Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
ONE MONTH EARLIER
KIRA
I fan myself with one hand while grabbing a chilled glass of champagne with the other. Haute couture in summer is never a good idea. But then again, nothing about tonight is.
The luxurious ballroom is filled with Russia's crème de la crème, celebrating Maxim Belov discovering his long-lost daughter, Alyona Nikitin. But like everything associated with Maxim, the happy union is just an illusion.
Glancing around the lavishly decorated room, I spot Alyona—my best friend and ride-or-die—in one corner, caught up in a discussion with Maxim and the interior minister. A familiar sense of anger prickles my spine. Despite the story that Maxim spun for his esteemed guests, this is no happy reunion.
One week ago, he abducted Aly and me from a safehouse in Croatia and whisked us away to his grand Black Sea estate.
At the time, we had no idea who had captured us or why, until Maxim sat Aly down and basically said, “Nice to meet you. By the way, I’m your biological father—here’s the proof.
From here on out, you’re going to rule my empire by my side.
And if you don’t, I’ll kill everyone you love. ”
The last thing Aly wants is joining forces with Maxim, a man entrenched in organized crime as he is in legitimate business.
What she yearns for—what she's always yearned for—is a regular life, far from the bratva upbringing she's known. Well … that, and my brother Leo, but that’s a whole other story.
So yeah, not the warmest of reunions with dear old dad. But here we are a week later, at Maxim’s version of a “debutante ball”, where he’s parading Aly around like his newest acquisition, which is exactly what she is to him. Property to be owned and controlled.
But no one in their right mind would challenge Maxim. His influence extends far beyond business and politics, deep into the underworld. He's not bratva; he's the king to whom the bratva pakhans report. If he's the king, then Alyona is his reluctant princess.
And I’m the joker that got caught up in this mess.
Truth of the matter is, Maxim has no business with me.
I suspect I’ll be free to go after tonight, but there's a fat chance that’s going to happen.
When the opportunity presents itself, I’m getting my friend out of here—one way or another.
Aly is strong in her own right, but I’m a born fighter.
Along with my half-brothers—Andrei, Daniil, and Leo—I run Brooklyn’s Kozlov Bratva, the most powerful crime syndicate on the US East Coast.
I take another sip of champagne and watch the couples on the dance floor before scanning the room again. But this time, Aly is nowhere to be seen. I'm about to go look for her, when I'm met with a pair of familiar green eyes.
“Liza?” I exclaim.
Elizaveta Ivanova, an old friend and roommate from boarding school, stands in front of me. Her teenage braids have been replaced by cascading chestnut waves, and her striking eyes are winged-tipped and sophisticated, but they still light up with the same genuine warmth as always.
My lips curve into a surprised smile.
She chuckles, wrapping me in a tight hug. "I can’t believe it! The last I heard, you'd moved to New York and found your brothers. The Kozlovs, is that right?”
“It’s true,” I confirm. “I’m back in Russia for a … visit.” If you consider abduction and forcible confinement a visit. “And what about you? What have you been up to?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
“Not much has changed since we were schoolmates. I’ve been living the life in Moscow—the parties, the society events, the usual. Papa allowed me to go to university, but now that I’ve graduated…” She takes a solemn breath and lifts her left hand with a less than thrilled expression.
My gaze is drawn to a flashy diamond ring on her third finger. “You’re engaged?”
I’m not surprised. She's always been the dreamy, romantic type. Unlike me—I’m happy to never get married. I prefer the freedom to work and run the family business. Plus, in most bratva families, marriage means losing all freedom.
“You remember Anatoly Petrovich, from the grade above us?” she asks without a trace of enthusiasm.
I wince. “He’s not exactly who I pictured you with.”
Liza is beautiful, chic, and sweet down to her marrow, and Anatoly is the exact opposite. My memory of him is of a self-important, pompous ass, who used his family name and connections to get good grades and only targeted the drunkest girl at any given party.
She grimaces. “Trust me, he's not who I pictured myself with. He's still the same mudak he was at school." My parents are pushing this 'advantageous alliance' with the Petroviches,” Liza mimics, using air quotes. “I think you can imagine our situation. Nothing has changed.”
Liza's father, Boris Ivanov, has a hearty appetite for drinking and gambling.
