisfaction and I had to remove that power from him.

I started to keep them on the ground as a form of self-preservation. I would look anywhere but in his eyes, all their eyes. Men that could reduce a human to an object. Men who overstepped boundaries and violated. Men who brought doom to women like me. Men that are predators and prey on women like me for pleasure.

I bow, dipping my head and lowering my upper body, taking back my power. I cannot see him but I know he can see me. And what I do not want is for him to see all the things I don’t want anyone to see. Those are mine. My thoughts are mine to keep and protect.

My body belongs to Alessandra and is for them to toil with. My thoughts are Alejandra’s and are hers to keep, hers to protect.

The point where my stomach meets my chest burns as my anxiety creeps through my veins, provoking another shaking fit that almost sends me falling on my face. I plant my feet on the floor with more firmness, straightening my back.

This will never end. No one is coming to save me.

When I was newly abducted, I fall asleep imagining a hero showing up to save me. I would imagine the police bursting through the place and saving me before they did any irreparable damage. But the days turned to weeks, the weeks turned to months, and the months to years. No police. No help. No hero.

Once again, I am being auctioned.

I know the fate that awaits me if no one takes me home. I have long since given up hope of being found and freed. I have forgotten what the wind feels like on my skin, what the banter of people from the neighborhood sounds like as the sun plays hide and seek behind the clouds.

I have forgotten what it feels like to be a daughter, a friend, and a sister.

I have forgotten what it feels like to be a woman with desire or a crush. What it feels like to demand respect, to not be violated or disrespected. I have forgotten what it feels like to be a human with rights and basic needs, dreams, and plans. I have forgotten what the taste of a freshly made meal feels like. I have forgotten the taste of my favorite chocolate ice cream and how I always allowed myself a sweet treat on weekends.

I have forgotten how to live or why to live.

After years of what I have been subjected to in the hands of Signor E, I want death more than water, even though I am extremely dehydrated. I have been refusing to eat or drink these past days before the auction. I needed to attract the grim reaper, for him to follow me in my wake. I need to call him with my starvation so he smells the scent of death on me and comes to take me with him.

I want death. I was so close to having it. So close. Now… I grind my teeth, stiffening my spine and holding my breath as a panic attack starts to brew, making my sight blurry. Maybe if I can avoid breathing just a bit longer, I will be able to escape this. I’ve been practicing this technique for a month now.

I chose this way to find freedom again, to give my worn soul some rest. I have come to accept my reality. No one is coming for me. No one will find me. No one will set me free but me. And if there’s a chance for Alejandra to survive, Alessandra must die. Maybe if I make that happen, she will have a chance in another lifetime.

I begin to feel dizzy and lightheaded. My lungs swell, and my stomach heats up.

When Signor E had told me he was bored of me and brought in a new girl, I thought he would do it himself. I was relieved. I went to bed on the cold floor like every other day, only this time I felt something I hadn’t in the three years. I felt warm inside, akin to happy.

I wanted nothing more from than to put me to rest. But he had other plans. He sent me to them and asked that they help him dispose of me. I had hoped they would set me free but instead, they have other plans for me. They will keep using me until I live.

Even when I don’t get bidden for, as has been my plight for the past four auctions, they still refuse to set me free. Every now and then they come with the threat of cutting me up in pieces and selling my parts to organ harvesters if I don’t get sold for at least three hundred thousand dollars. I wish for death, but not that way.

My eyes burn, my nose waters as my body shudders from the lack of oxygen. I’m close. If I keep this up, my heart might give up. It has to. Whatever fate awaits me, it might be worse than being dismembered and sold. If anyone can offer that much money, I might as well get ready to be used as the target in some horrifically perverted game.

A ragged palm grips my bare forearm and jerks me, forcing me to gasp warm air and deactivate my self-destruct mission. I keep my eyes down, my fists balled as I suck up air, panting.

“What were you about to do?” His voice comes out distorted, like sounds from a robber behind a mask in a heist.

I don’t look, but I feel him lift his other hand, about to strike me. I know now when a strike is coming without having to look.

“Touch her,” that voice, the same one that had offered one million dollars for a worthless object, booms through the speaker and halts the man his train. The voice sounds like Skipper from The Penguin of Madagascar. Signor E had sounded like a buzzing bee on the first day. I now hate bees.

“I dare you,” he continues.

The grip around my forearm loosens. The man takes a step back, creating space between us.

After feeling like trash for as long as I can remember, I instantly feel like I have some sort of value. The feeling of worth tries to swim through the swamp of worthlessness I’ve been buried in for all this time. I feel a strange sense of safety, even though I know it’s fleeting. No one will touch me now, not in a demeaning way, not here at least. I was going to be kicked or dragged across the floor for being an obsolete object, for not making a sale for them, again.

Three years ago, I had the men calling out and the bids soaring from the moment the bid price was announced. I am sure that if my current master gets tired of me, they will jump on me and claim me again with hopes that I will keep on being a money well.

From my peripheral vision, I see the auctioneer clear his throat and adjust his goggles, loving his role of slamming hammers and reducing humans to objects all too much.

“Sold for one million dollars,” he announces the price and hits his hammer very quickly, as if he fears the bidder will revoke his bid. That clinking sound evokes a tremor in me, sealing my fate.

I have been sold, again.

My panic attack kicks in, and the red leash around my neck begins to choke me. My heartbeat starts a drumming exhibition, as my heart goes crazed looking for a way out. The inside of my stomach gurgles like hot lava and as if the universe finally listens, my breathing hiccups, and gives up.

With closed eyes, a limped body, and shallow breathing, I drop to the floor.

Finally.

Freedom.

Oblivion.

Death.
Thank you.

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Chapter One

Nora

“The Celia Young disappearance has now been declared a cold case. I’m sorry.”

I stared at detective Reed, my hands clutching the chair so hard it hurt. I’d been expecting him to ask us to identify my sister’s body, or at least for him to say that he had a lead. Having him say instead that they had given up looking was… a mind fuck, to say the least.

All we had was a pile of questions and no shovel to sort them with.

The not knowing was the worst.

“I beg your pardon?” my grandma said. I looked in her direction, seeing how she was clutching her purse, and I knew she was just as close as I was to flying off the handle.

The detective sighed. “Whatever happened to her, the trail has gone cold. I’m sorry.”

“You’re… sorry?”

The detective was looking at me with fake regret in his eyes. He was putting on a show, which was even worse than the fact that they had given up. It had only been six months since my sister’s disappearance. What did they mean, the trail had gone cold?

He shook his head. “The department has limited resources and—”

“Fuck your limited resources! This is my sister you’re—”

My grandmother clutched my hand, her nails digging into my flesh. “Leave it, Princesa. They are doing their best.” She turned to the detective. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Reed?”

He nodded, still avoiding our eyes. “Of course, we are. We understand that this is your family, but as I said, limited resources. We are doing everything we can.”

“I don’t think you are,” I blurted, my hand on my hip. I might have been petite, but I wasn’t going to let this man get away with this. There was something more at play here. Something he wasn’t telling us, and I was going to find out what.

“That British girl, the one who disappeared years ago… What was her name, Lita?” I turned to my grandmother.

“I think it was Madeleine. Madeleine McCann.”

There was no ‘I think’ about it. My grandmother and her friends happened to follow that case obsessively. Conspiracy theories abound.

“Yeah, Madeleine. Fifteen years later, they’re still looking for her, and you give up after six months? How is that fair?”

Detective Reed rolled his eyes. “I can’t speak to what the British police do, ma’am. Here in New York—”

“Don’t speak to me like I don’t understand,” I snapped sticking my finger in his face. The urge to slap him was almost overwhelming.

A flicker of annoyance flashed across his face, but he suppressed it. “Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to leave. This conversation is no longer produc—”

“No!” I said desperately, “Wait. I’m sorry.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I want us to resolve this amicably. So, let’s begin again, okay? Celia was working at Club Pandemonium. Did you speak with all the workers there?”

Detective Reed gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, we did.”

“And what about the owner? Her boyfriend was a bouncer for the club. Did you talk to him?”

“Miss Young, you know very well that we have spoken to all those people.”

“What about her neighbors? Did you get to all of them? Someone must have seen something.”

“That neighborhood is not well known for cooperating with the police.”

“I wonder why that is.”

“Nora,” my grandmother whispered admonishingly.

I met her eyes, taking a deep breath. She was right. Snarking at the cops wouldn’t get us anywhere. “I’m sorry. Just… I don’t think you’ve run down every lead. There are still avenues to pursue.”

“Is that so?” the detective’s mouth twisted in derision. “You know better than us?”

“I know that my sister didn’t just disappear into thin air. She’s twenty-two years old, and a whole hell of a lot of things could have happened to her. We just want to know what.” I fixed him with the most pleading puppy dog eyes I could manage. “Please, Detective Reed.”

He blinked at me and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Young. We’ve done everything we can.”

Simply put, I did not believe that he was telling the truth. There was something shifty about him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what… but yeah, for sure. He was hiding something. I tried to think of a way to get it out of him.

“What did Igor say? Her boyfriend? Have you informed him that you’re stopping the investigation?”

“According to him, they broke up before she disappeared.”

“And you don’t find that convenient?”

Detective Reed shrugged. “She’s not exactly a housewife. We’ve had lots of women like your sister follow the same patterns of behavior—”

I almost leapt over the table to strangle him, but my Lita held me back. “Like my sister? You mean strippers? Are you calling my sister a whore?” I yelled.

“No. Of course not. But you must have known what sort of lifestyle she lived.”

I growled and he sighed, shaking his head.

“Look, all I’m saying is that there is nothing unusual about what happened before she took off. Nothing that would indicate your sister didn’t just skip town on her own. She’s an adult and she can do as she pleases. As someone who has seen this play out over and over, I would really suggest you focus on other things. Your sister will more likely than not show up when she feels like it.”

I just stared at him, my heart pounding. Thank God my grandmother was there. Celia wouldn’t just disappear. Sure, we weren’t as close as we once were, but we were the only family each other had. She wouldn’t just leave without a word.

Something had happened to her.

Something bad.

And if this stupid detective thought I was going to just roll over and let it go, he had another thing coming.

I whirled towards the door, pulling my grandmother along with me. “Alright then, thanks,” I said brusquely as I banged the door to his office open and stormed out. We were halfway down the hall when I heard my name called, much to my surprise. I turned to see Detective Reed following us.

“What now?” I snapped.

He came to a stop in front of me. “Please…let this go. For your own sake. This is doing nothing but causing you, and your grandmother, a tremendous amount of grief.” He turned to nod at her. “Don’t you see that?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious at his insistence. I didn’t say a word, hoping he’d fill the silence and incriminate himself.

“Again, we’ve done all we can. We have no power over what comes next. Do you understand me?”

I stared mutinously at him.

“Nora?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

“When did we get on a first-name basis?”

He sighed. “Fine. Miss Young, last warning. Drop this. It isn’t going to go anywhere.”

“Thank you very much for your input, detective. Your warning has been noted.” I turned and resumed walking, my grandma by my side, watching me with her cloudy eyes. She didn’t say a word and neither did I, but I guess she knew as well as I did that I wasn’t going to drop it.

Chapter Two

Nora

It was dark and freezing. I could feel every muscle in my body shivering—shaking with both cold and fear.

“Nora?”

Her voice was so tiny in the dark as her small hands grabbed at me.

“Shh,” I whispered, more afraid than I could ever remember being. Then it hit me.

Celia, clinging to me. We were in a dark, enclosed space, claustrophobia closing in on me like an evil cloud…

This is a dream.

I tried to wake up, but all I could hear was Celia crying softly, almost soundlessly; her small body shaking at my side. We were used to that—not making a sound. Papa didn’t like it when we cried. Even when he beat us. We couldn’t stop the tears rolling from our eyes, but we could stop the sounds in our throats. Celia, in particular, learned to be very quiet.

I wanted to get away from the dream, from the shouting I could hear outside the dark space we were in, from the cold… I wanted to be back in my own bed, warm and safe and grown, but I couldn’t make myself wake up.

With a cry, I was suddenly sitting ramrod straight up in bed, my eyes wide open. I blinked a few times and wiped my wet cheeks. My shoulders dropped as I sighed, remembering.

Real life wasn’t much better than my nightmares. Not with Celia missing.

Where are you, Celly? God, I will find you.

I blushed even as I thought it, knowing how much I’d let her down. Getting up, I stomped to the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t stand the girl staring back at me. That girl had sunk into complacency, being content with one phone call a week, letting her sister get further and further away from the little family she had… I shook my head, looking away, unable to face myself.

My sister was in trouble, and I hadn’t known until it was way too late to help her.

