DEVOTION

FRACTURED DIAMONDS SAGA

BOOK 3

LISA CULLEN

CONTENTS

Also by Lisa Cullen

Description

Prologue: Ciro

1. Ciro

2. Vanya

3. Ciro

4. Vanya

5. Ciro

6. Vanya

7. Ciro

8. Vanya

9. Ciro

10. Vanya

11. Ciro

12. Vanya

13. Ciro

14. Vanya

15. Ciro

16. Vanya

17. Ciro

18. Vanya

19. Ciro

20. Vanya

21. Ciro

22. Ciro

23. Vanya

24. Ciro

25. Vanya

26. Ciro

27. Vanya

28. Ciro

29. Vanya

30. Ciro

Epilogue: Vanya

Epilogue 2

© Copyright 2025, by Author Lisa Cullen .

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non commercial uses permitted by copyright law. Unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this work is illegal.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is intended for adult readers only. Any sexual activity portrayed in these pages occurs between consenting adults over the age of 18 who are not related by blood.

ALSO BY LISA CULLEN

Check out my entire catalogue available on KindleUnlimited.

Fractured Diamonds Saga

Deception | Dominance | Devotion | Descent

Dangerous Gambit

Brazen King | Relentless Knight | Untouchable Queen

The Bratva

Season of Malice | Season of Desire | Season of Wrath | The Lazarov Bratva

Sinister Alliances

Unlikely Protector | Unlikely Avenger

The Forbidden Reverse Harem Collection

Boss Daddies | Good Girl | A Nanny for Christmas | Brother’s Best Friends for Christmas | Christmas with Daddy’s Best Friends | Lie No More | Thin Ice | Cardinal Whispers | Stepping Up | Office Affairs | Shadowvale Secrets | The Nanny Next Door | Classroom Confessions | Lords of the Campus | Her Holiday Heartthrobs |Santa’s Pucking Hattrick | Snowed In with the Bosses | Twins for the Silver Foxes

Sanctum Harbor Sinners

Hell to Pay | Hell and High Water | Hell Breaks Loose

DESCRIPTION

I took a Bratva bullet.

Got their princess pregnant.

Now my dead brother wants us both six feet under.

I broke the code—touched my best friend's sister.

Broke her heart—left her behind with my baby.

Broke myself—became the monster I swore I'd never be.

Six months in Russian hell turned me into Shakal. The Jackal.

The one who laughs while bones snap.

The one who kills for the Bratva crest on his chest.

My dying best friend made me swear: Protect Vanya.

Blood oath sealed in his last breath.

Now she owns my nights.

And I own the secret she's hiding.

She thinks I chose loyalty over love.

Doesn’t know I survived every prison beating for her.

That I’ve killed for less than the taste of her skin.

Then my dead twin rises with Moroccan killers at his back.

Betrayal runs deeper than blood.

And the woman carrying my child becomes the target.

They want me to choose—the Bratva or her.

But I already made my decision.

If I lose her, this empire burns.

Problem is... dead brothers don't forgive.

And the boss's niece was never meant to carry bastard heirs.

PROLOGUE: CIRO

“Run leetle mysh! We catch you soon enough, rat!”

“Eat shit, comrade!” I yelp over my shoulder, taking a hard left.

“You really know how to make friends, Diamante!” Matvey startles me as he slides around the corner right behind me from another direction. Guy knows this place better than he should for our first day in kindergarten.

He’s really cool, though. I think we’ll be BFFs.

“I caught your eye, didn’t I?”

“You used me for body shield when you kicked Crovak in the balls and ran, shitbox!”

“Shitbox? I really need to teach you better insults.”

“I can think of better in Russian!”

“Speaking of which, less talking, more rushin’!” I speed up my pace as the clatter of footfalls increases behind us.

Definitely don’t want to get caught by those guys.

Or the other guys.

Or the other other guys.

Guess it’s not true what they say about your first day in the slammer. Do not pick the biggest, scariest monster and try to make him your bitch.

At least not a monster with a shit ton of buddies.

To be fair, every single inmate in this place is as scary as the next.

Or maybe things are just different in Mother Russia.

“Right!”

“I know I am⁠—”

“No! Turn right!” Matvey shoves me mid-run, almost barreling me into the wall. Instead, we veer into a cul-de-sac in the walkway, a small semicircle of not-quite-a-room.

I skid to a halt, glancing around for our way out.

“The fuck, Matty?! This is a dead end. And that’s absolutely not a figure of speech when they catch us.”

The broad, tall, kinda unreasonably good-looking brunet gives me a look, cocking his head and raising one eyebrow. Somehow, it’s hella familiar.

But that’s hardly relevant at the moment.

I shrug as the echoes round the nearest bend in the cinderblock halls of our hell away from home.

Matvey kicks the ground beneath us, resonating in a dull, metallic thunk.

“We go down,” he drolls.

“Propositioning me? As much as I love a good BJ, I’d rather not. We haven’t even gotten to know each other very well yet!”

“You need lesson in humor too.” Shaking his head, he kicks the metal hatch open, revealing a dark hole and a ladder. But like a fucking nutcase, he steps over the hole and drops out of sight.

“Fu-fu-fuuuuck!” I hiss, wringing my hands.

I’ve never been one to back down from a little fear. A little pissed pants.

So I take a step back, take a deep breath …

And feel a nice, comfy boot slam right in between my shoulder blades from behind.

Good timing. I was about to chickenshit out of jumping.

The impact launches me forward, into what I’m sure is a graceful, slow-motion swan dive the likes of which the Olympic team would be envious. Headfirst into oblivion!

I can just make out the rungs of a ladder on my way down. Cool.

It’s about a ten-foot drop. I barely even feel the impact.

Roll. Bounce.

On my feet in a heartbeat. Not dazed at all.

And running into the unknown ahead of me. Smack dab into a wall.

“Monkey in a Tonka truck!” I yelp, grabbing my bloody nose.

No time to waste indulging a little agony on my entire face. I can feel pain later.

Shoving off the wall, I scramble after where I think I hear Matvey’s footsteps to my left and pick up my pace. This place is a fucking maze. Throwback to the Cold War, cement and freezing winter-worn walls. Cozy.

Great aesthetic. Really an “as advertised” feel for a Russian death camp.

Dark tunnels.

Torches instead of electric light.

But only when the power’s off, which seems to be more often than it’s on.

Dungeon vibes. Really moody.

Could use a little heat instead of freezing, brutal temperatures. Guess that’s just the only flavor on the menu in Russia. Like ice cream, but shitty.

I call it my nightly dessert at the Goulash. And this is only night two!

“It’s called the Gulag, you fuckwit,” Ero’s voice echoes in my head. Brings a little snicker to my lips.

I miss that smug bastard.

Wish the manky twit was with me in here. We’d show these cold-brewed asshats a thing or two. Right before we burn the place to the ground.

As it stands, they haven’t caught me yet.

Oho, they tried last night. It takes a quick wit and an even quicker step to catch me off guard.

They might wear me down, though. The lack of sleep is getting to me.

Naps in tight spaces don’t count. So I hatched my plan to square myself away a nice corner of authority in this place by kicking Crovak’s ass.

“This way!” I hear the whisper ahead and double down on my pace.

I should have noticed the tone in Matvey’s voice, the waver, the strangled tightness.

An arm takes me at the neck as I round another corner and I go down hard on my back, knocking the wind from me. Stars explode behind my eyes simultaneously, putting on a dazzling show in my skull.