Her mother used to regularly be at the headmaster's office, pleading for more time to settle Liza's tuition fees.
It was well-known among the students that, despite the Ivanovs' supposed wealth, they frequently fell behind on payments due to Boris's vices.
Anatoly might be a creep, but he’s a rich creep from a shipping magnate family. With the Ivanovs’ underworld connections, it's a match made in mafia heaven.
I sigh and take her hand in mine. “I’m sorry. When is the wedding?”
“Sometime next year. But to be honest, never is my preference.”
We look over to see Anatoly, slightly paunchy with thinning blond hair, attempting to engage a waitress in a conversation that seems too friendly. Watching him, I feel a fresh wave of sympathy for my old friend.
“Want me to help you do a runner?” I offer. “I can commandeer one of the helicopters on the back property and get us the hell out of here.”
Liza pauses in thought, sipping her champagne. “If anyone is capable of stealing a helicopter from Maxim Belov, it’s you.”
An involuntary shudder passes through me. His name alone is distasteful.
She smiles nostalgically. “Do you remember when we… Well, actually, you stole the headmistress's car to get to that party in St. Petersburg. The look on Sister Olga's face the next morning. Shit. I think she whipped us for that one.”
“I think she did. If it hadn’t been for my aunt pleading our case to the headmistress, we definitely would’ve been expelled.
” The memory brings a bittersweet smile to my face.
While other parents would have been outraged, Aunt Masha had a rebellious streak—much like me—and understood the thrill of bending the rules.
"She always said life was too short to live by the rules set by nuns.”
Liza studies me, her expression growing serious. “I know how much you loved her and struggled after she … died. I wish I could have been there for you more than I was.”
I shake my head, swallowing the pain that threatens to drown me every time I think of her.
Aunt Masha raised me. Until I found my brothers, she'd been the only person who ever loved me.
The only person I ever loved. The person whose absence in my life still leaves a hole as big as a continent in my heart.
Liza is one of the few people that know my aunt was murdered … and how it was all my fault.
“I’m the one who should be apologizing to you for not reaching out. When I settled in New York, I needed to move forward with my life. Thinking about Russia and the people I left behind” — I squeeze her hand — “was too hard.”
“Of course, I understand.” She smiles sadly. “What brings you here now?”
I clear my throat. “I’m close friends with Alyona Nikitin, Maxim Belov’s daughter. I’m here to support her during this time of ... transition.” Forcible transition. But I leave that out as it doesn't fit the narrative Maxim is spinning.
She shakes her head. "It must have been a real shock to find out her biological father is one of Russia's most powerful men!"
"You have no idea," I say, swallowing the knot in my throat when I think of how trapped Aly is in a world she never chose.
"I don't, but I'm dying to know." Liza raises her eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
I can't help but smile—she's always been one for gossip, but this story is not mine to share. I'm about to change the subject when she curses softly, her attention shifting to something behind me.
“Jesus, that man. I need to get him out of here.” There’s panic in her eyes.
I understand why. Liza’s father is swaying and pontificating loudly into the ear of the Polish Ambassador, who looks less than impressed.
“I’ll help you,” I offer.
Boris is built like a bull—there’s no way petite Liza could take him on her own. With the promise of a cigar and a fresh glass of liqueur, we’re able to cajole him outside to one of the empty terraces off the main ballroom.
“Sit, Papa,” Liza demands, settling him into a chair and handing him a glass of water.
“Vodka?” he asks hopefully.
“No. You don’t need any more to drink,” she hisses. “You need to sober up.”
“My Elizaveta.” He chuckles. “Always taking care of your papa. A good girl, right?” He looks at me to make his point, and that’s when he tilts his head to the side, squinting. “Who are you? I recognize you from somewhere.”
Liza crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s my old friend, Kira Antonov. You remember her—we were roommates in school.”
His eyebrows knit together. "Oleg Antonov's daughter?"
"Papa! She doesn’t want to be reminded of that.”
He points in my direction. "Hard to believe, looking at her, that this little thing was behind the coup to kill Oleg and take over the Antonov Bratva."
My stomach twists. My family’s legacy is ugly and brutal, and it's all because of my father. The man who stole me from my mother’s arms as a newborn and shipped me off to Russia to be raised by his sister, Masha, while he stayed in the US.