I’ll go to the ends of the earth if I have to. But I will bring you home.

I grabbed my toothbrush, aggressively brushed my teeth, then washed my face. I didn’t have to be on duty until an hour later, and the bike ride to the hospital took twenty minutes, so I had some time. I got in the shower, standing under the spray and letting the hot water dissipate the grogginess I was feeling.

A horrible night’s rest, no doubt brought on by too much whisky, meant I was in bad shape. I closed my eyes, trying to think about any clue I might have missed. Celia had failed to mention Igor in our weekly talks—frankly, she rarely mentioned anyone in her life—so maybe Detective Reed was right, and they weren’t important to each other. I wasn’t going to assume anything, though.

Maybe the police hadn’t known the right questions to ask, or maybe Igor wasn’t interested in talking to Five-O. He might tell me something he wouldn’t tell them. It was a start at least. Then I could approach the other strippers at the club. All I had to do was get close enough for them to start talking.

I stepped out of the shower. The difference between the warm steam and the cold air made me shiver. I took my brush, standing naked before the mirror, and combed my dark hair while giving myself a once-over.

The best way to get to speak with Igor and the girls was to get a job at Pandemonium.

My eyes raked over my body. I had an okay cleavage. My waist was fairly small, and I had ample hips—thank you, Spanish heritage. I could dance well enough and had made my way through nursing school on the pole when money was tight. I wasn’t a professional by any means, but I knew enough to fake it.

My muscles were kept tight and toned by the hours of walking in the wards that my nursing career demanded. Plus cycling everywhere of course. I wasn’t a health nut or anything. Riding a bike was just that much cheaper than driving.

My goal had been to get the three of us out of the hood one day, save some money to pay for Celia to go to designer school like she’d wanted… Basically, save my family.

Things were going well. Until they weren’t.

The ER was bedlam. I was so happy I’d had time for breakfast—coffee and avocado toast from Starbucks—before I had to deal with some guy’s gunshot wound to the chest, followed by a kid with a bean stuck up his nose. The kid was fine; his mother, on the other hand, had needed a sedative.

“Do you want to wait thirty minutes for the doctor, or would you like me to extract it?” I asked her. It was a fairly simple procedure, and I had the forceps to do it. The bean thankfully wasn’t very far in.

“You do it! Please, just do it!” she almost screamed, and I could see how freaked out she was.

“Alright. But I need you to calm down, alright? Have a seat. Everything is going to be fine.”

She nodded frantically and sat down—curled up on herself, swaying back and forth, self-soothing. I felt sorry for her, but I knew the best way to help both of them was to get the bean out of the kid’s nose.

I turned to him and smiled. “So, Julius, I’m gonna get that bean out of your nose, alright? It won’t take long, and I don’t think it’ll hurt. Will you be a brave boy for me?”

He nodded slowly, his brown bangs bouncing on his forehead. He reminded me so much of Celia at that age. So cute and responsive, and very quiet.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and picked up the forceps. I talked to him as I burrowed in his nose, clamping onto the bean and pulling it out carefully. He didn’t so much as flinch.

“What a brave boy you are!” I hummed. “There, all done.”

I sprayed some antibacterial mist up his nose just in case, cleaned up the snot, and handed him good as new to his mother. She burst into tears, clutching him close. Julius was unmoved by her hysterics, and I had a feeling she freaked out often enough that it wasn’t new to him. I waved awkwardly and left her to it.

My next patient was more… complicated.

Claudette Stevens, twenty-three years old. Her dark brown hair did nothing to hide the bruises on her neck, and her downcast eyes were tired. I could hardly bear to look at her, but I had to smile and be professional. All my patients were bringing Celia to mind that day.

I felt as if someone was trying to send me a message.

Claudette was five foot six and a hundred-and-ten pounds—way too thin. Her elbows stuck out like tiny spears, sharp enough to pierce her concave stomach. Her collarbone was stark, and her cheeks were slightly hollowed. But she stood straight and unbowed, looking at me with defiant eyes.

Just like Celia.

“So, what brings you to the ER today?”

Claudette looked away. “I fainted and my stomach aches.”

I cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, staring at that bruise around her neck. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I expelled a breath and turned away, shaking my head as I picked up the blood pressure cuff. She pulled back her sleeve so I could get an accurate reading. More bruises. To nobody’s surprise, her blood pressure was on the higher side of normal.

There were so many times I stood to the side while my mother told a nurse or a doctor about her own “accidents”: running into a door or falling down the stairs. I glanced towards the curtains separating the cubicle from the rest of the corridor and saw a man peering in. His eyes were steady on Claudette.

“You know, the hospital has certain resources that can help you in case you’re in… a tricky spot,” I whispered.

She shook her head, still not looking at me. “Thanks, but I’m not in any sort of spot.”

“Do you have kids?”

Her eyes slid along the floor and then flicked towards the curtain. She shook her head. I didn’t know if I believed her, but there was nothing in her file to indicate she was lying.

“Well… if you change your mind, you know where to start,” I whispered.

She nodded, not lifting her head at all. With an inward sigh, I walked out of the room with her file, eyeballing the man lurking in the corridor.

“Excuse me, sir. You can’t be back here unless you’re a patient.”

“It’s fine,” he said, not deigning to look at me. “I’m waiting for someone.”

I hesitated, wondering if I should insist. He was a big guy, at least six foot three, with wide shoulders. His hair was cut close to his skull as if he was in the military. He wore cargo shorts and a striped blue and white shirt. I could describe him to the cops if needed.

I walked away, perfunctorily knocking on the GP’s door before entering the room and placing the file on the desk. “Hey, doc. You need to watch out for this one. Might be some domestic abuse going on.”

The doctor sighed, shaking her head. “I’m guessing she’s not admitting it?”

“Nah. Walked into a door.”

We exchanged commiserating glances before I shook my head and left. One thing I knew for sure: nobody could help Claudette until she was ready to help herself. Being that broken, that damaged, was something I could definitely relate to, so it filled me with guilt to just have to walk away… again.

I checked my watch and saw that it was almost noon. Late enough for me to take my lunch break. I was already sick of this shift, so I alerted the front desk and took off for the taco truck across the street.

Buying two tacos and two coffees, I headed down to the morgue where my friend Jodie worked as a pathologist. I found her in her office, transcribing her notes, and held up the brown paper bag.

She immediately stopped typing and grinned at me. “My Lord and savior.” She held her hands out wide, and I stepped into them and let her hug me before she snatched the bag of food. She opened it and peered inside.

“Mmm, tacos. It’s like you read my mind.”

“Yes, I’m psychic.” I collapsed into an empty chair with a sigh.

She stared at me, her bright blue eyes taking me in. “Rough morning?”

“Ugh.” I covered my face with my hands.

“Is it the clinic or your sis?”

“Both. Got a domestic violence case just now. Chick is denying it and not even trying to do a good job of it.”

“Maybe she needs a knight in shining armor.” Jodie shrugged, taking a bite of her taco.

I snorted. “Yeah, well, best of luck getting through her meathead boyfriend.”

“Is she like… hot?”

I opened my eyes to glare at her. “Did you not hear the part where I said she’s in an abusive relationship?”

Jodie shrugged. “You know I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.”

“You’re a sucker for any damsel.”

“Hey!”

I grinned at her, feeling a lot better. “What? You know I call them as I see them.”

She shrugged. “Fair.” She handed me a taco, “Now eat and tell me what else is bothering you. You look rough, and I know it’s not just because of this.”

“Jeez, thanks. Always good to know that I look as bad as I feel.”

“You know what I mean.”

I sighed. “Yeah. I do.” I bit into the taco.

“So, what’s up, doc? Is it your sis?”

I sighed, leaning on my hands before telling her about our visit to the detective. She was outraged on my behalf and totally agreed with me that the detective was hiding something.

“Dick. Do you think he’s on someone’s payroll?”

I stared at her. I hadn’t even thought of that. I just thought he was being a lazy son of a bitch. “You think so?”

“Hey, Jeffrey Epstein had some cops in his pockets.”

My eyes widened further. “She’s too old to be caught up in something like that.”

“Would you prefer to think that she’s dead?”

I didn’t want to think about that.

“Well… anyway, I’ll find out soon enough,” I said.

“What do you mean by that?”

I gave Jodie a side-eye. She was my best friend, and she had my back, but I didn’t feel comfortable bringing anyone else into my plan. If I told her what I intended on doing, she might have insisted on helping me… or changing my mind. If I knew one thing for sure, it was that my plan was dangerous and possibly stupid. I wasn’t going to drag anyone else into it.

“Let’s talk about something else. I need a distraction from the bad dreams and the worse thoughts. What are you up to?”

“Nothing fun. Madly swiping left on Tinder, trying to find my soulmate.” She shrugged but her blue eyes twinkled.

I had to laugh. “Maybe lower your expectations a bit?”

“Okay, fine. I just want a hot girl with a sharp mind and one hell of an ass.”

“Ah, much more attainable.” I grinned as I took another bite of my taco. I sat back and we ate in silence. I felt the peace of the morgue wash over me, the deep quiet, the sense of profundity brought about by the fact that we were surrounded by the end of life. It was impossible to think petty thoughts while I was down here.

Jodie finished her taco and wiped her hands on her tissue. She straightened up, grabbing her latte and sipping at it with a frown on her face. She flicked back her dark hair and focused on me.

“So… to return to your Detective Reed. What are you gonna do? Report him to his superiors?”

I gave her a look. “Does that ever work?”

She shrugged. “No idea.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

She lowered her head. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll figure it out.”

Jodie shook her head at me. “What are you planning, my dear scheming friend?”

My mouth twisted as I took a sip of my coffee. “Something stupid, obviously.”

Chapter Three

Alexei

I threw my head back, almost hitting the wall behind me, and I bit my bottom lip to suppress any sound. Jules’ mouth was a godsend, sucking the soul out of my dick like it was her job. She was nothing if not a pro—a valuable resource to have when I was feeling stressed.

My hips jerked as I grunted, coming down her throat.

She pulled away with a soft moan, giving me a lustful look from beneath her lashes. She was kneeling on the floor of my office between my legs, my desk at her back. It was a great look for her, but I knew she was about to start some shit. Asking for a performance review or when we could see each other again.

I had a feeling she was starting to get the wrong idea about us.

The door opened, and Kirill, one of my Brigadiers, came in. “Papa, we have a problem in the club.”

All my brigadiers called me Papa or Pakhan to show their respect. After all, I was the boss. But Kirill and I had grown up together in this business, so it felt weird when he called me that. When we were alone, he stuck with Alexei, but as soon as anyone else was around, he shifted into formality.

I liked that about him. When people saw someone as close to me as Kirill giving me my due respect, it didn’t even occur to them not to do the same.

“What problem?” I pushed Jules off me, buttoning up my fly as I got to my feet.

“Fight broke out on the floor. One of the girls is involved. You want me to take care of it?”

I was tempted for a moment. Blowing my load always left me with a pleasant high for a few minutes. It would have been nice to bask in it.

But then conflict spurred a different but equally attractive kind of adrenaline, and I could walk and chew gum. I shook my head. “Let’s go.”

The Pandemonium was a private club. It had nothing to do with the mob business. It belonged wholly to me, all above board and legal. Almost. Aside from it being an excellent place to launder money, the club was also great for hearing things. My clientele was a mixed pot: other gangs looking to party on neutral ground; rich kids wanting to flirt with danger; Wall Street types wanting to relax somewhere they didn’t have to put up a front; politicians too, mostly those looking to make deals with criminals.

As a result, I expected a certain level of professionalism from my workers. This wasn’t some hole-in-the-wall place. It was a classy joint. I expected my employees to behave accordingly.

Pandemonium had three levels, the first being a dance floor, with a DJ booth and a bar, strobe lights, house music, the works. I had a few girls working the floor, supplying the Wall Street types with every drug they could dream of.

The second floor was the strip club—we had theme nights. Monique, my entertainment manager, set them up. There were cowboy nights on Mondays, where anyone who could stay on the mechanical bull for two minutes got a free, private, lap dance.

We had a live band that played all the country songs.

Tuesdays was BBW night where our plus sized strippers did their thing. It’s been surprising to see what a draw they were. Wednesdays was drag queens. Thursdays, college nights. And Fridays, was free for all.

The third floor was more exclusive—I call it, VIP. Admission was by appointment only. Patrons could order dinner, have their secret meetings, drink the night away, order up strippers, dancers, or drugs, a stenographer, videographer, fax machine… Whatever they wanted, the butler would supply. It was swept for bugs twice a night and no phones were allowed.