Lovely.

“You gave us good chase. Now you give us good entertainment.”

“You really don’t want me to start singing,” I wheeze, rolling onto my side. Right before four rough hands drag me up to my knees.

Crovak looms over me, his face bruised, his shirt off.

Whoa.

Dude is a graffiti artist’s dream of tats.

He cracks his knuckles crouching to look me in the eye. “New blood. Normally we just haze you. Steal your possessions, make you our slave for week.”

“What?” I ask, playing dumb. Or maybe not playing.

“He means, you fucks up!” Another massive brute growls off to the side, grinning.

“I do that pretty frequently. Could you elaborate?”

The fist that takes me across the cheek sends me sprawling. The hands hold tight, dragging me back to center. Just in time to take another strike across the jaw.

“Th-thanks, fellas …” I mumble, spitting blood.

“Crovak, that’s enough …” someone mutters, and I see Matvey step forward, looking grim.

“Et tu, douchey?” I glare at all three of him blurring in front of me.

“I tell you when it is enough.” Crovak gets right in his face and the younger man backs down, shaking his head.

“Get it over with then.” He turns away, almost looking sorry for me. Just for a second.

This can’t be good.

“Bring him!”

“I can walk!” I snap, and the hands let me go. Funny. I thought I could.

The cold floor greets me like an old friend. He even keeps me company as they spin and drag me down the hall, torchlight flickering in strange shadows on the blackened ceiling. They really need to hire somebody to clean up.

Ice-cold air whips into the corridor, snapping me back to clarity.

“Now, mertvets, you get up.” One of my assistants drops my leg, kicking me softly in the ribs. Gently, like a sledgehammer.

Still, I gather my strength and pull myself up, forcing air into my lungs. Staggering forward, I step through the open doorway, waiting for another barrage of blows to take me down.

Instead, I find an arena of sorts ahead of me.

It’s surrounded on all sides by bleachers filled with screaming inmates. Cheering as I see what might be boots dragging in the dirt and disappearing through the far door.

A ring of torches lights the packed dirt, stained and darkened with probably not blood and gore. I glance to my right, noting the wicked look on Crovak’s face.

“You are bold, Diamante. Hopefully bold enough to survive.”

“Could we start over? I think you got the wrong impression when I kicked you in the nuts. That’s how we say ‘I love you’ where I’m from!”

His grin twists, a flare of rage passing through his face.

“Insolent bastard, aren’t you?!” He rattles off a string of what I can only assume are curses in Russian. “She put you here for reason. But I do not care.”

“Cro …” Matvey appears at his side again.

“No. He fuck with me. He act like big dick. Now he learns what this means to be Bratva.”

Hands shove me forward, to the gate and through.

“Matty … you’re a shitbox.”

“Sorry, Diamante. I tried to warn you.” He grabs the fence, looking dour.

“Next time, just use your words! Any suggestions?” I feel the adrenaline rising as rattling metal and growling shouts echo from the doorways spaced along the low walls of the arena. Dozens of voices, all desperate and violent, fill the frigid air.

“Try not to die.”

“Cute. I’m guessing jokes won’t do me a lot of good in this case.”

“Your jokes are bad enough to kill …”

The gates open and screaming men, wild, half-dressed, and armed with makeshift weapons storm into the yard. The crowd roars.

I kinda wanna piss my pants. Kinda wanna run and hide.

Kinda wanna kill every last one of these fuckers for doing this to me. And the bitch who threw me in here.

A rush of fear and rage and blood-boiling adrenaline surges through me. The mass of killers crashes toward me, beating each other, screaming bloody murder.

I feel my lips pull back in a sick, wild grin.

“I will have drink to remember you after, mertvets.” I hear Matvey’s voice behind me, distantly.

“Cheers, then. What’s that mean, anyway?” I call over my shoulder, fists clenching.

“Dead man.”

1

CIRO

“Shakal!” Matvey laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

“Matty-Mack!” I clap him on the back.

“You look like shit, this is usual now, no?”

“I make this prison uniform look good.”

“Today, you finally get to change into regular clothes.”

“I’m actually extremely excited to wear my blood-spattered dirty laundry from when they threw me in here.”

“Volk will outfit you soon with new clothes. No worry.”

“I’m not. I’m more worried about making it to the gate.”

“Good point.” He nods, tonging the inside of his cheek.

Our rivals in the Gulag make it a point to make one last try for any member of an opposing branch of the Bratva leaving the prison on release day. Super cool.

Almost as awesome as three months of nonstop fighting for my life.

Without Matvey at my back, along with the other handful of Volk Bratva members that call this place home, I would’ve been dead a thousand times over. They’ve become like family.

Matvey like one of my own brothers.

“So, what is first thing you will eat when out of this⁠—”

“Shitsmear hotel?”

“I’ll never quite get your humor, Shakal. What you say is just true statements.”

“It’s all about how you say it, though. Never mind.”

I swear he does that to piss me off.

Russians understand sarcasm just fine.

But every time I make a joke about the god-awful room service at this place, I get fucking crickets. I will say, though. The amenities have improved since I got here.

After two weeks and that initial arena battle, they only tried to shank me in my sleep every other night. They got me a few times.

Several dozen lost fingers later, they cut it down to once a week. Guess they got sick of me cutting off body parts.

The beatings in the yard were always on the table, but I tried to make them regret it.

I laughed when they broke my fingers. I laughed when they cracked my ribs.

But then they broke my nose.

And nobody was laughing. I don’t remember much in the blur that followed …

Except the screams.

Call me conceded, but nobody fucks with my face!

Apparently, I went apeshit and tore some guy’s ear off. They finally managed to get me tied up. Beat me right proper.

When I woke up in the infirmary a few days later, I had a little leeway. A little respect.

Every one of my attackers outstayed my hospital visit. A couple transferred to the furnace in the morgue.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get to me.

The constant panic. The lack of sleep. The brutal weather and even worse treatment by the guards and inmates alike.

But I fucking made it.

And ever since then, they call me a few different names.

Not sure exactly what “bies” means, but I think it’s some sort of demon. And I might have leaned into it a bit to fuck with them.

I make sure they always hear me coming, chuckling as I walk down a hall by myself. It’s satisfying to hear them scatter ahead of me. At least the low-level rabble.

The name Shakal started whispering around a little while later, and it stuck. Almost 100 percent sure Matvey is the source for the nickname, truth be told.

Call me a drama king, but I kinda like it. If my twin is alive somewhere, he’s rolling his eyes at me.

The Jackal.

Fits the bill even more because I joined up with the Volk. Means “wolf.”

Brotherhood of the Wolf, to be more accurate. And although I am sworn in blood, I doubt they’ll ever completely accept me since I’m an outsider.

I guess I’ll see once I get out and present myself to the big boss.

Speaking of which …

“Tell me again what happens after I make it to the gate?”

“We make it to gate. Someone from Volk will be waiting to take you home.”

“Home. You say it like it’s your home.”

“It is. Same for you now.”

“Not what I meant. Why are you always so cagey about your life before we met?”

“Right, because you spill beans about Diamante family history all of time, no?”

“Hey! You actually used that phrase right—Ow!” His fist numbs my shoulder. “And keep it down! I kept my fucking mouth shut about my past in here because there’s always someone listening!”

I hiss out the last bit, annoyed that he used my last name.

Not that it’s a secret.

But it doesn’t do me any favors. A lot of the branches of the Russian mob hate my family.

With good reason, apparently.

