Chapter 1
Artem “Voron” Koronov
Five months earlier, Christmas party
“Here, we are all friends,” says the Arab after Devon DeLuca and his wife move away from us.
Interesting man. If he had chosen my path, he would have become a feared ally.
The guy runs a sex club I went to once, a couple years ago. There aren’t many things in this world that impress me, but that place had style. Elegant and designed to fulfill any fantasy.
“No. We are all friends with you,” I reply to Jassim, my face impassive. “But many of us are not friends with one another. And with this little gathering, you’ve revealed all your alliances.”
I click my tongue and slip one hand into my trouser pocket.
On the outside, I am calm. Cold. Too many, I probably look perfectly relaxed. But only I know that every sense I possess is operating at full capacity, and even though it looks as if I’m paying attention to nothing, I am alert and cautious of everything around me.
I know no one made it past the metal detectors at the entrance with a weapon, because Jassim made sure everyone here would be entirely safe.
But there are still knives on the tables.
And I highly doubt I am the only man here who knows at least fifty ways to kill someone with a fork and a butter knife.
For a second, my gaze slides toward Tristan Romano, one of my greatest rivals in Europe. The Italian is a rather sharp thorn, but that also makes him a worthy opponent.
And I adore challenges like that.
“Do you think it was a smart move?”
I decide to return to my conversation with the Arab. I have no desire to make him more agitated by telling him that even if he served dinner with plastic cutlery or chopsticks, he still couldn’t stop us if we decided to turn this place into a blood pool.
But the bastard winks at me, smiling with confidence.
“That was exactly what I wanted to show.”
And now I understand.
“Power.”
“There were too many rumors back home about my lifestyle, that started overshadowing my accomplishments. Tonight, I wanted to prove to my father and everyone else exactly who I’ve become, regardless of who I fuck, or who I share my women and my businesses with.”
I tilt my head slightly.
His lifestyle is none of my concern, but I feel responsible enough to warn him.
“As long as your judgment isn’t clouded by some pretty, well-perfumed pussy, I don’t see how it’s anyone’s business. Least of all your business partners’.”
“Everything is true until proven otherwise,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving. “You have no idea what it will be like when you find the perfect one.”
“I’ve found plenty of perfect ones. I’ve tasted them, stretched them open, and then moved on with my life. Nothing more.”
This time, he turns fully toward me, looking more seriously. His broad shoulders are covered by a suit as black as every outfit in this room tonight, but his brown eyes, shaded by thick lashes, study me with quiet thoughtfulness.
“Bratva will expect you to form an alliance through marriage one day.”
The corner of my mouth lifts with cruel amusement.
“Possibly. But I don’t care. I’ll do it on my own terms, with whoever I decide is convenient for the organization,” I say with confidence. “But your parents will ask the same from you. Not just one wife, maybe several, since that is customary in your part of the world.”
“They’ve already told me. But I’m in no hurry. The old men in my region don’t have the same power over my businesses that yours do in your situation. They can’t exactly impose things like that on me, no matter how much they may want to.”
I press my lips together, knowing he is right.
Even if I hold absolute power in London, my father, as Vor, still has a say when it comes to my relations with Russia and the entire Balkan region.
“In time, everything will work out the way we want it to.”
“That’s what I say too, my friend,” he tells me.
We are two men who put the organizations we belong to above everything else. Feelings have no place in our lives, because Death follows us with every step we take. She is my great love and the only one I desire.
Whores can be found on every street to satisfy my pleasures, and any marriage I enter will serve only one purpose: to secure an alliance obscenely profitable for the organization led by my brothers and me. And probably to produce an heir who can carry the Koronov name forward.
But if I’m being honest, I don’t care much about that.
Romantic dreams are far removed from me, and the only feelings that warm my heart are the ones written in blood: the desire to destroy, the thirst to kill, the need to savor the final spark in a dying man’s eyes as he loses himself completely in the strange colors of my irises.