I took the elevator down to the second floor, Kirill by my side. It was still early on a Monday night, so thankfully it wasn’t packed yet. There were two men in the open space surrounding the stage, beating the shit out of each other. I sighed, squared my knuckles, and dove in. Taking each man by the scruff of their shirts like dogs, I shook them apart.

“Alright, fuckers. Either of you wanna tell me what’s going on?” I demanded.

One of the men growled, trying to break free of my hold and come at me. I didn’t spend six days a week with a trainer bench pressing three hundred pounds so that some punk in my club could attack me.

I let go of the first guy and punched the second one in the face. Then, quick as a flash, I resumed my hold on the first guy and brought him right up to my face, his feet almost hanging off the ground.

I was never one to display my physical power for fun. But now and then, just to remind the hoi polloi who the hell I was, I did let myself go.

I shook him a bit as he looked at me with wide, scared eyes. “You think this is some piss-soaked back-alley fight club, huh? Nah—here, you drink under me.”

The guy started stammering a reply. He looked to his right where one of my dancers was standing, her arms crossed, shoulders hunched over and looking stressed.

I curled my lip in disgust. “You’re fighting over a girl?”

He blubbered a little more, nothing intelligible, before I threw him on top of the other guy. I looked up at my security that was standing around, ready for anything. “Throw these shitbags out, would you?”

I stepped over the two sprawled bodies before my men picked them up and heaved them off, stalking the girl. I could see her beginning to hyperventilate, her face pale, hands trembling. I came to a stop, looming over her. “Care to explain yourself?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I told him not to come. But my boyfriend gets so jealous and—”

I snorted, lifting a hand up. “Save it. I don’t have time for this.” I raised my voice so the other dancers could hear me. “When you come here to work, you leave your domestic bullshit at the door. I don’t wanna waste my time breaking up fights. You think this is Coyote Ugly? My patrons come here to have a good time, not to be subjected to your baby daddy bullshit. Last warning.” I snapped my fingers before pointing at the stripper in front of me who was trying to sneak away. “Not you. You’re fired.”

She actually whimpered before going down on her knees. “Please, sir! It’ll never happen again. I’ll tell Rob to stay away, I promi—”

“If I had a dime for every time I heard ‘it’ll never happen again’, I’d be rich enough to retire. Go on. Get out. Tell Rob thanks from me.”

She began to cry.

Honestly… I could only roll my eyes. “Come on, stop with that. I’m not gonna hire you back. Collect your things and go.” I pointed sternly towards the door.

“Sir, please.” She came closer, looking me in the eye and trying to bat her eyelashes. “I’ll do anything,” she whispered.

“Yeah? Then leave.”

It annoyed me when girls thought that their pussies could get them out of anything. I turned my back on her as one of my security men took her by the arm, trusting that she got the message.

But something made me look up towards the bar. There was a woman there, staring at me, her dark eyes laser-focused and bright with interest. I found myself changing direction as if a literal magnet was pulling me towards her. She wasn’t the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, but something about the way she stood, the look in her eyes, set her apart from all the other girls in this place.

“Hey,” I said confidently, leaning on the bar next to her. “Sorry you had to see that.” I waved vaguely towards the middle of the now cleared room.

She shrugged. “Don’t apologize. Seeing you pick up that guy so effortlessly was something else.”

Her eyes twinkled with… something. Not really mirth, lust, or interest. More like an amalgam of all those plus some other, undefined emotion. It had me intrigued.

Who was this girl?

I held out my hand. “Alexei Levin, at your service. You have a name?”

She looked at my hand for a moment, as if making up her mind about something. Then she slid her much smaller hand into mine, looking me in the eye. “Nora Walsh—at yours.”

I shook her hand slowly, drowning in her dark eyes. Unlike most people who met me, she didn’t seem the least bit afraid. Maybe, she didn’t let her fear stop her from holding my gaze. I could see the wariness in her eyes, how watchful she was of me, which let me know she knew who I was.

“So, Nora, come here often? Haven’t seen you before.”

Her eyes slid to the place where the dancer had been standing. She looked back at me with a quirked eyebrow. “Yeah, well,” she threw me a one-shouldered shrug, “this isn’t my usual beat.”

“Oh yeah? And what is?” I clicked my fingers at the bartender, indicating that they should replenish Nora’s drink. They did so and brought me my usual—a white Russian. Puns be damned.

“I thought I was out of the business.” Her mouth twisted, “Been out of town, doing the domestic thing. But that didn’t work out.”

My mouth turned down. I gave her a disappointed look. “Damn, don’t tell me. Crazy ex?”

She laughed and then leaned in, beckoning me to do the same. I gave her my ear, eager to hear what she had to say. “The gag is, I’m the crazy ex,” she whispered, her warm breath ghosting against my skin.

I actually laughed out loud. I was not expecting that. I leaned back, seeing that she was smiling up at me. And she had dimples… kissable dimples.

This might be a problem.

“Do tell,” I said.

She inclined her head, mouth turning down. “He made me quit my job all of a sudden… which means no references, right? Took me to this town in the middle of nowhere and substituted my birth control with sugar pills. Blew through my savings while he was ‘looking for a job’, all the while selling me this line about happily ever after. My sister just died, so I wanted to believe him so bad.” Her voice broke and she swallowed hard but didn’t burst into tears or anything. I reached out and squeezed her hand. It would work in my favor to console her.

She gave me a quick, humorless smile. “Finally woke up. Skipped out of town with the one thing he loved. A Harley-Davidson. Mint condition. Sold it when I got back into the city, but I kinda need to get some work… fast.” She looked at me and smirked. “You know what I mean?”

I couldn’t help raking over her body from head to toe. She wore a white chiffon blouse which was practically transparent in the neon lights. I could see the twin peaks of her breasts pushing into a black lacy bra. There was nothing extraordinary about them and yet my palm itched to curve beneath the swell of them and squeeze. My mouth watered at the thought of suckling her nipple through her shirt, wetting the material so it clung to her skin and rendered her practically naked.

I could feel my body react to my fantasies. I wasn’t used to feeling so out of control.

What hoodoo even is this?

“You want to work for me?” My voice was fairly level, which was gratifying.

“I wanna work in your club, if you’ll have me.”

The way she said it… I was ready to plow her right there.

I cleared my throat. “Let’s talk in my office.”

She nodded, following me as I made my way to the elevator, parting the crowds like Moses did the Red Sea.

I know this is stupid. I know it.

I hardly knew anything about this girl—she was an unknown quantity. For all I knew, she could have been a Fed. Yet there I was, letting my dick lead me into trouble for the first time in my life. She stood in front of me in the lift, turning her back on me. I could smell her. She smelled of mint and strawberry. It was a pleasant scent. Not intoxicating. And yet I wanted to lean forward and bury my face in her neck.
There was another smell. One I knew well. One that fascinated me more than the rest.
It was the smell of fear.

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Chapter One

Lori

I’m sitting in the middle of Central Park and all I can focus on is how the sun hits the trees just right. Tall skyscrapers line the backdrop, although I cannot see the details. In fact, I can’t see any details—of anything. I’m lucky that I can even see at all. Light, blurred objects, color, movement, sometimes even a hairstyle on someone’s head. That’s about all my vision can handle thanks to Stargardt’s disease.

I developed it when I was twelve years old, and remember the moment to this day. I was sitting at my family’s dinner table, a long handmade oak piece adorned with crystal plateware, when the crystal suddenly blurred and stopped glistening. My brothers’ faces faded into shadows, and the pangs of fear in the pit of my stomach caused me to spill my gazpacho all over my white sundress.

I slip my bag off my shoulder and set it down on the bench behind me, my head tilting up towards the sun. It is moments like this when I wish I had normal vision. I wish I could count the clouds in the sky, memorize every little detail of the buildings in the skyline. I wish I could look at the couples I hear laughing around me. Perhaps then, I wouldn’t feel this intense loneliness, perhaps then, all the years of being hidden away would’ve been worth it, because I could revel in a moment like this with eyes wide open.

Since birth, my life has been threatened and I have been in danger, however the day that I lost my vision, was the day that the Saracino’s would have a secret child. See, my father is a very important man. Graziano Saracino is perhaps one of the most feared and richest men in New York City, perhaps in the nation, the leader, and head boss of the Saracino Mafia. So ever since I lost my vision, I have been tucked away, hidden from the danger that is my family’s reality. My father bought me an apartment on the other side of Manhattan, my brothers and him taking turns watching me. Thus, I have been living a relatively normal life, despite the blindness and all.

I pull my camera from my bag and remove my sunglasses. When being in the sun or harsh light, I must wear sunglasses, sometimes even a hat.

I fiddle with the lens and line up the perfect shot, capturing the perfect view of Central Park in the middle of the day, telling a sweet story of this amazing city.

I know what you’re thinking, a blind girl that takes pictures? And yes, that does sound bizarre, but I don’t just take pictures, I throw myself into them. I’ve made them a career. I’ve turned my shadowed haze into colorful storylines and now, I get to tell those stories for a living. Iris Media is one of the top marketing firms in the city and thankfully after I graduated college, they took one look at my portfolio and hired me on the spot, without being aware of my disease.

Now I really know what you’re thinking, why does the daughter of one of the richest and most powerful men in the city even have a job? Well, my answer is simple—I want to.

I don’t want to live in my family’s dangerous world. Although I love them more than words, and sometimes even more than photography, I refuse to let money be an additional reason for my lifelong isolation. It’s dirty money, blood money, money that has kept me away from the brutality of the Saracino world, money that has allowed me to build a safe space for myself. A space where I can live a quiet life, taking pictures and hosting dinner parties with my friends, maybe even allow me to have a partner and someday, a family. A normal, happy and safe family.

As soon as I take the picture, a series of loud noises fill the air. I jump and clutch my camera, knowing all too well that the sounds were gunshots. Since my hearing is heightened due to relying on it for so long, I can almost tell where they are coming from, and that immediately triggers my flight response. They were close by and so is my father’s office. Something in my gut tells me it’s not good, that it’s either him or one of my four brothers, so I pack my camera, slide on my sunglasses and make a beeline for the subway. Thankfully, I’ve memorized all the times of transit since this city doesn’t cater too well for blind people. I know that the next link to my apartment is in five minutes, so I need to book it.

I run through Central Park, rushing onto the sidewalk and waiting for the crosswalk guard to signal that it’s okay to pass. When I get to the subway stairs, I run until my lungs are squeezing inside of my chest, my thighs practically chaffing from brushing together beneath my skirt. When I count my steps and stop at my designated spot in the terminal, I wait and listen for the train. It comes, like clockwork and I step inside as soon as the door opens, sliding in my headphones as I tell my phone to call my oldest brother, Carmelo. He answers on the first ring, like always.

“Where are you right now?” I gasp, my voice thick with anxiety.

“Woah, kid, calm down. Are you okay?” he asks, the calm and deep baritone of his voice soothing some of my worry.

“Are… are you okay? I was just working in Central Park and heard gunshots. Where’s papa?” I ask, grabbing a pole and hanging tight as the subway takes off.

“Relax, Lori. Dad’s fine. Not every gunshot is due to or intended for the family. You forget this city is filled with thugs and psychopaths,” he chuckles, but I don’t laugh. My hand is sweaty as it grips the pole.

“You forget that the family is also composed of thugs and psychopaths.” I hiss, not in the mood for his humor today.

He sighs. “This is true. Look, Dad and I are fine—”

“What about Armone, Amelio and Claudio?”

“They’re here with me. Seriously, little one, you need to relax. You’re gonna turn gray at the ripe age of twenty-two.” He says and I sigh, thanking God or whoever resides in the sky for keeping my brothers and father safe just one more day.

“Look, we were planning on coming over to the apartment for dinner tonight. Dad is going to Jersey for some… business and the boys and I are craving your Cavatelli.”

If there’s one thing that’s true about living in a house full of boys, it’s that they eat. A lot.

I had to learn how to cook at a young age because of this. My mom died when I was a toddler so if the nanny was off duty, somebody had to learn their way around the kitchen and that was me. Which is fine, I love to cook. With my loss of vision, I had to learn how to chop safely, but it’s still therapeutic for me and one of the few things I’m good at.

“Fine. I’ll see you at the apartment at seven. Love you.” I disconnect the call and play some music, tilting my head back and closing my eyes as the subway continues, mindless chatter all around me.

~

When I get home, I busy myself with cooking and pour a few glasses of Chianti to calm my nerves. The apartment is quiet and lonely, so I draw the curtains and play my favorite classical playlist.