“Heads up, guard coming for us.”

“Oh goody! One last baton to the back of the knees, I hope!”

I slap on my Shakal grin as the two brick shithouses in full riot gear step into our common area, making a beeline right for us. Not that I really like playing the role, but …

Doesn’t hurt anything bein’ careful.

Never know what the Jackal might do to you if you even look at him wrong. And it actually kind of works. Even with the guards.

My buddy narrows his eyes, slowing down warily as he approaches me.

“Hands on head!” he barks in Russian, pointing his billy club at my skull.

“Zastav’ menya,” I chuckle, sneering.

And oh, does he ever make me.

A gloved hand snatches my wrist, wrenching it around and kicking out my knee, driving me to the ground. The sting of the cold cement rings through my kneecaps in that sweet, familiar way. Like the way stubbing your toe feels. Every. Single. Time.

Never gets any more fun.

But it’s all part of the show.

Can’t break character as long as I’m in these walls. It’s the only thing keeping half the population ill at ease enough to not swarm my ass and tear me apart. I’m honestly lucky as fuck.

Or maybe they’re all way more scared of the Volk’s influence here.

Apparently, my new family is the most brutal in the country as far as retaliation goes. Sounds like a blast. Harassment and hazing are all fair game, but you kill one of us?

Let’s just say the only time it happened while I was here, three of the Krest Bratva thugs got skewered and posted out on the outer wall. Not sure what killed them first, the bleeding or the cold.

Not a fate I’m looking to have thrown at me.

So, I put on a hell of a show at Ledyanoy Ad Prison. Fitting. “Frozen Hell” pretty much sums it up.

And now, I’ve got an encore waiting for me on the other side of those walls. A score to settle with Dom Vipera if I ever get the chance, and more immediately, some very choice words for a certain sexy Russian Mafia woman and her blond, flattopped cohort.

The two who put me here.

Both members of the Volk Bratva. The biggest sect of the mob that runs half the country. The ports. The nightclubs.

They caught me snooping around on my family’s orders and decided to see what I was made of. Or see me eliminated by this shithole’s inmates.

So far, all Matvey’s shared about them is that they are not to be messed with. That he knows them from rumors and talk on the street. Supposedly he is also being initiated.

Yeah. Well.

“Get up and do not give trouble, fuck-ass!” The guard growls in my ear, dragging me to my feet. By now the whole block is in an uproar, clacking anything in reach on the bars.

It’s an announcement of my departure.

The front gate is a half mile walk from the main entrance to the grounds. A long way out in the open for just about anything to happen.

I’m not given any time to pack. No chance to plan or say my farewells. So I just grin up at the faces lining the railing, the cells along most of the hallways, hands reaching out, voices shouting obscenities and cheers after me.

“Have drink for me out there, Shakal!” A familiar voice shouts.

“I will, Dmitri! You have one in here for me!”

“Fuck you! I am sick of toilet wine!”

“And yet your breath reeks of it even now, brat! Stuff’s going to make you go blind.”

“Eh, then I do not have to look at all of these ugly faces. Proshchaniye, zasranets.” I catch the last of his words as they slam the door to the cell block behind us.

“Do svidaniya, Dmitri.” At least my Russian improved.

Dmitri is one of those guys who will never get out.

Which means he is either a plant by one of the gangs, so institutionalized that he lives here permanently, or he crossed someone in his own organization. I would think they’d just kill them, but this place is worse than death, so …

Heading down the main complex building halls, I catch a glimpse of Matvey, being led along by the other guard, brought down through another block. At least we get out at the same time.

“Looking good Matty!” I snort, eyeing his change of clothing. He’s covered in old mud, dried and stained. You get them back just the way they took them off.

“It’s bullshit! I got all the way here, barely a scrape on me, and one of these ublyudki trip me into the ditch.”

“Shut your face, Volk. Keep walking.”

He’s herded out as I have a handful of familiar clothing shoved into my chest. Guess I just change right here on the bench in the hall. As soon as I’m dressed, I stumble through the same door and out across a small courtyard. I barely recognize the exit.

The night I got brought in is a blur in my memory.

“You coming?”

“I was giving you a head start.” I chuckle, joining Mat at the final archway.

“You first.” He smirks, letting me lead the way.

“Fine, you chicken.”

“Duck.”

“That’s a terrible comeback⁠—”

“No duck!” He shouts and I’m almost too late.

I feel the swish of something heavy swing into the air where my head just was.

A scuffle behind me has me dropping back, snagging a pant leg with one hand as I hear Mat grunt, taking a blow across the shoulder. Yanking with all my strength, I pull the ambusher’s leg out from under him at an odd angle, twisting until I hear a snap.

His low wail of pain precedes his full body weight hitting me square in the face.

Shit.

It’s like wrestling with a sack of dumbbells to get the guy off me. Just in time to spring to my feet in the center of a ring of six Krest Bratva brutes.

All of them armed.

All of them scarred with plenty of wounds from yours truly.

I disarm the first, whipping the shiv around and stabbing him in the forearm, disabling his hand. He just grunts, swallowing the pain like a true Bratva. Blood and pain are signs of pride.

Screams are for weaklings.

Well, lets see if I can get some of them screaming for me.

This place made me tougher than all of them. They tried to destroy me. They tried to beat me down. And I just smiled. It’s why they call me the Jackal.

That selfsame grin splits my lip in the dry cold and a laugh shakes my chest as two more rush me. But I see their fear.

I use it, making one flinch with a feint, kicking him in the side of the knee, whipping my elbow into the face of the other, spinning back to drive my knee into the falling guy’s sternum with a sickening crunch.

Another from the side, I flick out my hand lightning fast, crushing his windpipe in a single chop.

A chord loops over my head from behind and I barely get my hand up in time to keep from getting throttled. My other hand finds a handful of crotch and I squeeze with everything I have.

Now he’s screaming!

I hear cussing and shouting and know that it’s time to boogie. My choker is rolling on the floor as I hop over him, snagging Matvey from between two thugs and racing away.

“Hey!”

“More coming. Time to go.”

So we run. Hard.

We’re halfway to the gate when I hear Matvey yelp, but he barely stumbles, keeping pace behind me.

“Fucking zipgun!” He grunts followed by that strange, low-keening wail he cries whenever he gets stressed out. He was probably one of those nutcase kids that screamed when he got mad.

“Why are you yelling?”

“Helps me drown out your laugh. You know how crazy you sound? Gives me nightmares.”

“I wasn’t …” Oh. I guess I was.

Maybe I’m the nutcase.

“See? Just like when you forget how vicious you fight.”

“It’s not that bad!” I chuckle, gasping. “Besides, we always win!”

“Yes, win. If that is what you call the twisted things you do when you fight. You are like nightmare clown.”

“Hey! I am not a clown. I just need a haircut!”

“It is a bit like Bozo, yes?” Matvey coughs out a laugh, limping the last few feet to the gate. We turn, looking back at the mass of screaming men charging down the walk.

“Hm. I think we could take ’em.”

“Fuck you!” Mat snorts, shoving me through the open pedestrian gate and hobbling after me.

The guards slam the gate behind us, firing off several shots into the air, or possibly the crowd still rushing the other side. They immediately reverse course, seeking shelter.

We made it.

“I bid you farewell, gentlemen. L’chaim! To life, and never seeing any of your fucking faces again!” I open my arms wide, shouting at the gate.

The only reply is the barrel of a guard’s rifle out a window. Mat and I hustle along down the road as quickly as we can, not even looking back. Good riddance.

