Brazen King (Dangerous Gambit #1)

1. Natasha

1

NATASHA

M y father’s charity events never fail to entice the cream of the crop when it comes to socialites, trust-fund babies, and the highest rollers of New York society. As the head of the Sokolov empire and pakhan to the Bratva our family has run for generations, we’re as good as Manhattan royalty.

And tonight, it feels like it.

“Did you see the Rudins are here?” I murmur, leaning into my sister’s shoulder as we stand on the platform behind my father.

Dressed in a formfitting crimson velvet dress, Tatiana is striking. Two years my senior, she’s the spitting image of our mother—auburn hair that falls in cascading waves down her bare back, crystal-blue eyes, and curves for days.

If a real person could look like Jessica Rabbit, that’d be my older sister. And from the number of eyes that linger on her, I’d say I’m not the only one who thinks so.

“I’m pretty sure I saw Old Man Rockafeller here, too, though I heard his health is failing.”

My eyes scan the crowd, searching for the man in question, but it’s impossible to distinguish one face from another in the sea before us. The dance floor that leaves a considerable gap between our platform and the lavishly set dining tables doesn’t make it any easier.

Nor do the massive flower arrangements at the center of each table.

“Welcome,” my father says, his deep and thickly accented voice carrying across the private ballroom that lies several floors beneath our penthouse in Central Park Tower. “And thank you all for your generous donations to this year’s spring charity event. It’s an honor to host this annual ball supporting the Save the Children Federation and the Coalition for the Homeless.”

My mother, dressed in an elegant gold-beaded cocktail dress, beams out at the crowd as she stands by my father’s side. The perfect image of a sophisticated housewife, she once held the title of the most beautiful woman in New York—a title Tatiana has claimed recently, now that she’s reached a marriageable age.

“My husband, Boris, and I can’t thank you enough for all the impressive checks you’ve written tonight,” Mama says cheekily, leaning in toward the microphone as she grasps my father’s study forearm. And she gives the slightest of affectionate squeezes.

To love like they do…I can only hope I find that with a man someday.

But in my sister’s shadow, I’m less than consequential.

Because not only is she strikingly beautiful, but she’s also the heiress to my father’s entire empire. Which makes her New York’s hottest woman on the market.

“You could give us a proper thank-you by auctioning off a daughter or two,” someone calls from the crowd, the lilting voice carrying a hint of Irish brogue.

And the room goes deathly silent.

Killian King, head of Brooklyn’s Irish syndicate stands cockily from his seat at one of the most expensive tables in the house. My stomach lurches as my eyes find his impressive frame.

Broad shoulders, a square jaw, and devilish dimples that flash when he gives an impish smile; he’s well-known for being a ladies’ man.

And though I wouldn’t be caught dead swooning over a cocky jerk like him, I can’t deny he’s insanely handsome.

He’s tall, muscular, and fills out his tailored suit like no one’s business. Not to mention the light-green eyes and blond hair that falls haphazardly into them.

Every inch of him screams trouble—rebellion—from the ever-present smirk on his perfectly shaped lips to the tattoos that peek out above his casually loosened collar and curl across the back of his hands.

Sputtering disbelief crackles across the speakers as my father struggles to maintain his composure from the interruption, and I can tell from the color that creeps up his neck that Killian has gotten under his skin with the brash comment.

“I beg your pardon?” my father demands, his Russian accent thickening in his sudden anger.

“I mean, either that or you could just hand over your throne now, old man, since you have no sons to pass your empire onto. I’d be willing to marry one of your daughters to put them out of their misery—I can even offer them protection…in exchange for their half of the inheritance.”

“I’d sooner drop dead than give either of my daughters to an arrogant, conceited Irishman who’s nearly old enough to be their father,” my father snarls, momentarily losing his self-control.

It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. Killian must be in his midthirties by now, and nearly thirteen years older than I am.

A collective gasp rushes through the crowd as the cocky Irishman strides casually onto the dance floor despite the silent and subtle protests of his hulking right-hand man. “Let’s face it,” he says glibly. “If they don’t marry, your daughters will be ripped to shreds as soon as you die.”

Heat radiates in my cheeks as a combination of humiliation and anger crackles through my body.

The smug bastard is definitely trying to get a rise out of my father, and if we weren’t standing on a public stage, in the middle of a high-society event, I might just give him a piece of my mind—if I’m feeling merciful.

Beside me, Tatiana stiffens, her hands balling into fists. But she’s flawless in maintaining her public persona—the demure young lady.

Clasping my hands before me to mask their shaking, I try to follow her lead and lower my gaze.

“Mr. King, this is a charity event,” my father growls. “Where civilized society might have a chance to demonstrate our generosity. I recommend you sit down before I have you removed.”

“I thought my suggestion was rather charitable,” Killian says cooly, and his dancing green eyes find mine before he gives a flirtatious wink. “After all, your daughters are rare beauties. Gents, wouldn’t you be willing to pay a generous sum to make one of them your bride?” Turning back toward the stunned audience, Killian spreads his arms wide as if his proposal will be met with boisterous applause.

And to my disbelief—and utter disgust—he gets a rather enthusiastic response.

“Despicable little worm,” my sister growls quietly beside me. And though she might appear poised—unaffected even—I can feel the fury coming off her in waves.

Despicable Killian might be. But little?