The space is huge, over five thousand square feet complete with granite countertops and vaulted ceilings. It’s a true gem in Upper Manhattan, and I’m sure it cost my father a pretty penny, but thankfully he paid for it outright so that I would never have to struggle even if I wanted to. To be honest, I don’t make that much at the marketing firm, but I do well for myself and am able to survive while still enjoying some fancy wine and organic food. Once my insurance kicks in, I’m going to talk to my father about switching doctors and paying my medical bills on my own as well, which I’m sure he will object to. Quite frankly, I’m tired of the frequent appointments. Of the pointless surgeries. If this disease is as hopeless as my childhood doctor says it is, then I want to make it easier on myself.

I straighten my throw pillows on the leather couches and reach for the fireplace remote, turning it on and sipping from my glass while gazing out the large, floor-to-ceiling windows. I’ve made this place as colorful as possible to help me move around, but the view is my favorite, albeit blurry.

The doorbell rings and I hear the door open immediately after, all four of my brothers’ laughter filling the apartment. I smile. It’s been a long time since all of them came here. Usually, people visit me in shifts now that I’m an adult, except for holidays. In all honesty, the men in my life are much busier doing crime than they are spending quality time with family. It’s something that I’ve had to accept at a young age.

“Lorena Rose!” My second eldest brother, Armone, shouts from the foyer, causing me to roll my eyes in response.

Nobody calls me by my full name but him and he only does it to agitate me.

I stand up and walk into the kitchen, pausing to kiss each of their cheeks. The eldest, Carmelo, is tall like my father. Like the other three, he was blessed with thick, dark and unruly hair and dark eyes to match. They’re pretty much carbon copies of my father, but they all have something unique about them. Carmelo is tall and wise, Armone has a very buoyant sense of humor, whereas the third eldest, Amelio, has the biggest temper, and the youngest brother, Claudio, is charming beyond belief. However, each and every one of them are players. The number of random women I have seen wrapped around their arms have surpassed the hundred mark and for a while, it grossed me out. Now however, it fills me with envy.

Because, while my brothers are attractive playboys, I am the odd, lonely, disabled girl. The girl with the red brown hair and the overly bright hazel eyes. The skinny, petite waif with poor eyesight. It’s safe to say that the only men I’ve ever known are my family members.

“Smells delicious, little one,” Claudio says, patting my shoulder as he pours a glass of wine, my eyes drifting to the long outline of his dark hair.

They all call me little one. It doesn’t piss me off, but rather fills me with warmth. It makes me feel special. Because even in my lonely world—to them, I am special.

“Thank you. I have most of the table set up, but can you pull the pot from the oven and set it on the table? There’s some Pinot Grigio on the table already,” I say, Claudio following my instructions immediately.

He’s the easiest to get along with, always sweet and polite. I feel safe with all my brothers, but he’s always had a way of calming me the best.

“Boys, come on,” I holler, grabbing my glass and walking into the dining room.

We take our spots at the table and say our prayers, wishing for health and safety as always. I hold my brothers’ hands a bit tighter than usual, the nerves from earlier still not completely dissipated.

As we eat, the boys chatter about their newest romances, and the loneliness stretches inside of my heart. After minutes have passed and they realize I haven’t said much, Amelio sits back and speaks to me directly.

“Car told us that you heard some shots and became frantic. Wanna talk about it?” he asks, his silhouette sipping wine as I sigh and swallow my food.

“Not really,” I say, but I should’ve known they wouldn’t listen anyway.

“Tough shit. What’s the matter?” he says, calling my bluff as I play with the food on my plate.

“I just… I haven’t seen papa lately and I guess I’m just anxious,” I say, the room silent as I speak.

“Maybe I just miss home.” I regret the words instantly.

“You know why you can’t go back there, Lori. It’s not safe for you.” Carmelo scolds, sounding just like my father.

“I know. I didn’t say I wanted to go back. Just that I miss it.” I whisper, swirling the wine in my glass as I bite my lip.

“I guess I’m just lonely. I hear you talk about these women, these companions, and I can’t help but wish for something like that for myself. To have someone to come home to—share my life with.” Armone’s hand rests over mine when I fall silent.

“You’re only twenty-two, little one. You have all the time in the world. Trust that you will find someone someday. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and have many talents. Any man would be lucky to call you his,” he says earnestly, my heart sinking at his words.

“I have two talents and a disability. I think I may be off the market for good.” I wallow in my own self-pity now.

“You are special and a prize, Lori. Don’t tell yourself otherwise,” Armone says, patting me comfortingly as I smile at him.

“Enough of this loneliness talk, where’s the cake?” Amelio asks, everyone erupting with laughter as we finish our meal.

“How are you ever going to have a wife if that’s how you speak to a woman?” I tease, reaching to pour myself a glass, but retreating when Carmelo brushes me off and does it for me.

He hates when I try to be self-sufficient in his presence.

“Who said I speak to every woman like that?” Ameilo teases. “And who said I want a wife anyway?” I roll my eyes at him, getting up as Claudio clears the plates from the table.

Carmelo takes the tiramisu from my hands before cutting into it as I walk it into the dining room.

I stare at all four of them, the outline of their laughing figures filling what little vision I have.

“What?” Armone asks.

“Promise me that you’re being safe. I don’t know what I would do without any of you.” I whisper, the men falling silent and all but confirming that something did happen today.

“What happened?” I ask, gazing at them as they sigh.

“There was a robbery. One of the De Vico boys. Our guards caught him a block away from the office with some of our contraband,” Claudio says, the other three hissing and chastising him.

“She’s going to worry, idiot—”

“I’m fine! Jesus, I’m not an invalid. Just because I’m hidden away doesn’t mean I need to be kept out of the loop. The De Vico’s? Again?” I ask, frowning as they confirm.

The De Vico family has been an enemy of my family since the dawn of time. The Saracino’s have fought hard to maintain control over the city, but these people are relentless. Heinous, relentless, and fucking brutal.

“Do I need to worry?” I ask, Carmelo getting up to grab the knife from my hand before he cuts into the dessert.

“Never, little one. We’re finally gaining the upper hand in our war. Now is the greatest time to relax and live your life with ease,” he says, kissing my forehead before he hands a slice of cake to all of us.

Regardless of his words, I can still feel the worry seep into my blood and blossom through my veins.

Chapter Two

Lori

My alarm is blaring, and I have a headache from Hell. My brothers stayed late last night and although I missed and enjoyed their company, I am now regretting my decision as I walk to the shower just before six in the morning.

I shower quickly and dress in my favorite red skirt and white silk blouse, sliding into a pair of nude flats before I blow dry my hair, spray my favorite perfume, and walk out the door. The trip to work is never long. Thankfully, Iris Media is only a few blocks away from the apartment and I usually make it there before any of the editors do, allowing me to develop my photos and have them on their desks by the time they walk in the office. I have a nice little setup here, my own small office and developer room right next to the editing team and John, the CEO.

I’ve always been worried working for men that I don’t know, but thankfully, John Iris is one of the nicest men I’ve ever met. He and his team have always been understanding of my condition, and he always makes an effort to compliment my work and provide guidance rather than criticism. I enjoy bringing him new photos — his words are always refreshing.

Like today, when I slapped a stack of photos labeled “Central Park Series” on his desk. I can hear his awe and see his head nod in approval, his hand reaching out to pat mine.

“Kid, I don’t know how you do it, but you amaze me every damn time,” he beams, pride filling my heart as a smile stretches my lips.

“Thank you, I can hang around today and work on the next series if you want—”

“Nonsense.” He waves me off, calling in one of his editors to take my stack of photos.

“You’ve been working yourself to the ground and are way ahead of schedule. The next issue deadline isn’t for another two months. Why don’t you take the afternoon off and relax for once?” He laughs and I sigh, unsure of what to do with my day.

If I’m not working or taking photos, I pretty much have no other purpose, but I decide not to argue against him. I want to always be in his good graces.

I shake his hand and grab my bag from my office, putting on my headphones and starting to walk home. Maybe I’ll try a new recipe today. I have a series of audio cookbooks that I’ve yet to dive into.

Right before I tell my phone to open the file, Claudio calls me. I make sure every person in my life has their own specific ringtone so I can identify the caller. Because Claudio is the one who calls me the most, I always hear Elvis’ “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

“Hey, Claud. What’s up?” I ask, turning the corner towards my apartment.

“She left me.” His slurred voice says through the phone and my heart breaks for him instantly.

Claudio has been with the same woman, Maddalena, since high school. He just bought her an engagement ring, and I can tell by his broken and mumbled voice that this must have happened earlier, which means he’s been drinking all morning.

Fuck.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m so sorry, I know you must be hurting, but we’ll figure this out, okay? It might help for you to talk about it. I’m off for the rest of the day and I’m about to come home, why don’t you come to the apartment, and we can relax together?” I try not to cry for him as he agrees with garbled words.

My sweet, older brother may work for one of the most dangerous businesses in New York City, but he has a heart of gold and, now, that heart is completely shattered. I’m instantly worried for him.

This week has already been a shit show and it’s only Tuesday.

~

Marco

I’m staring at the ten-year-old death certificate of my father when Sergio, my assistant, calls me.

“I found one of the brothers. I was able to tap into his call. He’s absolutely plastered and on his way to the girl’s house. Tracking his location now,” he says, and I immediately sit up in my leather chair, my glass of whiskey shaking on my oak desk.

Ah, the secret daughter of Graziano Saracino. Has the mystery finally been revealed?

“I want the address as soon as you get it and a van sent over to the office in five minutes.” I order, tossing back the rest of my glass as I straighten my Armani suit jacket.

“Copy,” Sergio says, ending the call as I stare at the certificate once more.

Ten years ago, to this day, Leone De Vico, my father and the head boss of the De Vico mafia, was brutally murdered by our sworn enemy, Graziano Saracino. I was only twenty-seven at the time, just an underboss when the century long business was thrown into my hands. Since then, I’ve been on a wild man hunt with a vengeance that has made me a ruthless bastard. I will not rest until I see every single Saracino dead. Even the secret daughter.

But, if you want a successful operation, you must think critically, methodically. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past decade: carefully plotting and planning, biding my time and waiting for the moment when I can strike from the shadows with an army greater than ever before. And here’s the moment showing itself, on the ten-year anniversary of my father’s death.

Vengeance.

I could strike the head first, killing Graziano and taking out the heart of the family so everything else can fail instantly, but I want them to suffer. I want them to feel the pain that I have felt for years. And what better way to do that than to start with the two youngest first?

I’m not surprised to hear about the boy. After all my digging throughout the years, I’ve known that Claudio was the weakest, too soft for our world. What surprised me is Sergio’s detection of the daughter. Graziano has hidden her well, for ten years he’s kept her locked away, untraceable. Until today. Until God came out from the sky and granted me a key to my own gates of heaven.

I do not know what the girl looks like, I don’t even know her name, but I do know that she is young, and she is weak, otherwise her father wouldn’t have hidden her so well. She may be the weakest spot of this family. She may be the perfect opportunity for my plans. Meaning, I might not want to kill her right away. Maybe I’ll kill the boy and make her watch as he bleeds out on the floors of her hidden palace. Maybe I’ll put her in the van right next to his lifeless body and then throw her in the cages until I bait the rest with her fragile, pathetic existence.

I pour myself another glass and wait for Sergio to send me the address. When he does, I see that the boy has already made it to the spot.

Perfect.

I throw back the contents of my glass and grab my gun, tuck it into my custom trousers and call for my backup. Once we’re in the van, I give them the location and light a cigarette, watching the city pass me by from the tinted windows.

The drive is long, on the other side of town. You’d think her father would move her to a different state if he really cared, but the man loves control. And since his beloved wife died many years ago, I’m sure he didn’t want the last female of the family too far. Even if it meant still risking her life.

When we pull up to the apartment, I smirk. The girl lives in an expensive skyrise, all the way at the top like a princess locked away in a tower. I grab my binoculars and peer around, stopping when I spot an open set of windows, the boy pacing past them and allowing me to identify him immediately.

Stupid girl, why leave your windows open for the monsters of the city to peer through?

I remain posted, searching for any new sightings of the mystery girl for what feels like an eternity. Until she comes into view, two glasses of water in her small hands. I take one look at her and frown, bewildered that the petite thing is somehow related to the dark Saracino men.

There, right in the open view, stands a small woman with light brown hair, shimmers of red highlights all throughout the long wavy tresses. Her skin is pale, unlike her brothers. And although I don’t have a clear look at her face, I can tell that she is stunning. Small, soft features and decent sized breasts that peek out from the slope of her silk blouse. Her long, shapely legs on full display underneath her short, red skirt.

She’s stunning, I’ll give her that. But she’s also damned, now more than ever.

“What do we do, boss?” One of my men say, bloodthirsty and anxious.

I wave him with a flick of my hand, eyes still glued on the woman in the window.

