Chapter 1
Kira
Present Day
The crystal paperweight shatters against the mahogany paneling with a satisfying crack, exploding into a thousand glittering shards that rain down on my father's expensive Persian rug. I'm already reaching for the next thing—a heavy marble bookend—before the last piece of glass settles.
"You had no right!" My voice comes out raw, shredded by the fury clawing up my throat. "No. Fucking. Right."
My father doesn't even flinch. He stands behind his desk like a monument to cowardice, his face pale but set in that infuriating mask of resigned determination I've come to hate over the past six years.
The same expression he wore when he let me push him from power.
When he watched me rebuild our family's reputation from the ashes of his failures.
Now he has the nerve to stand there and look like he has power.
I hate the man. I have no respect for him. He’s a coward. The worst kind of man in my opinion.
"Kira, please—"
"Don't." I hurl the bookend. It flies past his head, thrown intentionally wide, though he doesn't know that—and punches a hole in the wall behind him. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down. Don't you dare tell me this is for the best. You sold her! You sold Anya like she's nothing more than—"
"I sold nothing." His voice rises to match mine. For a moment I see a flash of the man he used to be. Before the gambling. Before the debts that nearly destroyed us. "I made a business arrangement. One that will secure both my daughters' futures."
"Your daughters." My laugh is bitter enough to corrode steel.
"Is that what we are? Because last I checked, I've been running this organization for six years while you sat in this office pretending you still matter.
I built everything we have now. Me. Not you.
I made it possible for you to have all these nice things.
Your expensive suit. The rug. The—" I look around for something else to throw. “This vase!”
“Kira, stop.”
I stalk toward his desk, my Louboutins crunching over broken glass. The sound is vicious and satisfying. Everything in me wants to reach across that polished wood and wrap my hands around his throat. Watch his face turn purple. Make him understand exactly what he's done.
But I don't. Because I'm the Ice Queen. Because I've spent six years learning that rage is useless unless it's cold and controlled and sharp enough to cut.
I sacrificed everything to rebuild our lives.
I gave up on everything I loved to pull our family name from the gutter where he so carelessly left it.
I plant my palms on his desk and lean forward, letting him see the full weight of my fury in my eyes. "Tell me you didn't agree to this. Tell me Roman is lying."
My father's gaze slides away. That's all the answer I need.
"Get out." The words come out quiet. "Get the fuck out of my sight before I do something we'll both regret."
He hesitates, opens his mouth like he wants to argue, then apparently thinks better of it. Smart man. For once.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone with the wreckage of my control.
It’s his desk. His office.
But that’s all for show.
This is all mine.
Two hours later, I'm in my office on the top floor of the building I purchased three years ago—the one with views of the Moscow skyline that remind me every day how far I've climbed—and the rage has crystallized into something colder. Sharper.
My reflection stares back at me from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Kira Markov. Twenty-four years old. The Ice Queen of Moscow's underworld, they call me. Beautiful, untouchable, absolutely deadly when crossed.
My enemies fear me. I’m ruthless. Some say I have a death wish.
They’re wrong. I don’t want to die. I want all of them to die.
Beyond the ice is the young woman I used to be.
I barely recognize her anymore.
The girl who used to laugh, who used to dream about lazy Sunday mornings with the man she loved and holding their children in her arms.
That girl died six years ago.
I shake off the thought before it can take root. Maksim is dead. Has been dead for six years. Mourning him won't change what I have to do now.
My phone buzzes. A text from Roman's number.
Tick tock, princess. I need an answer by midnight.
Princess. He knows I hate that. Knows it reminds me of what I was before—a pawn in my father's failing empire. He thought he could control me. He thought he could move me around like a pawn on a chessboard.
Fool.
I pour myself three fingers of vodka—the good stuff, Ukrainian, imported at criminal expense—and move to stand at the windows.
Moscow spreads out below me like a jeweled web.
Danger lurks in every corner. Somewhere down there, my sister Anya is probably in her studio, painting something beautiful and useless while she dreams about the future.
A future that Roman Belsky wants to steal from her.