Minor things like that.
“There you are!”
The deep voice, carrying the faintest trace of a Slavic accent, pulls me out of the grim – but pleasant
– landscape of my thoughts.
Mikhail Borislov appears beside us and smiles with the same attitude as a rabid dog when you rub its belly: gentle as long as you please it, then perfectly capable of ruining your life.
“Did you miss us?” Jassim asks my childhood friend, who is now the Arab’s right hand, alongside another Italian – but not the one currently itching to throw knives into the back of my skull.
“Not really. But I already lost Gianni after I saw him in the company of some woman. You know I don’t like it when he gets ahead of me.”
Jassim rolls his eyes.
“It’s his way of relaxing.”
“Isn’t it everyone’s?” I cut in, lifting an eyebrow.
“Exactly, Voron!” Misha exclaims. “I think this party would have been far more successful if we had organized an orgy.”
“Let’s not exaggerate,” Jassim’s voice is sharp, and the man beside us lifts his tattooed palms in the air in surrender.
“Maybe next time,” he jokes.
I give him the faintest smile, the subtle kind shared between accomplices.
“I’ll leave you two with your wet dreams,” the Arab announces, adjusting his diamond cufflinks with effortless elegance. “I’m going to speak to someone about some precious stones from Africa.”
He walks away, leaving us alone.
Two Russians surrounded by countless pairs of eyes watching us with interest or hatred.
Mostly hatred, since there are several people here tonight who have suffered because of us.
“So, did you see anything you like?”
I frown, because I have no idea what he means.
“A woman to warm your bed tonight.”
“I’ve been too busy paying attention to the people who want to put my body to ice before dessert.”
He snorts.
“You used to be more fun.”
“Used to?”
“Before you became Pakhan,” he explains, clicking his tongue, but his shoulders sag.
Then he shakes his head and speaks to me the way he used to when we were young and determined to make this entire world ours.
“I know the title came with even more responsibilities, especially since you’re the youngest Pakhan the organization has ever had, but don’t forget to enjoy yourself once in a while. You’re thirty years old, for fuck’s sake.”
Now it is my turn to let out a skeptical sound.
“Don’t forget where we come from and where we’re going, Misha.”
“You’re too gloomy tonight,” he mutters, disappointed. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
“You tell me who else I need to speak to while I’m here and then you let me leave to handle my own business. My plane is already waiting, and the engine has been running for ten minutes.”
“You really have no intention of staying for a little fun? I know you enjoyed Lust. Maybe we could go again to that club, especially since you seem to get along with DeLuca.”
His idea for tonight is tempting, but it isn’t part of my plan. I like having everything organized in advance.
I certainly don’t like throwing my schedule into chaos for reasons so frivolous. Especially since I have a meeting in the morning with an informer who wants to brief me on a few matters from the north of Great Britain.
“I have more important things to do.” “The Irish still giving you trouble?”
I nod, still staring at some empty point across the room, though my attention is everywhere.
“Not all of them. But someone over there has started doing business with the Albanians, and it's kind of ruining my already fragile relationships with them.”
He lets out a low whistle, understanding the gravity of such a situation.
“That complicates things.”
“It has always been complicated.”
“And what are you going to do? How will you solve it?”
I turn my head toward him and look into his blue eyes before answering.
“I won’t solve it.”
He blinks, confused.
“Then what will you do?”
I smile with a coldness that makes even the man I grew up with – the one who knows exactly what I am capable of – blink. He had been my mate for years – mine and my brothers’ – while we trained together to become the Bratva’s ideal soldiers.
“I’ll annihilate it.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, but satisfaction gleams in his eyes.
“You were always famous for your bloody methods.”
I lift one shoulder and look back toward the great hall.
“It’s the most efficient option. And the fastest. I don’t have time to waste.”
“Speaking of time,” he says suddenly. “Wait one second.”
Then he leaves, heading straight toward someone.