I don’t think so. He might not be as massive as the dark, brooding sidekick he drags to every social event with him, but Killian is by no means small.

And as I size him up, I can’t help but assess the fact that he’s large enough to account for two of me. And every inch of him looks like it’s built of solid muscle.

Not that I couldn’t take him…

“Mr. King, I won’t ask again,” my father growls.

His men creep through the crowd, heading toward the dance floor to remove Killian by force.

Releasing a low, amused chuckle, the Irish kingpin turns to face my family once again. “Alright, Boris. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. It was just a suggestion.” Then he casually strolls back off the dance floor, hands in his pockets, like he didn’t just turn my father’s event into an abhorrent spectacle.

My ears ring, my skin tingling from the intense spotlight. And it feels like Tatiana and I are suddenly on display rather than standing supportively behind our parents.

I’ve never seen anyone disrespect my father so blatantly, and from the gawking faces, I would say that’s true for almost everyone in the room.

But not Killian’s right-hand man. Though scowling fiercely enough to burn a hole through cement, the hulking sidekick looks entirely unsurprised. And when Killian sinks back into his chair and leans close to murmur something, his sidekick merely shakes his head.

It’s torture remaining on stage as my father tries to bring the charity train into its station, but the interruption has done an effective job of disturbing the peace.

And it’s with intense relief that Tatiana and I silently slip behind the curtain into the back room of our family’s event space ten minutes later.

Fingers clutching at the ribbing of my corseted black cocktail dress, I breathe heavily.

“Get it together, Natasha,” Tatiana warns, glancing over her shoulder to make sure we’re alone.

“That bastard,” I hiss. “What the hell was he playing at?”

“He’s revving up for a territory conflict,” Papa states as he joins us in the darkened area backstage.

Tatiana glances at him sharply, and beside him, our mother looks stiffly unamused.

“We can talk about this later,” she says calmly. “Right now, we have more money to squeeze out of our guests.” Cupping my chin in one hand and Tatiana’s in the other, she lifts them with gentle reassurance. “Game face, girls. And go charm the charity out of that roomful of billionaires.”

“But if that Irish bastard bothers you, feel free to knee him in the balls,” Papa growls.

That actually makes me laugh, and I kiss each of my parents on the cheek before heading out to the front room to do as my mother instructed.

Tatiana and I split up to cover more ground, and she seamlessly settles into a group of mingling guests, thanking them for taking the time to attend the event that means so much to our family.

I do the same, turning my attention to Evan Hanson’s table of Fortune 500 CEOs. The atmosphere is pleasant enough, but my scalp tingles with an undercurrent of masculine interest I’m not usually faced with so directly.

Tatiana’s the one who draws every man’s gaze. But it would seem that all it took was a simple suggestion from Killian to put me in that category as well.

And now I feel the subtle assessment as men’s eyes roam over me with fresh interest.

“Quite a surprising turn of events tonight,” Evan observes mildly after a few moments of polite pleasantries.

My mouth tastes bitter as I work to keep my mask of shy innocence in place—a mask my parents taught me to adopt at a very early age.

This facade ensures our public persona remains respectable, revered even, in the elite social circle that protects and covers for the true nature of our family business.

“Shocking, I must admit,” I murmur, dropping my chin to look up at him through my lashes. “Mr. King made quite a spectacle.”

Evan and his counterparts give a soft chuckle of acknowledgment.

“Though, I must say, he isn’t entirely off base. Your father’s kept you girls locked in this tall tower for far too long. You’ve become beautiful young women. You deserve the chance to date.” Evan winks as he raises his martini glass in a suggestive solute.

I smile shyly to mask the heat that floods my cheeks as embarrassment rather than fury. “You’re sweet” is all I say. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” Giving the subtlest of curtsies, I pretend to wave to someone trying to get my attention across the room. Then I sweep from the group and make a beeline for the bar.

If I’m going to endure this roomful of overbearing wannabe suitors, I’ll need a drink.

“A glass of cabernet, please,” I say breathlessly, leaning against the wet bar with a suited bartender behind it.

“Of course, Miss Sokolov.” He turns to uncork a bottle and pour the crimson liquid into a tall-stemmed glass.

“Put that on my tab,” someone says in a playful, lilting voice beside me.

I recognize the low baritone immediately—and the hint of Irish brogue, not enough to mean he’s from Ireland, but I can guarantee Killian King’s parents were from the Emerald Isle.

God grant me patience, or I might make good on my father’s suggestion and send Killian’s balls straight up into his throat.

“It’s an open bar, Mr. King,” I observe cooly, straining to keep my tone polite.

Killian chuckles, the sound sending a shiver up my spine.

No one as arrogant and vexing as the Irish mafia leader should be so naturally appealing. It must go against some law of the universe. Though I’m not sure which one.

“I know that, Miss Sokolov,” he says cheekily. “I was joking.”

Still, he pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and drops it into the bartender’s tip bucket. The bartender’s eyes widen slightly as he passes the glass across the counter to me.

“Thank you,” I say softly, accepting the glass. Lifting the glass in a silent toast, I make a show of thanking Killian’s generosity.

Then, without another word, I turn my back on him deliberately and stalk away.

It’s as much attitude as I dare to exhibit during such a public event. But I need to leave before I completely lose my careful poise.

Because Killian King is dangerously good at making my blood boil.