CHAPTER 1
NIKOLAI P.O.V.
The air smells like expensive perfume and exhaust fumes. It’s a distinct scent, the smell of money trying to cover up the rot underneath. I step out of the black sedan, adjusting the cuffs of my suit. Bespoke. Italian wool. Costs more than the security guard standing ten feet away makes in a year.
I hate these fucking parties.
The Vance estate is lit up like a Christmas tree in November. Gaudy. Desperate. The bass from inside thumps against my chest, a rhythmic reminder of the fifty million dollars Aris Vance stole from us. He threw a gala. A fucking gala. With my money.
I touch the weighted cufflink on my left wrist. Cold metal. Solid.
"Stay here," I tell the driver. I don't wait for a response. I don't need to.
I walk toward the entrance. There’s a red carpet because of course there is. A beefy guard in a uniform that’s fighting a losing battle against his gut steps forward. He puts a hand up like he’s got authority. Cute.
He looks at my face. He sees the scar running across my throat, jagged and white against the tan skin. He sees the eyes that have watched men bleed out without blinking.
He freezes. His hand drops. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like a cork in water.
"Move," I don't say it. I don't have to. The look says it for me. Get out of my way or get buried.
He steps aside. Smart man.
I push through the heavy double doors and the noise hits me. Laughter. Clinking glass. The mindless chatter of people who think their biggest problem is the tax rate. Sheep. A whole ballroom full of sheep waiting for the slaughter, and they don’t even know the wolf just walked in the front door.
I glide through the crowd. I’m a shark in a tank of goldfish. I don’t look at them. I don’t care about their diamonds or their surgeries. My eyes scan the room, breaking it down into grids. Exits. Security points. Threats.
There.
VIP balcony. Aris Vance.
He’s laughing, but it’s too loud. Too brittle.
He’s clutching a champagne flute like it’s a life preserver.
He keeps checking over his shoulder, eyes darting around.
He knows. Deep down, the little rat knows his time is up.
You don't steal fifty million from the syndicate and expect to retire to the Hamptons.
I watch him spill a drop of champagne on his white shirt. He panics, dabbing at it with a silk handkerchief. Pathetic. The man smells like fear. It’s a sour, metallic scent that cuts right through the floral arrangements.
"Filth," I think. He thinks he can hide behind a glass of bubbly and a tuxedo.
I shift my gaze. I’m not just here for the money. The money is gone. Spent on bad investments and this hollow display of vanity. I’m here for the collateral.
I scan the floor. And then I see her.
Scarlett.
She’s dancing with some soft-handed socialite, a kid who probably calls his dad to fix his parking tickets.
She’s moving with grace, but there’s tension in her shoulders.
Her hair is dark auburn, catching the chandelier light like blood in water.
Her skin is pale, stark against the black silk of her dress.
She looks... bored. Or maybe angry. There’s a fire in her hazel eyes that doesn’t match the polite smile plastered on her face.
The asset.
She’s not as docile as Aris promised. Good. Breaking them is the best part.
I move. I don’t rush. Predators don’t run unless they’re striking. I walk up the stairs to the VIP section, the carpet swallowing the sound of my steps. I slide up next to Aris at the bar.
He’s asking for a refill. His hand is shaking.
"Whiskey. Neat," I say. My voice is gravel.
Aris freezes. The color drains out of his face so fast he looks like a corpse propped up for a viewing. He turns, his neck creaking. His eyes meet mine and the terror is instant. Pure. Delicious.
"Nikolai," he chokes out. It sounds like a plea.
I lean in. Close enough to smell the stale cigar smoke on his breath. "Aris. We need to talk."
"I... I didn't think you'd come personally," he stammers. Sweat is beading on his forehead. "The transfer... it's coming. Next week. I swear."
"It's too late for that, Aris." I pick up the whiskey the bartender sets down. I don't drink it. I just stare at the amber liquid. "The interest has accumulated."
He starts fumbling in his jacket. He pulls out a wallet. A thick wad of cash. He tries to slide it across the bar, his hands trembling so bad he drops a few bills.
