King of Ashes (Kings of the Underworld #4)

1. Zara

ZARA

What is a person without memory? A wandering ghost, drifting through life half alive, half dead?

A captive trapped inside a hollow, merciless mind, clawing to fill the gaps?

Mine has failed me. It carved out a chunk of my past, leaving me to piece together what remains.

Years later, the full picture still eludes me.

I roll the ring on the fourth finger of my left hand, the only physical reminder of what I lost. I was engaged once. To a man I forgot as if he had never existed. I couldn’t have invented him, because an engagement means I loved and was loved.

I remember the feeling, but not my dead fiancé. Like my brain, my heart is a blank space, a vacuum that swallowed all the memories into a black hole. Nothing trickles out, only grief for something I can’t remember.

My chances of finding out what happened on that fateful day were obliterated by my father’s death. No one else was alive to tell me the truth.

Not going mad has been challenging. A challenge I overcame by working.

My father’s empire almost crumbled, and from the deepest despair, I created an identity on the ashes of my former self.

My trusted right-hand man, Conrad, helped me become what I am—from gun-trafficking heiress to arms mogul. Tucked in the heart of Wisconsin, on thousands of acres of land, I built a compound with training facilities, weapons development, and shipment operations—an impenetrable fortress where I rule.

My business invites danger, but I can’t complain. Dealing in death is a high-risk endeavor. I’m more accustomed to breathing in gunpowder than oxygen.

From my home office window, my land stretches as far as the eye can see, the thick forest providing a natural shield around me.

The sun touches the tips of the trees, casting shadows on the land and marking the beginning of summer, while permanent winter resides in my soul, stuck in the cold unknown.

In the distance, I hear bullets and grunting, the sounds reminding me how far I’ve come. My men train for special ops worldwide. My weapons go to the highest bidder. I didn’t sell my soul to the devil. He snatched it right after I woke with no recollection.

I once read that in times of peace, you prepare for war. All I’ve known is war. And war finds me, I guess. After everything I’ve witnessed, I’ve concluded that peace is as far away from humanity as absolution is from the ultimate sinners.

“Are you going?” Conrad asks, yanking me out of my thoughts.

I stare out the window as if there’s a door leading to my past. “You don’t say no to the King of New York.”

“Everyone will be there. I don’t like it. Your safety––” Conrad says, his voice thick with concern.

I wave him off, unperturbed. I dance with death to danger’s tune. “Nothing will happen.”

While I cherish his worry, I don’t fear for my safety.

Tristan Kinkaid does nothing without a strategy.

He wouldn’t risk his wedding ending in a bloodbath.

That means I don’t have to worry about tiptoeing a fine line—my land ensures an invisible bridge between the East and West Coasts.

My alliance to the Syndicate is one thing, but my business knows no loyalty.

“The Syndicate won’t like you still meeting with brACON. You need to think strategically, Zara. Consider marrying—”

I spin around, stabbing him with a hard stare. “I don’t need a man.”

He arches a brow, undeterred. “No, but you need a partner. Tristan found a way.”

What Conrad implies is that I should find a loophole—some way to keep doing business with the West Coast while remaining an associate of the Syndicate.

The Syndicate staged a cull a few years ago.

Only a few associates remained, and I am one of them.

The alliance has proved beneficial, and I shouldn’t risk it, but it would be plain stupid to miss out on the opportunities brACON and the Council bring.

Calla Ferrara is the head of the latter, and I appreciate a woman leading such a powerful organization.

In the underworld, we are few, so we should support each other.

I recall the other unmarried associates. Rafe Moreno, the cartel boss of Miami, and Vian Giancana, the Chicago mafia boss––a man who is as enigmatic as he is captivating. He intrigues me, strangely drawing me in.

I twist my engagement ring back into place as if clinging to the past. The movement grounds me even as it maddens me, and a deep sigh rocks my chest. I know I can’t continue like this. For my well-being and my business’s prosperity, pragmatism is required.

Conrad doesn’t break eye contact as he says, “You can’t postpone the issue any longer.”

“I’m not entering an arranged marriage with someone who could remind me I needed him.”

I survive just fine on my own. I’ll deal with the Syndicate, but my inner voice urges caution. That’s the only reason I continue this conversation.

“That won’t be the case. Be reasonable. What you’re doing is betrayal, and betrayal means death.”

