CHAPTER 1
DIMITRI
The bluish glow of the screen lights up my face in the darkness of the car. I slide my finger over the image, zooming in. Fuck, this is fucking self-inflicted torture.
Sloane Murphy. Redhead. Green eyes that could cut through steel. And a body that's had me obsessed for months.
In the photo, she's in the middle of kickboxing training, hair up in a high ponytail that exposes the tension in her jaw.
She's wearing tight black leggings and a sports bra that leaves her flat stomach bare.
Her fists, encased in red gloves, hit a bag with a force I can almost feel through the screen.
The next image tears an involuntary growl from me. She's in a defensive stance, a fine sheen of sweat covering her skin. Her eyes shine with that fire I recognized the first time we met, when she stood up to me without showing a shred of fear. The girl has guts, I'll give her that.
"New session. Harder kicks, more precise strikes. Don't let anyone get in your way," she wrote under the photos.
My thumb caresses the screen, tracing the curve of her neck, sliding down to the swell of her breasts. Heat gathers in my crotch, heavy and insistent.
"You have a fucking disturbing way of looking at that phone," Yuri comments from the driver's seat, his eyes fixed on the road as he drives through the dark streets of Las Vegas. "Who is it?"
"Nobody you need to care about," I reply curtly, but I don't lock the screen.
I swipe to the next photo. This one is older, from a few months ago.
She's in Brooklyn, leaning against a bridge railing, with the city stretching out behind her.
She's smiling directly at the camera with that defiant half-smile.
She's wearing a simple black t-shirt, ripped jeans, and that damn leather jacket that gives her a bad-girl look.
I close my eyes for a second, but it's worse.
Her image is branded onto my eyelids. I can imagine perfectly what it would be like to have her under me, that defiant look transforming into desire.
What it would be like to grab that fire-red hair between my fingers and yank it back, exposing her throat to my teeth.
How my name would sound on her lips when I finally made her surrender.
You're fucking sick, Morozov, I tell myself. Obsessed with your brother's wife's best friend, who also hates you.
And she's right to hate me. I'm a monster in human skin.
It's better this way. Better she's on the other side of the country, in Brooklyn, far from my bloodstained hands. Better she doesn't know I jerk off thinking about her. Better she never finds out I spend hours staring at her social media like a fucking stalker.
"There they are." Yuri's voice rips me from my thoughts.
I lock the phone and shove it into the inside pocket of my jacket.
The real world snaps back into focus. We're on the outskirts of the city, where the neon lights fade and the darkness of the desert starts to swallow everything.
Ahead of us, about a hundred yards away, the taillights of a black Audi glow like red eyes in the night.
Adrenaline instantly replaces desire, just as intense, but with a completely different purpose. This is my territory, what I know how to do. Violence is the only language I've mastered perfectly.
"Get closer," I order, and I feel my voice change, becoming colder, more controlled.
Yuri accelerates. The engine of our armored SUV roars in the night like a hungry beast. I feel my body tense up, preparing itself. My right hand instinctively seeks the Glock in the holster under my armpit. The cold touch of the metal calms me. It's an extension of myself.
"You want me to run them off the road?" Yuri asks, eyes fixed on our target.
"No. Just pull up beside them."
The Audi speeds up when they detect us, but Yuri is a better driver. We pull up parallel in a matter of seconds. I can see the silhouettes of three men through the tinted windows.
I roll down the window. The cold desert air hits my face, bringing the smell of dry earth and hot asphalt. I pull the gun and fire twice at the front tires with surgical precision.
The screech of blown rubber cuts through the night like a scream. The Audi skids violently, spinning several times before coming to a stop in the ditch in a cloud of dust.
"Park in front," I say, checking the magazine of my weapon with an automatic movement.
When the SUV stops, I adjust my black leather gloves. It's a ritual, like cracking my neck before a fight. I prepare myself mentally and physically for what's coming. To be who I am.
"Stay in the car," I order Yuri. "If anyone tries to run, shoot them in the legs."
I step out into the cold desert night. My boots crunch over the gravel as I advance toward the Audi. The wind carries the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline. I can hear the curses and shouts from inside the vehicle.
The driver's door flies open and a man tries to make a run for it. He doesn't get very far. A bullet to the leg, courtesy of Yuri, and he falls to the ground howling in pain.
The other two stay inside, surely calculating their chances of survival. They're zero, of course.
I grab the rear door handle and yank it open. A guy in his forties looks at me with terror in his eyes. Graying brown hair, an expensive suit now rumpled. He tries to scramble back, but the seatbelt keeps him in place.
I recognize him instantly. Kevin O'Malley. One of Liam Keller's lieutenants, the head of the Irish mob in New York. Harper's father. The man who's been trying to get his daughter back since Alexei took her as his wife.
"Long time no see, O'Malley," I say with a smile I know doesn't reach my eyes.
His face goes even paler.
"Morozov," he whispers, and I can smell the fear radiating off him like cheap cologne.
I yank off his seatbelt, grab him by the lapels of his suit, and drag him out of the car like he's a rag doll. He hits the ground with a pathetic whimper. The third man, sitting in the passenger seat, doesn't move. Smart.
I drag O'Malley a few yards away from the car, feeling the resistance of his body against the gravel. The smell of fear intensifies as I lift him and slam him against the hood of the Audi.
"Where is Keller?" I ask, my voice deceptively soft.