It’s a half mile to the “parking lot.”

By the time we reach the small gravel plain, Mat is sweating, hopping on one foot. The bullet must have been a small caliber, lodged in his calf. Fired out of a makeshift gun. Car antenna probably. Like in the old greaser movies.

Won’t kill him but hurts like hell.

“Look at these two sad sacks of shit.” A deep, resonant voice snorts, stepping out of one of two black SUVs parked at the end of the dirt road.

“Fyodor,” Matvey grumbles, letting me go and trying to stand.

“You’d recognize a sack of shit when you see one. I mean, assuming you look at yourself in the mirror from time to time.” I should really keep my trap shut. But that Dolph Lundgren looking mother fucker sure does know how to make me instantly pissed off.

“Ciro!” Mat snaps quietly, giving me a look.

“Ah. The jester.” Fyodor sneers.

“That’s it? No comeback?” I honestly must look shocked.

“No need. I will come to break your back soon enough.”

“That was … actually not bad.” I nod, smirking.

An expression that is immediately replaced by an open-mouthed silent shout of pain as someone kicks the back of my knee out, driving me to the ground.

“Mind your tongue, initiate.” The woman’s voice is dark, sultry. Frigid.

Glancing over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. Raven black hair. Crystal blue eyes. Hips like a goddess.

“My tongue is completely at your service⁠—”

The boot takes me in the jaw, knocking me clean out.

* * *

A faint, alluring scent fills my nostrils.

Spices, sweet honey. Shivers up my spine.

Instantly, I’m rolling up to a seated position, groaning slightly but mostly just wondering what the hell has my cock as rigid as a prison cell bar in my pants. Memory cartwheels through my addled brain, smashing me back to reality.

Her.

The queen of all my existence.

And I don’t even know her name.

The black sack over my head whips off, leaving me squinting in fluorescent light.

“Clothes off,” she says.

A hasty glance around tells me I’m in some sort of communal shower, like a sports locker room or barracks baths. And we’re alone.

“Is this another test?”

“Only if you try my patience.”

The effect of her proximity is even more potent than it was three months ago. I’m riled up. Turned on. Pissed off.

So I raise my chin challengingly.

They’ve already done the worst they could do. And I know she could have me killed in a heartbeat if she wanted to. That kind of finality really puts things in perspective.

I’m confident. Death doesn’t scare me.

“It’s really nice to see you again.”

“I would agree. You’re even prettier than before.”

“You mean the scars? Not the makeover I wanted.” My face is almost unrecognizable in the mirror across from me, behind her.

“You look like you want to fight me. Like you want to attack me.”

“I don’t know what I want to do more, stab you or kiss you. You threw me in a fucking prison hell.”

“And you defied everyone’s expectations, Shakal.”

“And what, now I am one of your plebs. I’ve been at this game way too fucking long.

There’s gotta be more to this.”

“Indeed. Pyotr will explain all soon. For the time being, you will have duties. Job. A place to live.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You should. I chose you. You are mine.” The way she says it makes my dick throb, even though I know she means that I am her pick for initiation into the brotherhood. “Now, get clean.”

“Okay … I guess I’ll just …” I start stripping off my filthy clothes, dropping each piece of fabric to the ground, never breaking her gaze.

A tiny smirk plays on those perfectly round and plump lips.

“Care to join me?” I grit out as I move toward the spout. It’s rusty and old. Feels kinda comforting in a way. Rugged.

“I take hot showers in the main house.”

Her taunt makes my belly clench as I unbutton my pants, sliding them down and kicking them off. The boxers are last and she bites her lip as she traces down my body with her eyes.

Fuck me.

But seriously. I’ve been in jail for three months.

Even so, the way she acts, the attitude, makes me want to show her up. To taunt her right back, so I take my time, turning away so she can’t see everything yet.

Glancing back, I catch her licking her lips, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

“You watch all the initiates strip?”

“We watch all initiates on first day. They have to rehabilitate from Gulag. Some try to run. Some kill themselves.”

“Why am I the only one here?”

“Matvey is getting bullet out of his leg.”

“And the others?”

“What others?”

Shit. The thought hadn’t quite occurred to me. Three other guys went in with us. One died the first day. The other two survived.

And were still there when I left.

Sighing, I reach for the first knob. Nothing happens. The next creaks loudly, stuck.

“Here, you must jiggle it—” she steps in close, way too close, reaching around me to grab the knob.

The sensation of her chest pressing into my back has my entire frame locked up. Tense as hell.

Right then the water sputters onto my chest, freezing cold.

Nothing I’m not used to, and the feeling of her right there has my blood pumping, my temperature scalding.

“My, my …” she mutters, looking down over my shoulder. I’m standing firm at attention.

Our eyes meet for a second, smoldering.

Aching. Our lips are an inch apart.

Until I shift to the left, letting enough cold water spatter back to make her move. I’m such a jackass. But I wanna make her work for it.

As if she can read my mind, she catches my eye, licking her lip and spinning her finger in a circle. With a huff, I turn, so slowly, hating myself for how badly I want her to grip my cock and pump me off right here.

I start to lather up, eager to be out of the water, but loving every second of this.

“Make sure and get clean everywhere …” Her eyes trail lower.

“Only cause you asked nicely,” I growl, tracing my hand down my stomach, soaping the length of my dick and flexing involuntarily in the frigid water.

“Are you going to take care of that?”

I try to hide my shock, the slightest bulge of my eyes.

I’m usually the one with the upper hand in these types of situations. At least in my past. But the way she has me completely at a disadvantage is absolutely doing it for me.

My chest heaves as I grasp my cock in my fist.

And she tugs down the front of her shirt, pressing her spectacular breasts together and moaning out the softest sigh for me.

I don’t stand a fucking chance.

2

VANYA

Too tall.

Too pretty.

My first thoughts meeting the legendary Diamante twin months ago.

They told me they broke his nose in the hole. Not enough damage to make him quite rugged. The other scar on his face is much more appealing.

But it is the way he looks at me as he grips his rock-hard dick in his fist that has me sweating in the cold. Fire and hatred. Desire and anger.

They are so often one and the same.

He is fucking beautiful.

Even so, every time I see him grin, I want to put my fist through his smile. Smug prick.

Almost as much as I want to kiss him right now. It’s purely infuriating.

“What are you staring at?”

“A prick taking a shower.”

Ciro chuckles, sending shivers along my back.

“Your prick, or so you said,” he growls, pumping along his stunning length.

Heat flushes through my face and chest and my hand twitches, dying to slip into the front of my pants. Fucking intolerable.

“You need to be taught to behave,” I growl, shaking my head and approaching him again.

It was not my intention to demean him so when I picked him up. But dammit, he pushes my buttons, makes me instantly furious and insanely aroused.

Everything about him is clean lines, muscular, flawless.

My instinct is to break him. To have him begging at my feet. Yet I get the distinct impression he is enjoying this way too much. And that I am not entirely in charge.

Almost like he wanted to make me do this.

Staring at his soaked skin, I trace the tattoos on his arms, his back and sides as he turns. Scars mark his flesh all over, likely from attacks in the middle of the night at the Gulag. I want to lick every single one.

To taste his pain, and soothe it.

I raise one eyebrow as he tilts his head back, thrusting his hips slightly as he jerks himself off. I could have him right now. Or I could laugh in his face for being so eager to obey.

Why am I letting him get in my damn head?