“We wait,” I say, watching for nearly an hour in the idling van until they disappear from the view.

Minutes go by when suddenly, the large double doors of the apartment building open and out comes the boy and his sister. We all draw our guns, but when I spot the walking stick outstretched in front of her, her eyes covered with a pair of expensive looking sunglasses, I freeze.

She’s blind.

The realization comes quick and hits me like a freight train, everything clicking into place.

Yes, Graziano has hidden her. And she’s not just weak, she’s fucking impaired.

So much for making her watch her brother bleed out.

They hug and right when they let go and the boy turns to walk away, one of my guards cocks their gun and looks over at me.

“Now, boss? He’s getting away—”

“No,” I say darkly, tucking my gun back into my pants as the boy leaves and the blind girl turns to walk back into the apartment building.

“Marco, what the fuck! You had your chance for the first time in ten years and you fucking—”

I rear back and elbow my driver right in the face, the crunching sound of his nose echoing throughout the van. I then grab a tissue from the glove compartment and toss it to him.

“That’ll be the first and last time you address me in that manner,” I growl, turning to look at him.

“Critically. Methodically. Successfully,” I bark at him, the same words I repeat to my men every day.

“I have other plans. I want the girl. And I want her alive,” I grunt, looking back at the apartment before I rest my hand on the door handle.

“And I’m going to get her myself. Get the rope ready. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” I say, stepping out of the vehicle as I strip my jacket and roll up my sleeves, tossing the coat into the passenger seat.

“This is personal,” I state, before I slam the door and walk inside the massive apartment building, ready to meet the hidden princess and steal her away from her little palace.

~

Lori

After walking Claudio out, I walk back inside my building and ride the elevator all the way up to the top floor. I set down my walking stick and toss my sunglasses on the foyer table. I haven’t really needed my stick in a while, but I’ve been anxious this week and don’t want to risk tripping or falling.

I walk into the kitchen and grab myself a glass of water. It took me over an hour to calm Claudio down, his drunken tears still echoing in my mind, my heart breaking for him. If this is what love is like, maybe I don’t want it after all. However, I can’t imagine living a life of complete solitude. And the reason she left him was because of the business, the very same reason why I have chosen to not be a part of it. So maybe… love won’t be painful for me since I’ve chosen to stay away.

My thoughts break when a knock sounds on the door. I smile, wondering what Claudio forgot this time. He may have sobered up slightly, but even so, the man forgets everything. He’d lose his head if it wasn’t attached to his body.

I open the door, freezing when I see the outline of a man that is not my brother, a man that I have never met before.

I look him up and down, trying to make out what little details of his features that I can. From what I can tell, his hair is styled on the top of his head, his face shadowed with a thick, black beard. His body is massive, like incredibly massive. His shoulders stretch the entire width of my door frame, bombarding me with his aggressive size. He smells unlike anything I’ve smelt before. Something foreign and rich, like he had been standing in the woods and soaked up all the sun. And handsome, definitely handsome.

“Can-can I help you with something?” I ask, my voice dry and cracked, coming out as a broken whisper as I stand there, mesmerized.

He chuckles. The sound is devoid of humor, and when I hear it, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my entire spine stiffens. This man should not be here. This man is not good.

“Yes, princess. You can help me with something, indeed,” he grumbles, lunging forward as a scream tears from my throat.

Before I can move, his hand is clamped over my mouth while the other wraps around my throat, cutting off my air supply as I flail helplessly in his arms.

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Chapter One

Anna

As I step out onto the curb, I suck in a deep breath and try my best to enjoy the spring air. It sounds dramatic, but when you step onto the Robinson estate you never know whether you’ll see the light of day again. Fresh-cut grass, the faint aroma of lilacs and hydrangeas, and a trace of exhaust from the interstate. Everywhere you look, there is a reminder of destruction disguised as progress. Even when I’m trying to accept my potential end—my mortality—it doesn’t matter.

I haven’t been to the Robinson estate in six years, but it is always too soon to see the place again. It is a modern, sophisticated-looking lion’s den. Blood-thirsty beasts that have no regard for what the society at large has to say, let alone their rules, prowl within those walls. And through the faults of my loving, but harebrained father… it seems as though I’m tied to them forever.

As I walk to the front door, I do everything in my power to calm myself down. The last thing you want to show in front of a mob boss is fear. They can smell it like sharks can smell blood in the water; and Andrey Robinson is absolutely no exception. If he senses fear, he will twist, mangle, and manipulate it just for the hell of it—not to mention his own personal gain.

Deep breaths. I need to take deep breaths and focus on maintaining my composure. I’ll give him nothing to go on, not even an inkling of emotion. No anger, no sadness, and never fear.

I don’t even have to knock on the door; it opens right when I approach. A false sense of security dares to fall over me at the sight of an older woman in a maid’s uniform, with a matching gray tunic and pants. The only splash of color is the pale pink turtleneck she’s wearing underneath. She’s meant to make the unexpecting feel safe, as though visitors aren’t walking into a potential death trap.

“Good afternoon, Miss White,” she greets so cheerfully that my heart longs to warm at the sound. “Come on in.”

She guides me inside and shuts the door behind me. I try my best not to stare, but my mind longs to torment itself, wondering whether or not she is involved with the family. A level of comfort shows in her body language, so I’m guessing she’s worked here for quite some time. Meaning she’s had to have seen quite a bit, right? Hell, why do I care?

Because I’m trying to think of anything that isn’t centered around guessing why the hell I have been called here.

She leads me to the base of the stairs and gestures for me to walk ahead of her. I suppose she doesn’t trust me to trail behind, knowing I could sneak away and end up somewhere they don’t want me to. Without comment, I lead the way. I hate the way my steps sound on the metal, a hollow pang that reminds me too much of the horror movies I watched in my youth. I’m only twenty-two, I should still be ‘in my youth’. Who stays young in a life like this? The person I once was— the bubbly, excitable girl— had died. Getting kidnapped, being treated like nothing more than a pawn in a game I didn’t know I was playing… Well, it changed things.

My father getting arrested cemented those changes for me. I needed to grow up fast, so I did.

We walk down a long, stark white hallway, and I pause right before the only open door. I give her one last look, as though my fate would reveal itself in the fine lines on her face. If she knows whether this meeting will bring me to my end, she isn’t showing an ounce of it. Would that make her cruel, or merciful? Knowing I’ve been staring too long, I nod once and start up the stairs.

I step into view of the open door, and I can hardly think around the sound of my heart beating erratically in my ears. Looking within, I see a tall, older man with salt and pepper hair. He’s leaning against the front of an extravagant, massive, wooden desk. The piece of antique furniture feels out of place with the starkly modern and industrial-styled estate. The wood is warm, handcrafted with care, and inviting—nothing like Andrey Robinson.

Andrey manages to smoke a cigar in an intimidating manner. His eyes constricted before he even met mine. He blows smoke in my direction and flicks the ashes around with reckless abandon. He doesn’t care about anything in the room or the mess he’ll make. Everything in there is pocket change, and like everything else in his life, he has someone to clean up those messes.

“Well, are you going to stand there all day?” he calls. His voice is deep and gruff by nature, and his tone is pointed, maybe even a little irritated.

I step inside the room, and he gestures for me to take a seat in front of him. He tells me to close the door as I come in. I don’t want to. My instincts are screaming at me to stand by the door ready to flee in case something happens. However, I follow his instructions obediently. It’s better to play along; challenging the boss over even the smallest of things could potentially make life hell for me.

Andrey unbuttons his suit jacket as he positions himself to halfway sit atop the desk. I try to act unaware of the way he is eyeing me. I feel put on display for his enjoyment alone, like a private gallery for him to ogle at. Something shifts inside of me at the realization. An irritation comes on so strong that it alters my fear ever so slightly. It’s that grotesque stare of his that reminds me he isn’t some otherworldly figurehead my childhood built him up to be. No, he’s just a man. One that has a history of making me want to crawl out of my skin—which says more about him than me, since the last time I laid eyes on him, I was fifteen.

Still, even with my little flurry of courage, I’m scared. Andrey is not just a cruel man, he has the power and resources to do anything he wants. He can take my life without so much as a second thought, and no one would ever bother to avenge me, not with the state my family is in right now.

“My, my,” he grins. “I have to say, the years have been so, so kind to you… You’re absolutely radiant. With this beautiful blonde hair, eyes as blue and deep as the ocean, and skin as fair as the moon itself… you’ve always been like out of a fairytale, but now—well, you are more like a fantasy.” As though it can’t get any worse, he chuckles a hollow bout of laughter, and adds, “Oh… What was that nickname I used to call you? Annabiotics, wasn’t it? Because your smile can cure any ailment?”

“Yes, you are a true creative genius for that one,” I grumble and soothe my skirt, batting away invisible dust. “Now can you get to the point of why I was called here?” I want to be assertive, to take a semblance of control over the situation. However, my voice fails me. Even to my own ears, I sound strained and meek.

Andrey’s eyes shine with intrigue, apparently viewing my words as a challenge as opposed to anything else. Thankfully. “What’s the matter, sweet Anna, have I happened to catch you in a mood?”

His incessant need to call me some sort of pet name is nauseating. I retort quickly, not to get caught up in my thoughts, “I think anyone in my position would be ‘in a mood’ if they were called to the house of a Don without explanation.”

Immediately, I internally curse myself. While I want to assert myself to attempt to demand some respect, my voice came out snippy. The last thing I want to do is throw attitude his way. He’s not a man to sass.

My nerves are raw. Talking with him feels like navigating a mental minefield. You never know what step could be fatal. Do I assert myself to not be his plaything, or do I fold into his whims and risk angering him?

The hand that isn’t cradling a cigar clasps over his chest and his brow droops. “I have to say, I am hurt —no, wounded— that you are behaving in such a way. Acting as though I am nothing more than some pest on the street. And to use Italian terminology in this beautiful Irish home!” he expresses himself in a tone that suggests it is the worst heartbreak of his life. He follows the sentiment with a tutting sound as he shakes his head side to side. “I have to say, sweet Anna, after all that trouble I went through to get Sean to attack your abductors… I was expecting a little more warmth from you.”

His choice of using the word warmth makes me itch with discomfort. I can’t help but imagine that he is trying to convey physical touch, as though I would owe him anything for a favor I didn’t ask for. Besides, nothing about him saving me back then had anything to do with me yet everything to do with motives for which I was a pawn instead.

I hate it, but even the mention of the abduction brings flashes of it back to me.

Hands all over my body as I go from the hands of one set of abductors, to what feels like another. Squealing tires as a car attacks the Levines— my original abductors— we had been heading back to their place. Vanessa, my friend, had a terrified expression on her face as I was snatched away. I’d never met any of the men before, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were. Knowing I was in the hands of my father’s associates should have made me feel better, but it didn’t. Even if you didn’t ask for it, a favor from the mob always came at a cost.

And the moment I realized the men weren’t Robinsons, but Mullens… Andrey had to have had something to do with it. The last man I wanted to owe anything to. The man who had wanted me in heinous ways since I was far too young.

As my breath threatens to hitch, I let out a long sigh to cover it up and keep my composure. Fear. Don’t let him notice your fear.

“Yes, I meant to send you a thank you card for almost getting my friend killed,” I fire back at him with the sweet hum of sarcasm to my voice. The Mullens practically killed everyone in the car with me that night. “I’m not so naïve, Andrey… That had nothing at all to do with me. It had everything to do with your desire to kill Ethan Levine, in hopes of getting the Levine clan to fall so the Robinsons could take over the market.”

The mock hurt drains from his face, and it is replaced with an ear-to-ear grin. He claps slowly and chuckles, “Bravo, Anna. Who knew it was possible to have beauty and brains? It’s a rare combination indeed. Even rarer these days given how distracted the world has become. Though, I suppose that works to our benefit, doesn’t it? A distracted world pays no mind to what is going on beneath its skin.”

“I wouldn’t group us all together,” I mutter, despite my best efforts to sound brave. I don’t want to be associated with his organization or anything remotely related to it; however, I am because I am my father’s daughter. He is the only reason I’m sitting here instead of running for the hills. Andrey’s eyes are narrowing again, and I’m struggling to keep my cool. Frustration and terror may be fighting within me, but discomfort is the most dominant emotion I am feeling. It’s so powerful that I begin to wonder if my soul will eject itself from my body just to get away from here.

Andrey takes notice of my fidgeting, and I try hard to stop. My only hope is that he registers it as restless annoyance instead of fear. He relaxes and takes another obscenely long drag on his cigar, not bothering to pretend he isn’t staring at my bare legs. Had I been aware when I dressed myself that day that I would end up here, I would have worn a parka, long pants, or even a snowsuit if I needed to. Anything to protect myself from his hellish gaze.