The vodka burns going down. I welcome it.
Roman's ultimatum plays on repeat in my head. Marry me, or I take your sister instead.
Three months ago, when he first proposed, I laughed in his face.
Roman Belsky—forty-two years old, three dead wives, and a reputation for cruelty that makes even hardened bratva soldiers nervous.
He's been circling me for the past year, making offers, applying pressure, systematically cutting off my options like a hunter backing prey into a corner.
I thought I could handle him. Thought I'd built enough power, forged enough alliances, created enough value that he wouldn't dare try to force my hand.
I was wrong.
The truth sits in my stomach like lead. Roman orchestrated all of it.
Every setback over the past six months, every ally who suddenly became unavailable and every deal that fell through at the last moment could all be traced back to him.
He's been playing a longer game than I realized, and now he's made his final move.
Marry me, or I take Anya.
And my fucking father agreed to let him have Anya.
My father knows better. But he did it anyway. Someone dangles a shiny object in front of him and he’ll roll over like a dog.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a photo. Anya, leaving her art class, completely unaware of the two men following her at a distance. The message is clear. He can reach her anytime he wants.
The glass in my hand cracks. I look down to find I've been gripping it hard enough to fracture the crystal. Blood wells up from a small cut on my palm, bright red against my pale skin. I smear the blood down my palm and over the black ink on my wrist.
I should have seen this coming. Should have known Roman would find the one leverage point I couldn't protect through strategy or violence. Because for all my reputation, all my carefully cultivated power, I have exactly one weakness.
Anya.
And he found it.
I would burn the world to ash before I let anyone hurt my baby sister. She is being targeted because I removed myself as an option. I refused to be a pawn on the chessboard I’m controlling.
No one has dared to make a move against me—until now.
The office door opens without a knock. Only three people would dare.
Alina. My best friend since childhood, one of the few people I trust completely. She's carrying two cups of coffee and takes one look at me—bloody hand and the rage probably still radiating off me in waves—and stops dead in her tracks.
"What happened?" She sets the coffees down carefully on my desk and crosses to me, reaching for my hand. I pull it away.
"My father sold Anya to Roman Belsky."
The color drains from Alina's face. "He didn't."
"He did." I move away from the windows. "Roman gave him an ultimatum. Me or Anya. The coward chose to sacrifice the daughter who can't fight back."
Alina sinks into one of my leather chairs like her legs won't hold her anymore. "Kira, you can't—"
"I have to." The words taste like poison. "You know I have to."
"That's a death sentence." Her voice is barely a whisper. "His last three wives all died under mysterious circumstances. Everyone knows he killed them. You're signing your own death warrant."
"Better me than Anya." I grab one of the coffee cups, needing something to do with my hands that isn't violent. The heat sears my palm, but I welcome it. "She's innocent. She doesn't deserve to be dragged into this world any deeper than she already is."
"Neither do you."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "I stopped being innocent the day Maksim died.
The day I had to become someone else just to survive.
At least I know what I'm walking into. Anya doesn't. She still believes in love and happy endings and—" My throat tightens.
I force the words out anyway. "She still has hope. I won't let Roman take that from her."
Alina stands, moving to face me directly. Her hazel eyes are wet but fierce. "There has to be another way. We can run. Take Anya and disappear. I have contacts in—"
"He'll find us." I cut her off because I've already played out every scenario in my head during the drive from my father's house. "You saw the photo. He has people watching her. The moment we try to move her, he'll know. And then he'll take her anyway, and I'll have nothing left to bargain with."
"So you're just going to marry him? Let him—" She can't finish the sentence.
"I'm going to marry him," I say slowly, each word deliberate. "And then I'm going to kill him."
Alina stares at me. "Kira—"
"There's no choice here," I say finally. "There never was. Roman knew exactly what button to push."
"So you marry him."
"So I marry him." The words feel like signing my own death warrant. "I secure Anya's safety, get her out of the country, and then..." I meet her eyes. "Then I kill my husband and take everything he's built."
She groans. "But you'll be walking into a viper's nest. Roman's not stupid—he'll be watching for betrayal."