I follow him with my gaze, and after a few steps, he stops beside a woman standing with her back to me.
She is wearing a long black dress, like every other woman here tonight, but her back is exposed by a V-shaped cut that falls elegantly almost to her narrow waist.
She isn’t wearing a bra.
A strand of black pearls, shimmering with silver reflections, highlights her spine like a whispered invitation.
To look.
To touch.
Her light-colored hair is twisted into a simple knot at the nape of her neck, as if she wants someone to bury their fingers in it. To tip her head back and ruin that bare, delicate throat.
She glances to the side, and I catch her profile.
Porcelain skin. Small nose. Full lips. A round, beautifully shaped chin. A real-life doll, but with a body made to be a tasty pray for predators.
This woman was made to be devoured. Or, in my language, fucked in every possible way.
Mikhail touches her arm and says something to her, but the interaction doesn’t feel intimate. Not even the way he looks at her, smiling, does not carry the weight of flirtation. Still, he seems quite relaxed as he speaks to the blonde.
He gives her a kiss on the cheek, then starts back toward me.
And with that, the girl, who doesn’t look much older than twenty, twenty-five at most, follows him with her gaze and turns to face me.
That is when I see her perfect face.
Her big eyes, a pale color I can’t quite make out from where I’m standing, collide with mine. I assume they are blue or green.
A shiver crawls down my spine and stops at the tips of my fingers.
Strange.
Usually, that kind of shiver goes straight into my pants, making my cock twitch. But tonight, it has been decided to make itself known in a unique way.
It makes me want to climb over her and tighten that strand of pearls around her throat so hard I would steal the air from her lungs.
Tears would cloud her terrified gaze. Then, when her lips parted, desperate for a breath, I would let my saliva drip from my tongue into her mouth.
After that, I would kiss her hard, biting her lower lip until the salty taste of her blood would ran down the corner of my mouth.
I almost drool at the thought, which prickles across my skin and awakens a dark need inside me, one that consumes me like a vice.
This time, the shiver reaches its usual destination, and I feel aroused, still lost in her eyes, before she finally turns her attention back to the people around her.
If she hadn’t broken eye contact, my fantasy probably would have gone further, and I would have quickly become the predator who wouldn’t leave this place until I had hurt her while possessing her in the most depraved ways.
Do you want to fuck her or kill her
?
The dark voice that shadows my thoughts every time whispers.
I exhale.
I’m still undecided.
Who the fuck is this woman, making me forget I’m standing in the middle of hyenas?
“Forgive the interruption, Voron,” my friend says, offering an apology.
He glances toward the girl, who is now watching us with interest.
“I had to tell her I can’t have breakfast with her tomorrow, because there’s no way I’m waking up that early.”
For one second, I tense beneath my Italian suit, imagining her beside my friend.
“Is she one of your lovers?” I swallow my pride and ask, barely controlling the cold edge of my voice.
“Oh, no!” he exclaims, laughing. “Now that I think about it, I don’t believe the two of you have ever crossed paths before,” he adds thoughtfully. “My father always tried to keep her away from the Bratva, so he could create the perfect princess. Educated in Paris, and now in London.”
London? On my territory, and I didn’t know?
“I don’t understand. Who is she?”
“She’s my little sister.”
His enthusiasm – mixed with pride – slams into the wall of ice rising around me in an instant.
Even the voices around us seem to vanish.
Dozens of red flags wave before my eyes, distorting every image of her still left in my mind.
Fuck.
Only I could think that I would strangle – while mercilessly fucking her hard – a friend's younger sister.
And that can only be a sign that it is time for me to get the fuck out of here.
Especially now, when I have one more reason. One I know will turn into a great dream tonight.
A dream in which my hand clenches a strand of pearls with brutal force, while her ragged gasps and the streams of tears running down her flushed cheeks send me falling into the dark abyss of ecstasy, until she has no breath left at all.
Hanna Lee