"I don't know," he stammers. "He didn't come to Las Vegas. I just..."
My fist connects with his jaw before he can finish the sentence. The sound of the impact is satisfying, like a raw steak hitting a butcher's block. Pain shoots through my knuckles and up my arm, but I ignore it. It's almost pleasurable.
Blood wells from his split lip, dark under the moonlight. Crimson drops splatter the metal of the hood. A work of art in progress.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," I say, leaning in so close I can smell the mixture of cheap whiskey and terror on his breath. "Where is Liam Keller?"
"I swear I don't know," he moans, eyes wet with panic. "He sent us separately. Compartmentalized the information. We just had to watch... watch the girl."
Another punch, this time to the ribs. I hear the satisfying crack of bone fracturing. O'Malley doubles over with a stifled scream.
"Which girl?" I hiss, even though I already know the answer.
"Harper," he gasps through his teeth. "His daughter. He wants to take her back."
Rage boils in my blood like acid. Harper. Alexei's wife. My sister-in-law. Pregnant with my nephew.
The idea that these bastards are watching her, that they're planning something against her, unleashes something primal inside me. It's not just loyalty to my brother. It's protection of family.
I grab O'Malley by the neck, lifting him until his feet barely touch the ground. His eyes widen in terror as he struggles to breathe.
"What else?" I growl. "What else did Keller order you to do?"
"Nothing... just watch..." he can barely speak with my hand crushing his windpipe. "Prepare ourselves... for when... he gives the order..."
"What order?"
"I don't know... I swear..."
I let him go and he falls to the ground like a sack of useless meat. While he coughs and fights to catch his breath, I take my switchblade from my pocket. I flick it open with a fluid movement. The blade gleams under the moonlight, promising pain.
"All of Keller's men know something," I say calmly, crouching beside him. "Nobody comes to Las Vegas without precise instructions. So let's try this one more time."
The tip of my knife rests gently on his cheek, barely applying pressure. Just a promise of what's to come.
"I swear to you, I don't know anything else," he sobs now, stripping himself of any dignity. "We're waiting. Keller is coming personally. He's furious because his daughter is pregnant. He says Morozov tricked her... I don't know anything else, I swear!"
I look into his eyes, searching for the lie. Years in this business have taught me to detect when someone is hiding information. But O'Malley seems genuinely terrified and empty of secrets.
He's a pawn. A useless pawn.
Disappointment washes over me. I expected something more substantial, some clue about Keller's plans. Instead, I have this pathetic specimen who knows nothing.
The knife sinks in almost of its own will, opening a thin cut on his cheek. Blood wells up, scarlet and bright. O'Malley shrieks, a high-pitched, pathetic sound.
"Please," he pleads. "I have a family. Kids."
"You should have thought about that before coming into my territory," I reply mechanically.
My hand moves almost by instinct, the blade sliding cleanly across his throat in a fluid, precise motion. His eyes widen with final surprise as the blood starts to gush in a pulsating stream.
I watch him as the life leaves his body. His eyes lose focus, fixed on the starry Las Vegas sky. His mouth moves, forming silent words. A bubble of blood forms and bursts between his lips.
And then... nothing. Just the empty shell of what was once a man.
I remain motionless, feeling the adrenaline start to dilute in my system. This is the part I hate the most. Not the killing —that's necessary, it's my job—but the hollowness that comes after. Like a part of me leaves with every life I take.
I wipe the knife on his suit before closing it and putting it away. Blood has splattered my gloves and the sleeves of my shirt.
"The others?" I ask Yuri, who has approached silently.
"The driver is unconscious from blood loss. The other one is still in the car, shitting himself."
"Bring them," I order. "We're taking them to the warehouse. Alexei will want to interrogate them himself."
Yuri nods and heads toward the survivors. I stay a moment longer next to O'Malley's corpse.
This is my world. Blood, death, violence. It's what I was molded for since I was a kid. My brother Alexei, the heir, learned to run the empire. I learned to be his shadow, his enforcer. His attack dog.
I rub my face with the clean part of my sleeve, feeling the exhaustion that always follows these episodes. The adrenaline fades, leaving me empty.
The night seems to close in on me, the desert chill seeping under my bloodstained jacket. In moments like this, when the violence ends, is when I feel the loneliest. When I feel the most broken.
I take out my phone and look at the screen. I go back to Sloane's photo, her face illuminated, alive, strong. So different from the death surrounding me. The image of a woman who could never understand this part of me. Who should never see it.
It's better she's thousands of miles away. It's better she never knows who I really am, what I do, what I enjoy doing. It's better she never gets close to the darkness consuming me.
But as I walk back to the car, with the metallic taste of adrenaline still in my mouth, a part of me—the most primal, the most selfish part—wishes she were here.
Wishes I could go to her after a night like this, with the blood still fresh on my hands, and fuck her until I forget the emptiness.
Until I feel something other than this nothingness eating me alive inside.
The thought disgusts and arouses me in equal measure.
I put the phone away and get into the car, slamming the door harder than necessary. Silence hangs heavy between Yuri and me as we drive away.
"Where to?" Yuri asks.
"To the east warehouse," I reply, my voice sounding strangely hollow even to my own ears. "And then the club. I need a drink."
I need to drown the image of Sloane Murphy in alcohol. Because the alternative—to keep thinking about her, to keep wanting her—is too dangerous.
For her. For me. For everyone.