“So, do you really not know why you’re here today, Anna?” he asks once he finally lets the smoke pour out of his mouth – looking more like a dragon to me than a man at this moment.

“If you mean if I know why you called me here, then I’ve already told you I don’t. I know why I agreed to it, though,” I state as clearly and smoothly as possible.

“Go on,” he smirks, again placing the cigar between his lips.

The muscles in my throat tighten as though my body itself is trying to keep me from saying it. There is no going back once I tell him, and I know I’ll be placing myself right in the palm of his hand when I do. However, if I am going to be forced to do anything— which is the only reason I think I’ve been called here— then I’m going to get something out of it. Even if it means playing Andrey’s game by allowing myself to be manipulated by him.

“I want my father out of jail.”

I don’t need to explain the situation because I know he’s aware of it. Andrey is well-versed in the activities of the Robinson mafia and their associates. My father, Louis Holmes, had been arrested in a police sting. Given that he was the only one implicated in the crimes, it stinks of bullshit. Anything connected to him should implicate numerous members of the Holmes and Robinson families. My father’s family, while not part of the Robinson mafia, certainly operates like it. They run protection rackets and cook the Robinsons’ books to ensure that their payroll and expenses do not raise any flags with the IRS.

Five years for tax fraud, five years for evidence tampering, and an additional two years for a laundry list of misdemeanors I can barely keep track of. Twelve years. A man like him probably has done a few things worth a life sentence alone, so maybe twelve years is lucky… But I can’t just stand by and let it happen. He’s my father, and really, he’s my only family. And I know a man like Andrey is the only way I can free him.

Andrey flicks more ashes away and settles in, looking too smug and comfortable to bring me any ease. “What a coincidence, sweet Anna. I have brought you here to make you a deal.” He pauses to take another drag. I have to make a mental and physical effort not to squirm. The wait is killing me. I think he knows it, and he’s savoring it. “An exchange of your soul for your father’s freedom.”

Chapter Two

Liam

I wonder if it makes me subhuman to be able to feel so calm.

It’s a blissful sort of nothingness, the sort of Zen I imagine other people might feel when folding laundry or washing dishes—a routine task that isn’t enjoyable nor horrible per se, but one that is done so often that the mind can wander or think about nothing at all. That’s the only way I can describe my state of being as I pull on a pair of black leather gloves and stand in the factory hallway. The sort of machinery that used to be in use here was deafening, so the builder made the walls as close to soundproof as they could. Whatever is going on in the room I’m about to enter comes through as nothing more than muffled mumbling.

Drinking in the quiet darkness, I take a deep breath and do my best not to smirk as I turn to the door. Getting my hands dirty is the routine Zen that comes with the job— however, this is my American debut. My first brush with business stateside. In their city. So, I suppose that if I’m feeling anything at all, it’s a tingle of excitement.

Swinging the door open, the harsh, crooning voice hit me first, followed by the sight of Colin Doyle strapped to a chair under the only flickering light in the room. A bit stereotypical, but it’s just as I pictured it. Colin seems to be barely clinging to life; his angry, hoarse cries are perhaps acting as the only tether to this life and the next. Anger is a hell of a drug, isn’t it? It can destroy a life, or motivate a person to live. And in this case—it’s both.

“He insists he knows nothing,” Michael, my underboss, calls from the shadows as I start pacing toward Colin. No doubt the other couple of men I’ve enlisted to assist are lingering in the room with him. I’m a sucker for theatrics, I suppose. It gives me a rush to imagine myself as him. He must be terrified, not knowing where the men who had just beaten him to a pulp were. They could emerge from anywhere to finish the job. Only, the unsettling darkness gives you an uneasy feeling that you can’t shake; that the men there do not possess the mercy to let you go with any dignity or peace.

He would be right if he did think that.

“No matter,” I call to Michael. “I’m sure I can convince him to talk.” I am standing just feet from him now. Colin lifts his bloody head and peers up to me with the one eye that isn’t completely swollen shut. “Seen better days, haven’t you?” I ask him with a trace of mockery in my voice.

“Who the fuck are you?” Colin tries to hiss, blood splattering from his mouth as the word fuck is spoken. He is one of the men originally from Ireland, so his pleadings in this accent sound almost comical.

He’s lucky I am just out of range of his spewing. I’m pretty sure it would have sent me over the edge; and what I would have unleashed would have left him looking to his previous tormentors, my men, as potential saviors. Unbuttoning my collar, I answer softly, “Dear friend, I am your reckoning.” The bound man dared to let out a single howl of laughter. “I also happen to be Sean Mullen’s fucking nephew.”

His brows try to knit together from confusion, but he winces and stops; his face too swollen, bruised, and cut to be too emotive. “The fuck are you saying? Sean didn’t have any nephews.”

“Because you knew my uncle so well, right? That’s where this confidence is coming from?” I ask him with a hint of a smile. He was my uncle’s underboss—his friend and most trusted, loyal follower. “You know what they say, Colin. Most crimes of passion are done by those closest to you.”

His face fought through the pain to gape at me. “Are you accusing me of bumping off Sean? Are you taking the piss, boyo?”

“That’s exactly what I’m accusing you of,” I respond by lowering my head and looking him in the eyes. “Only, it wasn’t a crime of passion. What do you think the pigs would call it, Dan?” I call into the darkness. My voice is dripping with sarcasm, and I want to remind Colin that there are people surrounding him. I want to see the panic flare in his eyes, again and again, as he becomes more and more aware that this is the end of the road for him. I’ll savor every little twitch of his split lips and tear that pours out of his blackened eyes. That anxiety in a man’s eyes as you deliver the karma that is meant for them— it’s better than cigarettes after sex, or a stiff drink after a long day.

“Premeditated murder, Boss,” Michael responds from a different spot than he was before.

“Right, right. Premeditated murder,” I smile. “That’s what you’re being accused of,” I tell Colin before poking him playfully in his very obviously broken nose.

Colin swears from the pain and does his best to throw himself away from my touch. Once he recovers, he meekly shakes his head. “Clearly, you aren’t from around here. No one would dare accuse me of such a thing. Sean was like a brother to me!”

“Like a brother he says!” I call to the others. There’s an eruption of mild laughter as I close the distance between Colin and I again. “Now, Colin, I am normally not the most gracious of men, but I am reasonable. And I will give you an opportunity to correct yourself, alright? If you’re honest with me now, you’ll be spared from a world of trouble and pain. There will still be prices to pay, but you will find such fees to be much, much more lenient than the alternative. Got it?”

“You’re being too nice, Boss,” Michael says in humor.

“I know, I know. And there’s plenty to go around. So, what do you say, Colin? Do you want to be honest with me and make all our lives simpler?”

Colin’s chest is heaving. He’s nervous, but he’s trying to pass it off as anger. I can tell because his nostrils are flared but not matching his breathing. The excitement of it all seems to be weakening him, his eyes beginning to struggle to focus on me. “I don’t know where you get off accusing me of such a thing—”

“I’ll tell you, don’t worry,” I state, patting his shoulder. “I think you killed my uncle to take over the Mullen family. You thought it was the perfect plan, didn’t you? There’s so much fighting with the other gangs and you and Sean were always like brothers, right? And seeing as how there weren’t any direct descendants left… that you knew of,” I can’t hide my smirk, and couldn’t even if I tried. “It would have never been brought back to you.”

His head is starting to wobble, but the adrenaline keeps him with me. “I… worked with Sean… my entire life. Since we were boys, even…”

I tut and stand straight. “That’s what makes it all the more heinous, doesn’t it?”

“I didn’t kill Sean Mullen!” Colin cries as sternly as he can. “On my honor, I swear it.”

“Too bad that honor means nothing,” I sigh. From my pocket, I retrieve a digital recorder. It feels like a relic from the past, but the mobs still use them because they are disposable, cheap, and not kept on any sort of database or cloud software.

Tapping play, there’s a metallic clicking before voices appear. “It’s simple,” a voice says on the tape. “So many people want the man dead. Think of all the motives. Money, power, revenge… You name it and it’s a reason for someone to want him dead. All we have to do is find someone with enough tangible evidence to pin it on.”

“If there is anyone they’re going to look at first, it’s gonna be you,” Colin’s distinctly accented voice replies.

“That’s why we need a fall guy,” the man urges. “Someone in the Mullen gang. That way there is infighting, and a takeover is simple. We use the evidence to frame the person. Taking him down will glorify you. They will easily look to you as a leader.”

“Fair enough,” Colin sighs. “How should we do it? That’ll play into who we should set up. Sean’s a big guy—”

I click the tape off, needing to play only until Sean’s name was said. There isn’t anything I needed to say, I simply watch for his reaction. Colin has surrendered his one chance at mercy, and I have hard evidence that he was plotting with an unknown party to murder my uncle. He knows what is coming.

“Alright, fine!” Colin hollers, then pauses to take a few heaving breaths. “I was plotting it, alright?” Another few pants. “But that doesn’t mean I went through with it. I’m telling you here and now that I didn’t do it.”

“You’re still going to sing that song after what I just played?” I ask him with a little chuckle. “I have to say, your stubbornness rivals my uncle’s. But I have to ask, do you think I’m stupid? Do you think selling me that story will convince me? Or are you the stupid one, who thinks that I will listen to the cries of a man plotting my uncle’s death? Do you think I’ll be moved? Do you think I’ll show mercy after you’ve already kissed that chance goodbye?”

“I swear to ya,” Colin croaks, tears bubbling from his eyes. “I didn’t do it. Someone got to him first.” When I tut at him and reach for my waistband, his face turns to the ceiling. “Forgive me for my sins, Holy Father—”

“The only ones here are my men and me,” I interrupt his prayer. “If God does exist, he abandoned you long, long ago.” My hand pauses. “I will ask you only once. Who did you plot his murder with?”

“Holy Spirit, please guide me to the gates of Heaven. I am but a mortal, rife with sins worse than my brothers. But I am requesting mercy—” he goes on praying.

“Last chance,” I warn.

“For the Lord died for all our sins, including my own. I am your humble servant, Dear—”

I roll my eyes. “You’re boring me.”

Withdrawing my gun, I swiftly aim the barrel at the center of his forehead and pull the trigger. The silencer is enough not to make the gunshot crackle like a firework, but it’s enough of a noise to cause it to echo through the massive room. Colin’s head jerks backward one last time, and blood pours from the fresh hole in his face. Letting out a sigh, I tuck my gun away again and adjust my jacket.

Michael steps into the light, his eyes analyzing the body. “What a mess of a man,” he snorts. “Think he thought prayer would actually save him?”

“Possibly. He was an idiot,” I mutter.

He looks over at me with curious eyes. “Why didn’t you give him a while longer to admit who his accomplice was?”

“I told you. He was boring me,” I huff. “If these two were stupid enough to plan their scheme on a landline, without considering my uncle would keep his men’s phones tapped, then they are likely sloppy enough to leave some other sort of evidence about.” I sniff and look at the body one last time. He looks so weak and pathetic, just as he had in life. “Besides, they narrowed down our list of suspects in that recording. There are few men that would be an obvious suspect.”

If there is anyone they are going to look at first, it’s gonna be you. The words buzz about my head like hornets, stinging my mind. Someone was bold enough to orchestrate a hit on my uncle with his best friend—someone we would easily point the finger at.

“Fair enough,” Michael chuckles. His lips curling into a grin make the lines on his face more severe, his hazel eyes a little brighter. There was a time that Michael and I could have passed as twins—both dirty blonde, brown-green hazel eyes, and tall. However, there’s five years between us and age is starting to catch up with him. I’m no spring chicken myself, but he’s more cemented in time. Thirty-six looks good on him.

When I look down at myself finally, a deep sneer appears on my face. I curse under my breath and pivot to leave the room. A great annoyance has blossomed to life in my chest, cursing Colin right to Hell for his indiscretion.

“Everything alright, Boss?” Michael asks.

“He got blood on my fucking shirt,” I spit. “Burn his body, sink it in the river. Do whatever you have to do so I don’t have to lay eyes on him again.”

The heavy metal door slams shut behind me.

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Prologue

Helena

It’s only fitting that it should end like this.

The waves slam violently against the cliffside below me. The white foam rises and falls on the craggy rocks. The sea salt in the air is so thick that it irritates my skin, and the tears streaming down my cheeks do little to percolate through the grime. Adrenaline is pumping blood through my veins so strongly that I can hear it drumming an erratic beat in my ears.

For a moment it’s just me, the sea, and my terrified heart.

People like me don’t deserve a second chance at life.