"Take this," he whispers, looking around to see if anyone is watching. "It's ten thousand. Just... just for tonight. To buy some time."
I look at the money. Then I look at him. "Fifty million dollars buys a lot of trouble, Aris. This?" I flick a hundred-dollar bill off the bar. It flutters to the floor. "This buys you nothing."
"Please," he whimpers. "I have assets. The house..."
"You signed the contract," I cut him off. "Now we collect."
I turn my back on him. He’s done. He’s a dead man walking, he just doesn't know the method of execution yet.
I head for the dance floor.
Scarlett is still spinning, but she’s lost the rhythm. She feels it. The shift in the air. The temperature drop. She stops, her head tilting. She looks around, her eyes narrowing. Sharp. Alert.
I walk straight toward her. Her partner, the soft boy, sees me coming. He sees the look on my face and survival instinct kicks in. He stumbles back, muttering an apology, and vanishes into the crowd.
Coward.
Scarlett stands alone in the middle of the floor. She doesn't run. She stares right at me.
"Who are you?" she asks. Her voice is low, but steady.
I don’t answer. I step into her space, grabbing her waist. My hands are iron. I pull her flush against me. She’s solid. Warm.
"You're with me now," I say. It’s not an offer.
I force her into a sway, a mockery of a dance. My grip is bruising. She tries to pull back, her hands splaying against the chest of my suit.
"Let go of me!" she hisses.
"You don't get to demand anything, Scarlett." I spin her, tight and fast. She stumbles, but I hold her up. "Stop fighting. You’ll only embarrass yourself."
"Who the hell are you?" She digs her nails into my shoulder. It’s annoying. Like a kitten scratching at a doberman.
I lean down. My lips brush her ear. I smell vanilla and something sharper. Fear? No. Adrenaline.
"Your father's debt is due," I whisper.
She freezes. Her breath hitches.
"And you, Scarlett," I grind the words out, "are the collateral."
She pulls back to look at me. Her eyes are wide, the gold flecks in them swirling. Horror dawns on her face. "What?"
"He traded you," I say simply. "Fifty million reasons, little bird."
She looks toward the balcony. She sees Aris. He’s not looking at her. He’s talking into a phone, frantic. He points down at us.
Two security guards start pushing through the crowd. Aris signaled them. The stupid bastard. He thinks he can call off the dogs after he already sold the meat.
"Pitiful," I mutter.
Scarlett sees the guards. Relief floods her face. "Help!" she starts to yell.
I don't let her finish.
The first guard reaches me. He reaches for his belt. Amateur.
I release Scarlett’s waist for a second. I step in, pivoting on my heel. I drive my palm into the guard's throat. Cartilage crunches. He drops, gagging, clutching his neck.
The second one hesitates. Fatal mistake.
I grab his wrist, twist it until something snaps, and slam my elbow into his temple. He goes down like a sack of cement.
It takes three seconds.
The music is still playing, but a woman screams. A glass shatters. Then the panic hits.
People start running. Screaming. Tripping over their expensive gowns. It’s chaos. Beautiful, predictable chaos.
I grab Scarlett’s arm. She’s staring at the guard on the floor, stunned.
"Move," I growl.
"You killed him!" she shrieks.
"He's breathing. For now." I yank her. "Walk."
She digs her heels into the carpet. "Let me go!"
She tries to twist away, scratching at my hand. I tighten my grip until I feel her bones shift under my fingers. She cries out, a sharp sound that gets lost in the noise of the stampede.
"Silence," I snap.
I drag her toward the side exit. A waiter drops a tray of salmon and runs. We step over the mess.
I kick open the door to a private study near the service hall. I shove Scarlett inside. She stumbles, catching herself on a heavy oak desk.
The door slams shut, cutting off the screams from the ballroom.
She spins around, hair wild, chest heaving. "Bastard!" she spits.
I loom over her. The room smells like old leather and dust. "You belong to me now. Get used to it."
"I belong to no one!" She grabs a silver letter opener from the desk.
Cute.