I should heed the reminder, but it’s not greed that drives me; it is the desire to build a legacy.

If the Syndicate wanted me dead, I would be dead, but they can’t afford to get rid of me yet. I should follow Tristan’s example. He married into their family and has continued fraternizing, unbothered, with their biggest enemies.

Done with this conversation, an idea sparks to life, and I tap my chin. “He would have to pass a test.”

“Zara,” he sighs, the sound ringing with annoyance.

“Get past my men, and then we’ll see.” I shrug, pick up my purse, and head out. I just made it impossible for him to find a suitable suitor. No sane man would contemplate the idea.

It would betray the girl I used to be, the life I could have had, and the marriage I never began. I can’t even grieve or overcome my loss—I can’t even put a face to the man who was taken from me.

Once I returned from the hospital after my crash, I found the compound in ruins. My father and his men were attacked; those responsible killed every person who could have revealed his identity. I never discovered who was behind the ambush, and that plagues my every waking moment.

Conrad showed up the day I was released and introduced himself as an ally. I accepted his support and never looked back. He’s my best friend, my trusted right hand.

Sadly or luckily, we lack any romantic spark. Our friendship even survived my attempt at hitting on him one night, desperate to feel something.

His swift rejection made me realize I had to fill the hole on my own. Years later, I think nothing ever will. Work keeps me sane, anchored in this reality, far away from a past that was wiped out with a cruel snap of the fingers.

Two of my men follow me as I step into my jet. The three crew members greet me, and I take a seat by the window.

Once we’re in the air, the flight attendant brings me a glass of sparkling water. Sipping leisurely, I pull my laptop from my tote bag and work.

After finalizing some orders, I lean back and close my eyes.

The dream unfolds as it always does. I watch from the outside as two people stand with their backs to me.

I recognize myself in her, but he doesn’t turn.

I never get to see his face. He remains a blurry image.

Like a damn voyeur, I observe the couple embracing and kissing in their own intimate world.

Though this world is mine, I cannot enter it.

I shout at him to turn, but he never does—so cruel, not letting me discover who he is—and I wake with a sigh, utterly frustrated, as if it’s my destiny to look from the outside in and never get the answer to the question tormenting me.

My mind loves playing tricks on me. It’s a game I always lose.

The flight attendant informs me we’re about to land, and I nod, rubbing at my temples, where the headache pulses, as familiar as my longing for a ghost. A ghost I have been faithful to.

A man who couldn’t be more out of reach, even if he tried.

I can’t move on as long as the unknown persists.

Until then, I am trapped in this unforgiving limbo, held hostage—a prisoner with no chance to escape.

Outside, I step out onto the tarmac, my men trailing behind me, while one of the staff members carries my luggage to the trunk of the SUV.

My men hold a stiff position, angling their heads as if wanting to sense the danger before it unfolds.

I’ve survived threats, bombs, and war zones riddled with terrorists. New York might be a concrete jungle, but it doesn’t intimidate me. The only thing I fear is my brain, tired of fighting with myself and wishing for the impossible.

The driver opens the rear door, and I climb inside, watching as he takes me to the hotel next to the wedding reception.

New York is the opposite of my place—shadowed by skyscrapers and pedestrians bustling along the sidewalks in a raucous blur. Loud and too much.

Once the driver parks the car, my men follow me inside the hotel. Tristan’s men mingle with the other guards, letting us know not so subtly that he has the power and that we’re in his city.

My attendance is a cursory show, not a display of power.

“Ma’am, welcome. Let me show you to your suite,” one man says while my guards flank me, waiting for instructions.

I nod, wanting a bit of privacy.

Inside the elegant suite, I unpack my luggage, hanging the dress in the closet. Then, I head to the bathroom to start filling the claw-foot tub, eyeing my reflection in the mirror.

The woman looking back is simultaneously familiar and a stranger. The duality is such a heavy part of me; I stopped questioning the whys and accepted the thats.

There’s no flicker in my brown eyes––dimmed just like my heartbeats.

Pulling my shoulder length, blond-highlighted brown hair into a loose bun at the back of my head, I undress and submerge in the water, instantly relaxing. Bathing is my happy place. In my dreams, they are always by the lake on my property, swimming, kissing, making love.

Submerged to my neck, I lose all notion of time, but my skin prunes, reminding me it’s time to get out.