I shouldn’t have survived the first time. That much is clear to me now. I have been fooling myself into thinking that I could ever have been able to start over again. I have spent the last handful of months living on borrowed time. There’s an all-consuming terror that crawls down my throat and grips my spine like a vice, but there’s also a sense of calm. It’s harder to find… but I’m holding on to it.

I must step forward. I have to force myself to take that final, long step into the water below, and everything will be over. All of the anguish and deception. No more duplicity, no more lies. No more living a double life, keeping track of who knows what. I don’t have to watch my tongue and carry the weight of so many secrets all at once.

I just have to take one last step, and finish what Nikolai started.

“Don’t—” a deep male voice comes from behind me. A familiar voice. But the pain and longing that fuels the word is something new, something desperate. Neither one of us can afford desperation now.

My eyes close and my fists ball at my sides. If I turn around and face him, my cowardice may triumph. I can feel Daniel’s beautiful and cryptic eyes on my back. It would be so easy to run to him and let him wrap his arms around me until I am completely convinced that things will get better—that we can solve this mess together.

“Don’t come any closer, Daniel.” The winds are so loud and ferocious that I doubt for a moment that he even heard me.

“Come away from the cliff’s edge, Helena. Right now.” Daniel’s voice is firm and unyielding.

“I can’t keep living like this!” I shout to the ocean.

The flowing skirt of my dress whips around my legs and does nothing to stop the cold air from biting into my skin. I glance over my shoulder at Daniel’s impossibly handsome face. His dark brow furrows in worry for me. He is keeping just enough distance between us to avoid startling me into jumping.

“I would rather die than do this for even one more day, Daniel!” My shoulders soften as I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m so tired of this… I’m tired of hurting everybody that I care about. I’m tired of constantly living a lie! This is the only solution. Can’t you see that?” I plead with him to understand. I’m at the end of my tether. Of all the people left in my wretched life, he is the most important. He must understand.

“No, it’s not. I have already handled everything, Helena, I have a plan. You trust me, don’t you?” Daniel shakes his head as he speaks. I know that he’s not going to stop. He’s going to keep trying until he gets his way. I hate that this hurts him. I hope he knows that I never meant to hurt him.

“I won’t let you pay for my mistakes. I can’t keep pushing you into a corner. We both know it will end with you being forced to put me down, Daniel. It can’t be you.” Tears slide down my face anew as his eyes widen in understanding. “Did you think that I didn’t know what they would make you do?”

I wish there was another way for me to express my feelings to him. I should have told him sooner, under better circumstances, but this is my last chance. Nikolai’s men will never cease hunting me. Not until he has my head. The Russian Mafia wants me to pay for the crimes I committed. I can’t even say I’m not deserving of death. At the very least, I’m prepared this time. This time it will be my choice, and it will not be by Nikolai’s hands.

I still don’t know how he found out what I did to his father, but it doesn’t matter. I took his life regardless. My mind flashes back to the night that Nikolai, my first fiancé, attempted to end my life.

It’s November. I hear Nikolai’s car screech into the driveway despite the snow on the ground. Alone in his family home outside of Moscow, there isn’t much I can do. I hope that if I gather my personal effects quick enough, I will be able to steal one of his cars and get the hell out of his mansion before he finds me.

My need for revenge trapped me once. I won’t let that happen again.

Nikolai catches me packing. He comes tearing into the room like some sort of demon. He is the sort of man that commands notice and attention. His large, intimidating presence fills a room without him ever having to say a word. The very thing that had captivated me at the start of our relationship is now a source of terror. I’ve never been on the receiving end of his wrath before—accusations spewed from his lips like knives that strike me and burrow deep into my skin. I don’t have a chance to fight back; it wouldn’t have done any good anyway.

I feel the freezing iron railing of the balcony dig into the backs of my hips. I feel the snow collecting in my hair. I’ll never forget the look of pure contempt on my fiancé’s face as he chases me toward our balcony. His sneer of derision will live emblazoned on the backs of my eyelids as a constant reminder of how everything has gone to hell.

My whole body scrapes against the metal railing as I topple backward over it. The bottom of my stomach feels as though it has fallen out of me—like I was briefly weightless. My life doesn’t flash before my eyes. I don’t have some profound realization about all of the things that I will never get to do. Everybody who talks about having a near-death experience always says that those things are supposed to happen. For me, there was only fear.

Nikolai watches me fall. I lock eyes with him as he smugly watches me plummet two stories down to the frozen grounds of the garden.

The crack of my skull against the pavement doesn’t hurt, but it does feel cold. Even now, I can still clearly remember the jarring sensation of my spine impacting the ground as Nikolai watched the life fade from me.

Then there was nothing.

At least I know the balcony fall will be nothing compared to this. Hopefully, the rocks toward the edge of the cliff will make my death swift.

“I want you to know that in spite of it all, Daniel, I never pretended with you. I never lied about what we had. It was real. At least, it was real for me.”

I don’t want him to regret our past or second-guess my feelings for him now. I had always thought I would only ever want Nikolai. Even after all the lies. Even after he tried to murder me—I didn’t think I deserved anything more.

Daniel proved to me that just wasn’t true.

“I love you more than I ever even thought was possible,” I whisper softly.

My lungs fill to the brim and it burns. I jump before Daniel can say another word.

This doesn’t feel so bad.

As I fall, the wind becomes colder, threatening to tear my skin from my bones. I close my eyes against the backdrop of Daniel’s agonizing and desperate screams.

This must be what freedom feels like.

Chapter One

Helena

“This is your life now, Helena.”

I shouldn’t refer to myself as Helena. It’s not going to be my name anymore. As soon as I can convince myself to step out of this rust bucket of a car, I’m going to become Sofia Petrov. Helena Russev no longer exists. I can’t even say with any honesty that I’m going to miss her. She was a backstabbing bitch who didn’t care who she hurt or what she had to do to get what she wanted.

Someday, I fear I’m going to merge completely with the characters I create for myself. After that, I suppose I won’t remember my true self at all. Hell, maybe that’s already happened. My whole life, I’ve had to change myself to be the woman I was expected to be.

The version of me that was once Helena would be ashamed to meet Sofia. She wouldn’t give her a second glance if they passed each other in the street. Helena was on the verge of marrying Nikolai, a Russian mafia boss. She was constantly miserable and bored. She lived in the lap of luxury, but it was only going to get her so far. She was so easily distracted that nothing felt real after a while.

I can’t pretend like I don’t miss the private jets, Louboutin’s, and couture gowns made specifically for me by the best designers in the world. I just have to get over it, somehow. Looking at me now, you would never know what sort of life I lived only a year ago.

Because now I’m parked out front of Creekview Middle School.

The building has seen better days. I imagine that schools receive little funding in a place like this. Some of the red brick has faded, and there are unmanned metal detector stations outside the front doors. At the very least, my beat-up car fits in. Every other car in the nearly empty lot appears to be in need of a tune-up and a new coat of paint. Students crowd around the building’s perimeter, standing in small groups on the dead grass, waiting for the morning bell to ring and let them in.

I can’t remember if I was ever like them. What must it be like to feel so carefree? To spend as much time as you like doing whatever you wanted? Doing homework half-assed and making plans for whatever party or hang-out was planned for the weekend. I suppose it would be like a small kind of bliss.

And it’s exactly the sort of slow life that I’m after now.

I pull down the visor and flip open the small mirror to examine my reflection.

I refuse to cry again.

If I don’t get a grip on myself quickly, my under eyes will be permanently swollen. I don’t have time to waste by missing a range rover. I can’t afford to be late on my first day. I have to make an effort to make a good first impression.

Sighing, I press the pad of my ring finger into the puffy skin of my undereye. At least, my new, shorter hair complements my angular face nicely. I’m still getting used to the honey blonde. I never expected to have to give up my signature black waves, but this is supposed to be a fresh start. New clothes, new hair, new surroundings… new me.

Whether you like it or not, this is your life.

If I keep saying it over and over to myself, it will start to feel real sooner or later.

I’ve kept my makeup neutral, nothing that will make me stick out. For a touch of drama, I’ve allowed myself a pencil skirt that clings to my curves. I got the skirt and a few other pieces for my new business-casual wardrobe from the department store in town—pieces like the flowy, powder-blue shirt that I’ve neatly tucked into the stretchy fabric of my skirt.

The town itself is only slightly more modern than this school, for the most part. The houses are all quaint with white picket fences. I haven’t felt brave enough to scope out the nightlife scene here yet or any of the restaurants. All in good time.

There’s no point in rushing.

I touch up my lip gloss again before I shut the visor and rake my fingers through my hair to push some volume back into it. When my fingers brush over the jagged collection of scars hidden by my hairline, I pause. They serve as a constant reminder of what happened to me and why I’m still here… like a phantom pain that won’t go away no matter how hard I try. The doctors tried to tell me how much work it would take to repair my skull after I awoke from my coma… However, I did not want to hear it. I still don’t. I want to put it all behind me.

I yank my hands from my hair. With a deep breath to steady myself, I shove the door of my car open with a rusty squeak.

The bright sunlight warms my skin as I pull my cello case from the car. Then, I grab my large work bag and pull it over my shoulder.

“Here goes… well, everything,” I whisper to myself as I head for the metal detectors. Just as I suspected, they aren’t even turned on. I have to hope the cops in this town are slightly better equipped to handle things should something go wrong. I walk up the three steps that lead into the building and cast one last glance over my shoulder.

He can’t find me here. I’m as safe as I possibly can be. My grip on my cello case tightens as I walk back into the main building, pushing the door open in front of me with my hip.

To my surprise, the principal is standing at the door in an ill-fitting suit. He greets me, a smile hidden beneath his full black mustache.

“Ms. Petrov!” The principal says with a happy chime. The dove gray color of his suit flatters his dark, golden skin well. His brown hair has been shaved close to his scalp, but he missed a spot just beneath his chin when he must have shaved this morning. These are things I would never dare remark upon out loud but that I can’t help but notice. It’s my nature to be observant. It goes hand in hand with the constant paranoia. “How lovely to meet you. It’s great to have you on board!”

“Hello,” I say softly, trying to hide as much of my Russian accent as possible—yet another remnant of my life that needs to fade as quickly as possible so that I can become Sofia Petrov. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“I was hoping you would make it here nice and early so that I could introduce myself. I’m Principal Alexander Martinez. We spoke on the phone before. The students should be starting to file in shortly, and I wanted to make sure that I personally gave you a tour of the place.” He extends his hand to take my cello case, and I gladly hand it over. He makes a broad motion for me to follow him but I’m still not sure where I’m going. I try to keep up with him at a reasonable pace. At least the inside of the school is much nicer than the outside.

“So, I can’t say just how pleased we are to have a real musician joining us here! I tried to look up some of your symphony performances online, but I had some trouble locating you. I’m not great at all that tech stuff, though I’m sure you can point me in the right direction,” Principal Martinez rambles on. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort of fellow. If he wasn’t so sweet, I wouldn’t feel so bad lying to him.

“Oh, I’m grateful for the opportunity. Really, it’s an honor to be here and share my love of music with the kids,” I answer plainly. No extra details, just like I’m supposed to.

“Is that a hint of an accent I’m picking up on?” Martinez asks with a smile.

“You have a good ear, sir. It is my grandfather’s accent. He comes from Russia, and he had a hand in raising me. I suppose it stuck more than I am aware of.” I try to make it sound like it’s a painful subject. Even just alluding to the fact I have Russian ties is more than I am comfortable with. Again, with the paranoia. Better safe than sorry.

“Ah, can’t say that Russia is high on my bucket list! I haven’t traveled much though, so what do I know?” The principal says with a gentle scoff as we turn into the music room. “Here we are! The music room.” Principal Martinez places my cello case on the ground with a soft thunk against the old, flat carpet. A cloud of dust wafts up, but he pretends not to notice. “I know it’s not like the fancy places I’m sure you’re accustomed to working in, but we like to keep things… modest, here.”

He looks around the room, both hands on his hips. It’s designed in the shape of a half-circle, with four sets of risers spaced about two feet apart. Heavy brown drapes are pushed open against the back wall, concealing large, bulky windows. The carpet was probably once a nice shade of red that went well with the off-white walls, but it’s now faded, and the paint appears yellow and sad. I’m sure I’ll be allowed to spruce up the place and make it feel more like my own.

Black music stands are folded together and pushed up against the far wall beside what I’m guessing is my desk. Said desk is a small, orange, wooden mess with no more than three drawers on one side, and nothing but spindly legs on the other. There is a closet door off to the side where I’m supposed to keep my personal belongings. I place my work bag on the floor beside the desk and turn in a small circle to properly take in the room. It might not be much now, but it has potential.