“Pizdets,” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Come here. Closer,” I order, squaring my shoulders.

This is taking too long. Pyotr will be expecting us soon.

But I can’t help myself, savoring the sight of this magnificent man.

“Down on your knees.”

A low growl escapes his lips as he lowers himself to the cold tile at my feet, droplets of freezing water trickling down his chiseled chest. His nipples are hard, his skin covered in goosebumps.

“Faster.” I glare down at him, matching his scathing gaze. Unable to resist any longer, I bend down, cupping his chin with my hand and leaning close to his ear.

“When you finish, you think of me, grinding my ass on you,” I whisper softly, biting his earlobe and pulling lightly.

“Ffffuck …”

Against my better judgment, my other hand trails down his front, encircling his manhood and stroking delicate fingers up his shaft. Right before I turn and stride from the room, my heart pounding.

Behind me, I hear a low grunt as he comes, breathing heavily. The sound rushes through my core, soaking my underwear.

I really mustn’t do such things.

Outside, the crisp air cools my blushing skin. A few deep breaths clear my head.

As a leader of my family, I should deny myself pleasures like these. Especially if I want to be taken seriously in a male-dominated culture. I must be twice as tough. Untouchable to their eyes.

Like my mother taught me, I can be their fantasy, a brutal ideal. But never attainable.

Not that I can’t have fun.

I love to dance. To drink. Occasionally I find a friend for the night.

But as Pyotr always says, appearances are everything. Keep what belongs in private behind closed doors.

In other words, every fucking Bratva man can fuck to his heart’s content, but a Bratva woman can’t. Double standard, old-world yerunda.

“Towel?” he shouts from inside.

“In first locker. Clothes too. Hurry the fuck up.”

“Keep your skintight leather pants on, I’m coming.”

“Again?” I close my eyes, cursing softly. No one has ever gotten under my skin like him. And I have never wanted someone to want me as badly as I do him.

Glupaya devchonka. Foolish girl.

At least it will be interesting. We shall see how the Shakal handles this world, so different than his home. Regardless, he is not of that world any longer. He is one of us now whether he likes it or not.

For life.

“Ready?” He emerges from the bathhouse, flushed in the cheeks, an involuntary shiver quaking through him.

Despite my better judgment, I lean into him, sharing my warmth for a moment. A soft sigh from his full lips ruins the moment.

“You smell better, at least. Less like filthy animal.”

“You try showering in a frozen mountain shithole with twenty dudes who want to kill you.”

“If I wanted an easy initiation, I would. Mine was far worse.”

His eyes narrow, genuine concern flashes over his face. I change the subject.

“Do you like the outfit I picked for you?”

“Needs work. I’m definitely gonna need to go shopping as soon as I have some money to spend.”

“Priss.”

“You won’t be saying that when you see me in a proper outfit.”

“Then we arrange this. I go with you.”

“Ah, so it’s like that? You’re my shadow as long as I am a pleb?”

“Something like that.”

“Or are you my handler?”

“You would love for me to handle you, no?” I smirk, watching his brow furrow. “No, I volunteered to handle you, to train you. You were outsider. I capture. I make decision. You passed test, now you are in. Clear?”

“As mud.”

“Matvey spoke true, your sense of humor is shit.”

“My humor is shit?! I haven’t heard a single good joke since I got here.”

“You haven’t understood a good joke, yet.”

“Right, must be me.”

I smile genuinely at his frustration, leading him alongside the baths toward the barracks.

“Welcome to St. Petersburg Volk compound. Main gate is there, large building there is for business. Offices. Armory. The big house is my father’s.”

“Wait, your dad lives here?”

“Uncle, technically, but he raised me.”

“So your room is …”

“In the same house.”

“Cool, I’ll drop by sometime.”

“You are presuming so very much.”

“And you are slowly falling in love with me.”

The stare I give him makes him squirm.

“Now, back there is gym and sparring circle, past that are the barracks. You will stay in bunkhouse there.”

“It’s like I’m going away for summer camp! Pillow fights and experimental kissy-kissy. Do all the Volk live here?”

“No,” I ignore his commentary. “Squad leaders and their chosen men have apartments around the city. You will earn better housing as you go.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less or anything more.”

“This is why I chose you. You are bold. Tough. But … be careful how to speak to Pyotr.”

“Pyotr, right. He’s the big boss?”

“Da.”

“Wait a minute … Pyotr is your dad. Uncle. Dunkle. Shit. I forgot you’re the boss’s daughter. And I’m the boss’s daughter’s slave! Do I have to wear a maid outfit?”

“Only if he really likes you,” I snap, hiding my grin.

Ciro raises his eyebrows suspiciously. “You do get my jokes!”

“Pyotr will not. He is old blood.”

“Club soda works wonders to get that out.”

I stare at him for a second, trying to decide if I should hit him. Instead, I lead on, heading toward the house. Ciro follows closely, silent for a brief moment.

Odd.

“Did you have to go through … what I did?” he asks quietly as we approach my home for as long as I can remember.

“In my own way. My mother and grandmother trained me, until they died. Then, I was sent to boarding school. The matron there, she tried to break me. I broke her knee and her hip. Then I was sent to juvenile detention center.”

“That’s … rough. My childhood was unusual too. How did you get out? Get back?”

“I killed four women who tried to rape me. Pyotr found out and got me out before they could send me to prison.”

He is finally silent, truly this time. Strangely, I find I like it less when he is not speaking.

At the door, I pause, leveling him with a stare.

“Dyadya will see you alone. He will assign you duties based on your skill, or he may decide to punish you.”

“For what?”

“For whatever he sees fit.”

“Neat. Seems fair.”

“Either way, it will be a welcome to the brotherhood. How you respond is important.”

“So he’s a little touchy? Been there, done that. I was a choir boy.”

“He is veteran of Cold War. Ex-KGB. Pyotr is bold, cunning. He is also suspicious.”

“Got it. Why are you warning me? You’ve left me on my own thus far.”

“Because I do not want him to shoot you in face.”

“I do have a nice face. Don’t much care for getting shot in the mouth. Is that why you left the bathroom before I finished? Family preference?”

It takes me a moment to recognize the joke, he speaks too fast. Not that I am a stranger to American humor. I spent three semesters at college there. He does not need to know that.

“With me, you joke all you want. Same with Matvey. Just be careful around elders. They will not like you on principle, Shakal.”

“Why not? I’m so cute.”

“You are jackass. You mock. You taunt.”

“That’s not it though, is it? I’m postoronniy.”

“Yes. Even after the Gulag. You are outsider. Many of them know your family a bit too well.”

“I thought those rivalries were dead.”

“They were. Until Dom Vipera burned us once more.”

A confused look passes over his face as I lead him through the hall of the main house. The main conference room takes up the bulk of the first floor. Through the dining area, I wave to Bolko and Yeff, heading toward the office in the back corner.

My father’s office.

Each of the men nod at me as I pass, acknowledging my position as daughter more than my place as Pyotr’s second. I see it in their eyes every time I pass.

One day, I will destroy that mentality.

The fact that my uncle married my mother when my father died. He built this place with my grandfather. It should be my birthright, but for the backward chauvinist bullshit.

This is how things are in the Old World.

And I know Ciro sees it, the similarities between this and the other half of his bloodline. The Italian Mafia.

I guess I am fortunate that Pyotr is somewhat progressive. Even if he relies on our relationship for my viability.

“Papa.”

“Vanya, zaychik. Voydite.”

“Ciro Diamante, as you requested.”