I step forward, swatting her hand aside like she’s a child. The opener clatters to the floor. I grab her jaw, my fingers digging into her cheeks. I force her head back.
I examine her. Clinical. Cold.
Good bone structure. Clear skin. No scars. A small mole behind her ear.
"A perfect specimen," I think. "Unblemished."
She glares at me, her eyes burning. Then, she snaps her teeth. She tries to bite my thumb.
My grip tightens. A jolt of electricity shoots down my spine.
Fire.
I like that.
"Don't break yet," I murmur, running my thumb over her bottom lip. It’s trembling. "I haven't even started."
The door bangs open.
Aris bursts in. He’s crying. Actually crying. Snot running down his face.
"Nikolai! Wait!" He falls to his knees. "Take the jewelry! The watches! I have a safe in the wall! Take the house!"
He’s crawling toward me.
Scarlett is watching him. Her face is pale, frozen in shock.
"Everything!" Aris sobs. "Just... not her. Please."
I don't let go of Scarlett. I look down at him. "Fifty million, Aris. Only she is worth that."
"No!" He grabs my pant leg. "I can get the money!"
"You made your choice," I say. "You signed the paper."
"You sold me."
The voice is quiet. Broken.
We both look at Scarlett. She’s staring at her father. The shock is gone. Replaced by something else. Something dark.
"You sold me," she repeats. It’s an accusation. A verdict.
Aris looks at her, his face crumbling. "Scarlett, honey, I... I didn't have a choice. They were going to kill me."
"Then you should have died," she says. Her voice is ice.
Tears stream down her face, but she’s not sobbing. She’s vibrating with rage. Pure, unadulterated hate.
I smile internally. Good. Hate is fuel. Hate keeps you alive.
Hassan appears in the doorway. My lieutenant. He’s checking his watch, completely ignoring the weeping man on the floor.
"Perimeter secured, boss," Hassan says. His voice is flat. "Car is ready."
"Good."
I jerk Scarlett toward the door.
"No!" Aris lunges.
Hassan steps in, planting a polished boot in Aris’s chest, shoving him back. Aris hits the floor with a wheeze.
I drag Scarlett out. We hit the service hallway. Her heels scuff against the floor. Her dress snags on a door handle and tears. Riiipp. A strip of black silk flutters to the ground.
"Let me go, you bastard!" she screams, thrashing.
"Walk," I command.
"Help! Someone help me!"
We burst out into the cool night air. The service entrance. The black sedan is waiting, engine purring.
She screams again, loud and desperate.
I spin her around, slamming her chest against mine. I clap my hand over her mouth, smothering the sound. She bites my palm, hard. I don't flinch. I press her head into my suit jacket, muffling her cries until they’re just vibrations against my ribs.
"Quiet, cunt," I whisper into her hair. "No one can help you now."
I open the back door and shove her in. She scrambles, clawing at the leather, trying to get to the other door.
I slide in after her. I yank her back by her ankle and slam the door. The lock clicks.
Thud.
Silence.
The driver pulls away instantly. Tires screeching on the asphalt.
Scarlett huddles in the far corner. She’s shivering. Her hair is a mess. Her dress is torn. She looks wrecked.
I adjust my cuffs. I smooth a wrinkle in my jacket. Calm. Methodical.
"You're syndicate property now, Scarlett," I say. I look out the window. The city lights are blurring past. "Your life is no longer your own. Understand this."
She doesn't answer.
I reach out. Slowly. I move my hand toward her hair.
She flinches. A violent, full-body recoil. She presses herself against the window like she’s trying to phase through the glass.
I stop my hand mid-air. I let it hover there for a second, savoring the reaction. The fear. The defiance.
Mine.
I drop my hand.
I look forward, watching the road stretch out in front of us. The audit is complete.
I can feel her eyes on me. I turn my head slightly.
She’s staring at me. Her lips are a thin white line. Her hands are clenched into fists so tight her knuckles are popping.
"I'll kill you," she doesn't say it. But it’s there. Screaming in her eyes.
I smirk.
Try it.
The empire has a new queen. And the breaking in period is going to be a hell of a lot of fun.