I clasp my hands in front of my body and tuck my elbows into my sides, imagining what a fresh coat of paint might do. I feel hopeful, as if the place is full of possibilities… until I remember I’m broke.

The bell rings and Principal Martinez jolts and glances at his watch. “Shoot! Fifteen minutes until the buses start to arrive. I meant to show you around the rest of the school, but it will have to wait.” He speaks quickly as he walks back toward the door to the classroom. “Ms. Olivia is across the hall. She’s not too much older than yourself. I think the pair of you will get along famously! She’ll be happy to help you with anything you might need or answer any other questions you might have.” Principal Martinez pauses at the door and reconsiders his exit. He jogs quickly across the room and grabs my hands and shakes them vigorously. “I’m just so happy to finally have the chance to extend our Arts program! Thank you, again. Adios!”

He rushes off in short, shuffled steps back out the door and disappears out of view.

Suddenly, I feel small.

Not just because of the size of the room. I feel insignificant in comparison to the person I used to be. At the very least, I have something to do to keep myself busy. And this isn’t my first time impersonating someone else. I take a seat at my desk. On top of it is a blue folder with the school’s logo embossed in gold. I open it to reveal the onboarding paperwork and my schedule. My own time at school feels so very far away. In just a few moments, I will have to set my new personality in stone and start introducing myself. Already, my nerves and anxiety are starting to give way to excitement. Everybody is so nice… maybe I can be nice here, too.

On that positive note, I push back from my desk and move for my cello. I have always had an affinity for music, ever since I was young. No matter what was happening in my life, music was my way to escape from it all. One of the only things that helped me get out of my recent depression was the cello. It produces such dark, chilling sounds, and it soothes me more than any other instrument I’ve tried.

I open one of the few folded chairs from beside the music stands. I’ll need to get a good sense of the acoustics to determine whether I need to quickly rearrange things for my students. I can’t say I’d ever given much thought to becoming a teacher before now.

I came into my love of music at such a young age; it feels like a natural extension of my soul. My mother taught me how to play. I suppose, in some way, it makes me feel connected to her. That being said, I don’t think she would approve of my choices, as she never thought I was good enough. She said I had the “wrong fingers” for it. Perhaps it’s nothing more than spite that fuels my desire to play.

I’ve never wanted to be a mother, even though I always thought it would happen. I still don’t know whether or not I would be any good at it—hopefully better than the one that I had, at least. It’s a low bar. I just want to be happy again, and music makes me happy. If I can show just one kid the joy of music too… Well, that just might be enough.

My skirt is stretchy, but not as much as I would like. When the cheap nylon doesn’t move the way I want it to, it’s even more irritating. I have to hike it up past my knees to properly fit my cello between my legs as I begin to tune the instrument. To my delight and despite its simplicity, the sound reverberates beautifully through the space. As I position my fingers over the strings, I rotate away from the door. My callouses will take some time to return. And I can hardly wait.

I can do this. Yeah, this might just work.

Chapter Two

Daniel

“I don’t want to go to a new school!” Henry’s voice rings out from the seat behind mine with a low-pitched whine. Anyone would think I was sending him to jail, even though a move is never easy for a child. My nephew sits with his arms tightly crossed over his sweater vest. This morning had been yet another battle. I had tried to persuade him that overdressing would put him at a disadvantage. The kids in this neighborhood will not be the same as the ones he’s used to from wealthy private schools. The designer labels may make him a target. He doesn’t want to alienate himself before he even gets a chance to speak. I wanted him to blend in and take his time. Naturally, he refused.

Henry had been quick to counter my comment with a retort I knew all too well: ‘There’s power in being the best-dressed in the room.’ I can’t argue with him, and he knows it. Hell, I’m the one that taught him that. I know it will only be a week max until he begs me to go buy the same clothes as whatever his friends are wearing.

I had hoped the change might humble him slightly as he’s never attended public school before.

It’s a very far cry from the expensive, exclusive private schools that he’s always known until now. Our family’s wealth has afforded him entrance to many doors that are locked for most. He’s gotten used to it. Removing him from everything he’s grown accustomed to was a necessary evil, so I’m willing to give him some leeway on the things that don’t matter. Like sweater vests.

“I know, Henry. You’ve told me that every day for the last three days,” I answer evenly. I know patience is a difficult virtue, and Henry is currently getting a crash course in it. I’ll maintain my composure until his whining becomes disrespectful. For the past twenty-four hours, he has been toeing the line between bad attitude and adolescent rebellion.

“I don’t understand why I have to come here! I want to go back to New York!” He stares out the window petulantly as he speaks. He observes the winding, narrow country streets as the trees around him begin to thin. It’s no longer the back roads, but rather the more developed areas. I use the term developed loosely. I guide the car around the back of the school. “It’s so green here… there’s nothing to do.”

I smirk and resist the urge to laugh. Having grown up in the city, I’m sure it must be strange for him. He’s accustomed to concrete jungles and skyscrapers. I refuse to acknowledge that I may have spoiled him. I’ve always wanted the best for him. I might have left him in New York if I’d known how long I’d be out in the sticks. But that was not an option.

Henry shifts in his seat and starts to fiddle with the cuff of his sleeve until it sits exactly the way that he wants.

“You’ll adjust,” I answer evenly. “It is perfectly normal to feel anxious about change, Henry, but you will adapt quickly so long as you keep an open mind.”

I do feel guilty that my business affects him. But given my current mission, I didn’t have an abundance of choices. There were so few options, and the only one that made sense was to uproot him from the Upper East and transplant him here. When he’s old enough to join the family business, he won’t have to be kept in the dark about things like this. I know he’ll approach everything with duty and honor, no matter how difficult our lives can be.

Hopefully, he won’t be forced to care for me the way I am for my ailing father. It hadn’t been easy getting him out of town, but it had certainly helped further my cover story.

“As soon as our business here is concluded, I’ll take you back to your beloved penthouse in New York and you’ll be allowed to finish out the remainder of the school year there.” I glance at him once more in the rear-view mirror as we pull into the back parking lot. Yellow buses with cracked and peeling letters are unloading children ahead of us. He should be able to assimilate without drawing overt attention to himself. If his clothes don’t make him a conversation piece, that is.

I can still see so much of my sister in him: the same wide hazel eyes and her full, thick brown hair. Sometimes, I think he looks like me, too: the strong jawline, the high cheekbones, his ability to keep careful control of himself. He’s unlike any ten-year-old I’ve ever met. No doubt his maturity came from watching me. I watch the emotion fade from his face in the rear-view mirror as he puts on his emotionless mask. He’s growing up too fast.

Soon, the car is parked, and we exit. Until he knows how things work with the kids here, he can’t allow himself a moment of weakness. And at that moment I know that someday, he will be far more powerful than me or my father.

“I’ll walk you in.” It’s not so much an offer as an order.

His resolve flickers for a moment as he glances back at me. “What? No! Nobody else’s parents are going in with them.”

“Yeah, but as you are a new transfer, I need to make sure that the principal has all of your correct documents, my contact information, blah blah blah…” I wave my hand dismissively at him and stroll toward the school. Henry jogs after me, trying to keep up with my long strides.

Everything that I said to him is true, but I do have an ulterior motive as well.

We’ve come to this crater in the ground of a town to find Helena Russev. We’ve come to exact our vengeance. If I don’t get Helena, I may never be able to redeem my family. I want to resurrect our legacy and get us out of the black ledgers in which we’ve been rotting. We’ll come back into the light. I won’t stop until the name Colombo is restored to its former glory, until it regains the respect it once commanded, its reputation… a reputation that my father worked tirelessly to destroy.

For her crimes, Helena’s death will be slow and painful. She should have known better than to try and run in the first place. There’s nowhere on this earth she could hide from me, nor any hole deep enough for her to wait out the brutal Nikolai. His ruthlessness and determination will make him a powerful ally to me. Truthfully, it’s almost too simple.

Kill Helena, and I will secure an alliance between our two families.

I hold the door open for Henry and pull my sunglasses from my face to allow my eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lighting of the hallway. Helena’s probably employed as a janitor or working as a secretary. She will have wanted something where she could keep her head down, where she could keep the attention from herself. It might take a bit of time to locate her. The tricky part will be getting her alone in a way that will not draw excess attention to myself.

I accompany Henry to his homeroom after we pick up his information at the registration office. He stands just outside the door and can hardly take his gaze away from the schedule in his hands. That is a good sign in my opinion. Perhaps he’s beginning to allow himself to be excited about his new situation, even if it’s intimidating. I’m not sure he understands where we’re going until we stop walking. He appears to have discovered what he was looking for.

“Thanks. For coming in… when I said not to,” he mumbles sarcastically. Henry keeps his eyes downcast. Since his mother passed, he’s been a bit closed off.

“Of course, I’m always going to be here for you.” I wrap my arm around his shoulders and tousle his hair affectionately to reassure him. Before I start to walk away, he pinches my jacket and stops me from leaving his side. All it takes is a moment of hesitation to show me just how nervous he really is.

“Suppose they don’t like me…” Henry confesses in a small voice.

“Then they’re fools. And you know we don’t abide fools.” I wink at him ominously. He doesn’t know the depth of truth to that comment. “Don’t worry too much. I’ll be here to pick you up when class lets out. Maybe, if you try to have a particularly good day, we can go out for your favorite meal. I saw a place on Main Street that looks good enough.”

Henry hugs me so tightly and quickly that I nearly miss it. He doesn’t say anything before darting into the classroom, leaving me alone in the corridor. It’s never easy to see him go. I’m overcome with sadness as I realize the one that should be here is my sister. Instead of me, she should be the one to accompany him to class. I can almost feel her presence with me right now. She would be overjoyed and proud of her son. Hopefully, she will feel the same way about my raising him in her absence.

I’m hoping he can at least make some new friends. He’s a good kid, he will quickly find a place for himself here. I know it. I only stay long enough for Henry to find a seat.

The hallways slowly empty as the rest of the students filter into their various classrooms, carrying their zealous early morning chatter with them.

I set a slow, almost leisurely pace through the halls on my way back out of the school. Most likely, I don’t have too long to look for the woman I’ve been sent to find before the staff starts asking questions. My steps echo off of the lockers until they set a beat against the background of a haunting cello tune coming from the hallway to my left.

There is no logical reason for my feet to rechart their course toward the music. I suppose I just never considered that somebody from this place could produce something so achingly beautiful as this melody. It’s familiar to me, calling to me from the recesses of my mind as I struggle to recall the name of the piece.

The somber notes carry through the halls in stark contrast to the vibrant conversations that filled them only moments ago. I follow as a man possessed. I almost forget completely about my mission as I walk toward the music. My only purpose now is to find the source of this cello and the person playing it.

I come to a stop in front of a pair of double doors, one of which is still bolted shut. The other is held open by a discarded table leg. I pause in the doorway. I’m not sure why I don’t go inside. I prefer to linger.

A woman sits in a metal chair in the center of the room. She’s posed about halfway away from me. Two teenage girls sit on the carpeted metal stand risers, whispering softly to one another. Their gaze shifts to me, curious about my intrusion but not alarmed enough to disrupt the performance.

The teacher plays with her eyes closed, and I only catch glimpses of her angular features and sharp jawline as she shifts with the notes she plays so beautifully. Her blonde hair is cropped close to the natural line of her jaw. Even from a distance, I can tell she’s a stunningly beautiful woman.

If I close my eyes, I might be able to imagine myself in a private box seat at any symphony concert I’ve ever attended. She’s far more talented than I’d expect a teacher in this place to be.

I attend every live classical performance available to me, not that it’s a fact I would ever readily advertise. It’s both a weakness of mine and my greatest joy, as I never had the talent to play a single note myself.

If she’s aware that she’s no longer alone, she doesn’t show it. It’s a really remarkable way to introduce a new group of students to a class. The few that have already arrived are enraptured by her as her bow slides so easily over the strings. Her passion must come from a place of great sadness to be able to play Chopin so well.

I’m almost ashamed that it took me so long to recognize the piece as Etude Op. 25 No. 7. The music flows through her, magnifies in intensity, and I’m as enthralled as her students.

I want… to know her. I want to know what sort of pain a person from this town could endure to make her play so authentically.

As the final notes begin to play, my hand slides into my pocket and I lean against the closed door. I flip over the small object I’ve brought with me in my hand and back again. It’s a tracker for Helena when I find her. Something that will allow me to monitor her movements and find the ideal moment to exact Nikolai’s revenge on her.

Imagine my surprise when she fumbles the final note and sharply turns to look at me with the most piercing gray eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. And they belong to the woman whose image I’ve been carrying around for weeks while putting this whole plan together.

Helena Russev.

I’ve found you.

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