“Otlichnyy, excellent. So this is American. Italiano.”

“Volk,” Ciro snips, with just enough of a bite that I hide a smile, but worry for his life.

Pyotr stands, circling the table like the massive bear that he is, storming right up to place his nose an inch from Ciro’s. To his credit, Shakal does not flinch.

He should.

Suddenly, Pyotr throws his head back, laughing uproariously. Clapping both hands on the shoulders of the stunned, slender man before him, he shakes Ciro and hugs him before letting him go.

“They say you are fucking nails, da? How was hell?”

“Um, not the best place I’ve stayed. Not the worst.” Ciro smirks. That smile spreads into a wolf’s grin, aimed at me, then back at Pyotr. They are two of a kind, these two.

“You chose well, doch.”

“Thank you. I will go now.”

“Net. You are ready. And he is yours. Stay.”

Nodding, I step to the door, closing and putting my back to it, in the fashion of the guards. It is ingrained in me, and stunned as I am that he is letting me stay …

“So, Shakal. Do you miss your family?”

“I miss my brothers.”

“You have new brothers here.”

“Yes. I do. Thanks to you. To Vanya.”

“There is no need to hide it for fear of retribution. You want news from home. I can give you this.”

“Being out of the loop for three months feels like …”

“Like lifetime. I know.”

My father watches Ciro closely, that piercing cold gaze so familiar to me. He is regal, graying at the temples, still good-looking as he ever was. And as brutal as he ever was too. Pyotr fought alongside my father, clawing their empire out of nothing.

“I don’t expect you to tell me everything, just⁠—”

“Dom Vipera was taken by FBI. His empire is scattered. No one knows what has become of him.”

I watch Ciro’s eyes widen, his face falling slightly with the news. What this means to him, I have no idea. Vipera was part of his family, then took over, apparently.

“The rest of your people, they have gone to ground, lying low. That is all I tell you for now. The rest, you will work for. You will earn.”

“My … brothers … ?”

Pyotr’s eyes harden, his hand lashing out to take hold of Ciro’s shirt, shaking him like a ragdoll and pulling him in close. “Your brothers are here. The Volk. Never forget.”

“Da, Pakhan,” Ciro snaps immediately.

Thank goodness he learned how to respond …

Pyotr’s rage abates as fast as it flared. Smoothing out Ciro’s clothes, he pats him on the chest, then hugs him.

“You will earn the privilege of knowledge. Give me time, and I will also consider allowing you to reach out, to find them. Until then, do not test me. Do not rock boat, yes?”

“Yes sir.”

“Great! Now, Vanya will show you to your room and get some food and vodka. We need to put some meat on those bones!” His laugh lightens the room, like it always has, scattering the storm clouds that shadowed Ciro’s face.

“Thanks.”

“You can thank me by doing your job. Lieutenant will have orders for you tomorrow.” Pyotr’s smile fades. “Boy, I will ask this before you go. We intend to take some of what once belonged to your family. The trade in the North. Does this pose a problem to you?”

Ciro sniffs a small laugh, smiling. “What was once mine is yours, Pakhan.”

“All’s fair in love and war, right?”

“I try not to get bogged down in love. And from the sound of it, the war is over.”

“We will always fight. So too, we must always rejoice and find pleasure in life. They said you were a joker, a jester, a man who laughed in the face of danger. But now, I do not see the smile in your eyes, only your mouth.”

“My sense of humor has … changed.”

“This is what scares them, the men you fought in Gulag. They say you have no soul. I hope that you will find that passion you once had here with your new family. Otherwise, what is the point of living?”

Ciro nods, turning to leave as Pyotr waves us out.

“Come. You look tired. We get you a meal and a bed, baby boy.”

“Baby boy, huh?” Ciro whispers, brushing his shoulder into me as he walks down the steps beside me. I can’t tell if it’s on purpose, but the contact and the way he moves sets my heart thumping. He should not be doing this to me.

It’s pathetic.

The day fades as we enter the barracks house on the back of the property. Even these halls are so familiar to me. I remember when my family built them when I was a girl.

Sounds of cheering, laughing, fighting, reach us as we pass the common room. It brings a smile to my lips. Even as it stings my heart. I never had that, the comradery of the men.

I have always been alone. Aside from my brother, that is.

“Bunks are through here,” I offer, pointing toward the east wing.

“How many—” Ciro’s question is cut off as a fist connects with his face.

3

CIRO

“Die, Diamante scum!” The shout accompanies the knuckles that take me right in the cheek. Good thing I’m good at taking a hit these days.

My body is in motion with the momentum of the strike, my hands blocking the slash I know is coming next. With a whip of my fingers, I disarm the knife, numb the attacker’s wrist, and spin him away from us.

Matvey tumbles to the ground, laughing painfully.

“Fuck! Even with guard down, I can’t get you, Ci!”

“You hit me just fine. You’re lucky I know your fist so well or I might have delivered a fatal blow.”

“You can certainly blow me, da?” Mat rolls to his feet, bobbing on his toes like a boxer.

“Only if you kiss my ass.”

“We will have plenty of time for such things. We are neighbors!” He points to the two rooms to the right.

“Ugh. I see a bullet did not do anything to make you less … you.” Vanya sighs, her hands on her hips. “You two together? This is trouble.”

“Ah, come on, sis, don’t be oblom. You always say I need to make friends!”

“Sis?” I ask, already realizing the similarities. How did I not see it before? Oh. Right. Prison. Death. Plus, they have different hair color. The eyes are the same, though. And the gestures. The almost smile and the stern, flat stare that they both level at me when I’m being … me.

“Holy shit, you are siblings,” I state the obvious, at a loss for a joke.

“Twins, actually.” Mat grimaces.

“We have more in common than I thought.” Fiero’s face flashes through my head. I miss that morose mother fucker.

Shaking the thoughts away before I go straight to sappy shit town, I take in the rooms. Simple. Spartan. A cot, a dresser. Way better than the prison, though.

Maybe they did that on purpose so they could skimp on accommodations. Feels like a palace after hell.

“So, this is his home sweet home from now on. Huh?”

“The one on the left is mine. I already moved my mattress down from the house,” Mat snickers.

“You are the most spoiled initiate we’ve ever had.”

“Hey, I had to practically beg Pyotr to go to the Gulag.”

“You already proved your place here,” Vanya scoffs, shaking her head. “Not sure why you insisted.”

“I am not entitled brat like you.” Mat sniffs.

“Why wouldn’t you stay in the house, dipshit?” I ask, genuinely baffled.

“He has a, how you say? Potato on his shoulder?” Vanya muses. I desperately wish I had a beverage to spit across the room.

“Chip, I think you mean chip.” Good God, now I know how my twin felt all those years correcting my terrible memory.

Although Ero would have said, “It’s chip on your shoulder, fuckwit.”

Makes a guy homesick.

“Yes, chip. Matvey was sickly as a little child. Papa made him wait to train and tested him in other ways. Now that he is manchild instead of baby boy, he thinks he needs to show everyone he can do it.”

“Maybe I just wanted to meet your boyfriend. Not every day the Volchitsa picks a candidate. Actually, you are the first and only, Ciro.”

Vanya lashes out faster than I thought possible, chopping Mat in the throat. To his credit, he almost gets his hand up in time. The taller man doubles over, choking and spitting, his breath rasping somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

“Wait a minute … You sent him in there to watch me, didn’t you?!” I wheel on Vanya, pointing a finger. I jerk it back just in time to avoid her breaking it.

“Do not get big dick over this. All of Volk in the Gulag report back on progress of plebs to me.”

“So much for the vote of confidence.”

“Uh oh, sestra, you hurt leetle malysh’s feelings!”

“She can call me baby anytime she wants,” I mutter, ducking into my room as Vanya grumbles behind me. It needs some work, for sure. Not that I was ever neat and tidy, but I’ve always liked things … a certain way. Probably because Adriano always made us keep our quarters spotless.

Captain asshat.

Miss that fucker too. I hope he and Gloria are far away on a beach somewhere.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I listen to the siblings outside my door bicker over who knows what in Russian for a few moments, content to catch my breath. Until my stomach suddenly rumbles loudly.

“Sounds like someone needs dinner,” Mat snickers, leaning in the doorway.

“I could eat.”

“Then we go to mess hall.”

“Will you be joining us?”

“Nah, Vanya does not like to eat with the men often.”

“Oh yeah? Too good for us lowly soldiers, Van?”

“Nonsense. I am happy to eat with anyone. I simply …”

“Stay far away from the barracks when Fyodor is around,” Matvey taunts, wagging his eyebrows. “He’s got it in his head that she is for him.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mat! I can handle Fyodor just fine,” Vanya snaps. I would never have thought someone could get a rise out of her like he does.

“He would love for her to handle him, if you know what I mean!”

“See? You do know how to make a joke, Matty!” I laugh, rising to join them again.

Things might just be interesting spending time with these two. Plus, it reminds me of being home with my own family.

Heading down to the mess hall near the common room, Vanya and Matvey show me the rest of the amenities. There’s a game room, kitchen, TV area where there is always some sort of sporting event playing.

“Ey! Vanya, your brother made it out alive!”

“No surprise there, Alec. They give him easy time!” Another giant man elbows Mat in the ribs. Immediately, Mat twists the wrist attached to that elbow, garnering hoots and hollers from the men and a yelp from his harasser.

“Not as easy as your sister, Varo.” Matvey releases the bigger man with a shove.

“Hey! She has to make a living somehow, no?”

The antics continue as Vanya leads me over to where a man in a dirty apron with the most glorious beard I’ve ever seen is stirring a pot in the big open kitchen. Instantly, the smell hits me in the gut, making my stomach growl.

“This is your recruit, eh, Miss Sokolov?”

“Always so polite, Igor. Make him a plate, will you? I’m sick of looking at his ribs through his skin.”

“Have to rename him Scarecrow if he doesn’t put meat on him, da?”

“He’ll be food for crows if he doesn’t. It’s getting cold early this year.”

“I already feel like a scarecrow standing here being ignored,” I mumble and Vanya jabs her elbow into my ribs painfully. “Ciro, nice to meet you.”

“Look at him! I am not only one who is polite, it seems. Training starts tomorrow, Ciro, so you make sure and come to see me extra for food. Captains might try to haze you, starve you out. I won’t let this happen.”

“Thanks. And for the warning.”

We head back toward the tables on the other side of the room, sitting apart from the rabble of goons still harassing Matvey. A part of me wishes I was there with them, joking, acting … normal.

Shoveling the stew and bread into my mouth, I space out for a while, joined in companionable silence by Vanya. A few times, I almost ask her a question, start a conversation, but I can’t seem to find a thread to chase. Or maybe there are too many questions.

Now that I am out of the Gulag, I have no clue what to do. I spent three months just getting through it. One more hour, one more day.

Finally, she breaks the silence, looking at me from under those long, black lashes.

She could kill a man with a gaze. This one. I’d let her.

“You are quiet. It is weird.”

“I can’t tell if you are insulting me or complimenting me.”

“Always assume it’s an insult.” She smirks. “What is on your mind?”

“Too much. Nothing. I think I’m a little … overstimulated.”

“Like puppy. I get this. Your whole world just changed.”

“Again.”

“Da.”

“I think I just need some sleep. For like a week. Or I need something to do. A task.”

“That begins tomorrow. And you will have plenty to do. I will make sure to keep you busy.” Did her eyebrow just twitch when she said that?

And suddenly I’m overstimulated in a different way.

“Planning to train me yourself?”

“Kick your ass, you mean.”

“Kick it, grab it, whatever you like, koroleva.”

“Finish your food. You’ll need your strength.” She leans across the table, somehow threatening and teasing me in the same look. Thank goodness I’m sitting down.

Cramming the last of the broth-soaked bread in my mouth, I’m quick to dump my dishes and catch up to the swaying hips leaving the common room. Resounding laughter chases me out and I try ignore it.

Shit. I look like her fucking lapdog.

I should be so lucky.

But I am definitely going to take some shit for it. Even so, I’m enjoying the view of her walking ahead of me when I reach my room.

Vanya turns back to give me a look and poke one finger into my chest. “See you on the sparring field, 6 a.m.”

“I’ll be there promptly five minutes late.”

Vanya simply shakes her head, the promise of violence clear in her eyes. I match her glare for glare as we stand there, inches apart. I could just steal a kiss, right there.

Until the door to my room suddenly swings open and we both jump.

“There you are.” Fyodor. Fuck.

“Oo! Did you stop in for turndown service? Chocolate mints on my pillow are my favorite,” I snark. But the fact that he was in my room, waiting for me has my blood boiling already for some reason. Was he planting shit on me? Or just going through my nonexistent stuff?

“Keep running mouth, Shakal.” He kicks my table over first, backing into the room, waving for me to enter.

I chance a look at Vanya, watching her take a deep steadying breath.

“No, no. You do not ask her for permission. I am your captain, svoloch.”

“Greeeat.” I step to attention, saluting condescendingly.

No surprise when he drives an insanely fast and brutal fist into my stomach, doubling me over. Leaving me to stagger to my knees, he proceeds to trash my room, dragging out the drawers, flipping the mattress and sheets onto the floor.

Classic domination tactics.

“Enough, Fyo.” Vanya growls from the doorway.

I pull myself back to my feet, a snarl on my lips as I face off with Fyodor. His eyes flare as he squares up to me, grinning menacingly.

A fit of laughter spasms at my lips, shuddering out as I try to suppress it.

“Are you crying, Diamante?” he taunts.

“Nah, just trying not to laugh in your face.”

“I will break you in half.”

“Big words from a big man. Sure, you got a few inches on me, but I’m willing to bet I can even that score by knocking a few inches off that stupid ass flattop.”

His smile drops to a grimace.

“You will learn respect, worm.”

I feel my blood pressure skyrocket as he gets right in my face. This motherfucker thinks he can intimidate me?

Regardless of whether he’s my captain or not, he doesn’t get to come in here and treat me like shit. A lifetime of being at the top of the food chain in my family still has me trained to fight back, to retaliate against somebody who steps up to me.

“I will be here, every day, to check on you, traitor. If I find anything I don’t like, I will punish you. So watch out what you keep. No contraband, da?”

“I got your contraband right here, assh—” I start, raising one fist, but Vanya is between us in an instant, pressing her body back against me and pushing a palm into Fyodor’s massive chest. He takes one step back, his expression softening as he looks down at her. And then immediately looking even more pissed off as he realizes how close the two of us are.

Me?

I’m suddenly pretty distracted by the sweet, round ass cheeks cradling my crotch.

Still, as Fyodor heads toward the door, my body reacts, lunging one last time after him. I wanna kick his ass so fucking bad.

Vanya turns around, bodily blocking me.

“Fucking prick,” I grumble, letting her push me back.

“You’ll pay for every infraction, boy. See you tomorrow. I will have job for you.” He sneers as he looks around at the mess in my room. “And stay away from my girl.”

At this, Vanya rolls her eyes, sighing.

Which only makes me want to beat the guy’s face in even more.

Until fingernails graze up my thigh, sending shivers through my body. Along with a shake of her head and a gaze that makes me swallow hard.

And I am so very aware of how close we are and the fact that we are alone.

Vanya’s coy smile has my heart pounding as she backs off. “Well now. He certainly gets you riled up.”

Or it could be her perfect tits rubbing against me.

Instead, I say, “Not as much as you do.”

Vanya smirks, shrugging her shoulders and wagging that bubble butt as she leaves me to clean up the mess. Then she has the audacity to glance back at me right before she turns the corner, biting her lip and raking her eyes down my body before disappearing.

Fucking fuck. I want to tear those leather pants off and bury my face between those cheeks.

For now, all I can do is sit my happy ass down on what’s left of my bed, pinning my hands under me to keep from jerking off or punching a hole in the wall.

4

VANYA

“Skanda, atakovat!

“Dammit, Rover! This is not fair,” Ciro yelps, dodging Skanda’s snapping jaws again and diving out of range. “I’m not going to hurt your dog!”

“Which is why is good practice for agility. You must get to me and incapacitate me without harming him. Also without getting balls ripped off,” I snicker, staying low in a crouch. We may have the advantage, but Shakal is fucking fast.

It’s thrilling to have such a capable and vicious opponent.

We have trained this way for a week, first thing in the morning. Each day, I come up with another layer of difficulty to stump him. So far, I have only managed to bruise and cut him. Yet with me, he holds back.

Today, I make things interesting.

“Seychas!” I shout, lunging forward.

Skanda rushes in from the side, along with four more of my best fighters, dashing from the darkness near the building in the predawn light. We have him pinned down, hemmed in.

No way out.

He should give up. But that is not what I want.

Ciro tenses, glancing side to side. Assessing.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he mumbles.

“This is life or death.”

“I survived the Gulag.”

“And now you stagnate. You show no initiative. You are limp dick!” I snap, feinting in for a slash. He ducks back, almost into range of Skanda and the two behind him.

They lash out, and he is forced to dodge, parry, chopping down to pop Skanda’s nose. It’s enough to buy him a moment.

“Stop holding back!”

“Stop pushing me. I know how to fight when it counts!”

“Count these,” I hiss, launching several daggers at him in quick succession.

His eyes pop and he drops, kicking one out of the air, deflecting another with his knife and leaping to the side. Right into a stone-fisted lieutenant. The blow knocks him back, rolling across the gravel, back to a crouch.

And I see it, the light flicker in his eyes.

The fire. Rage.

Like a mirror of my own anger.

Before I can blink, Ciro flies forward, sweeping the feet out from under one, chopping a stiff hand across his throat on the way down, cartwheeling over the unconscious body and into a backflip. Right over the second man.

Landing behind the stunned fighter, Ciro locks an arm around his neck in a heartbeat, shooting forward with all his might to drive my man in front like a human shield, blocking out Skanda’s rush and tripping up another heavy on the right.

Using his momentum, Ciro drives the body down face first into the ground, propelling himself into a somersault, straight through the grasping arms of the fourth, landing a solid crunch to Alexi’s nose, dropping him instantly.

Sliding into the dirt sidelong, he catches my eye as I fly past him, my roundhouse kick missing his face by an inch, Skanda’s teeth snapping air where his hand just was.

Artur is on him in a flash, slashing his knives out, too close to avoid. But Ciro flicks a dagger out of thin air, parrying, slicing three times in perfect, rapid succession. Wrist. Wrist. Shoulder, shoulder, ear. Then he slams the pommel of his hilt into Artur’s face, leaping forward and planting both feet into his chest. Soaring back off the colossal brute’s chest, he arcs over my head as I race for his back, my blades nicking the fabric of his jacket.

Boots crunch behind me and I hear a sharp squeal from Skanda as I wheel around. Only to choke as a vice grip takes me at the throat, lifting me off the ground.

I hang, gasping for a moment, wide-eyed as I take in the scene, helpless.

All four of my guys are rolling, groaning. None dead. But he could have. Easily. And my rottweiler lies on the ground, pinned under Ciro’s heel at the neck, his collar twisted around the toe of the boot.

That’s when I see it, the shaking in his chest, the wild grin plastered across his face. This is the Shakal.

“Ciro.” I manage to raise an eyebrow, pretending not to be shaken by his cold stare and the apparent indifference to my discomfort.

His eyes blink suddenly, like he’s snapping back to the present, and he sets me down, very gently, swallowing hard. His lips still twitch into a faint smile, his breath coming in soft shudders that might be a terrifying laugh.

“I-I’m—” Ciro looks away.

But I grab him, turning him roughly, forcing him to look at me with a stiff hand at his cheek.

“No. Never apologize for being what you are. For doing what you were made for,” I whisper, locking eyes with him. The faint smile pulling at my lips is impossible to hide.

This man is a fucking masterpiece.

And I should not be so fucking turned on right now.

Which is why I spend the rest of every day staying as far from him as I can over the next week. Assigning other lieutenants to train with him and take him out on scouting missions, touring the city of St. Petersburg, taking him to make rounds to collect protection money from the businesses. It keeps him busy and out of my hair.

And it keeps me from thinking about sparring with him. From thinking about showering with him after, and sharing a meal. Sharing my bed.

Fuck!

Every time I am near him, it is like a switch is flicked.

He makes me insanely irritated. Gets a rise out of me that no one has any business getting. Let alone a foreign killer who I should never have brought into our midst. Yet I know his past. I know what he can do for us.

And better to have him on our side than against us. The same goes for his family, his brothers. If they ever come back to power, this will secure our ties with them.

Or buy us leverage.

I hate even thinking of him that way.

Which is why I must. I cannot be weak. I must not let a man make me weak.

It will only make things harder for me, a woman in power. Not to mention making things harder for Ciro. Attracting unwanted attention and retaliation from anyone who thinks he doesn’t belong.

Which is … pretty much everyone so far, minus Igor.

At least for the time being, Pyotr has an infinite list of tasks and nonsense to keep me occupied. Mission briefs, coded missives, reports from the docks and our earnings in exports. Even though we have accountants and paper pushers to do all of this. He says I must learn everything top to bottom if I am to be a true leader.

I say bullshit. As much as I respect and love my Papa, he has never done a single bit of this crap in his life. His brother, my actual father, was the brains back in the day. But I do not dare question.

Picking battles and such.

I have found advantages by knowing the books and every single member of our operation across the country. Including our allied brotherhoods and our rivals.

Pausing to gaze out the window, I revel in a hint of sunlight, rare this late in the year. It’s the little things. Like the rich coffee in my cup, spiked with just a hint of vodka to take the edge off of my poor sleep and aching body. Sparring always gets me sore, but Ciro is on another level. A real challenge.

I’m lost in thought when my door swings open, a soft knock on the frame.

I know without looking who it is. No one else would dare to come straight in.

“Sestrenka, what are you up to?” Matvey is always soft-spoken in the mornings, so like our mother. I, on the other hand, prefer not to talk at all.

“Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. Like I’m a fucking secretary.”

“You’re a whole lot more than a secretary. Maid, servant, gopher … you do it all for Uncle, da?” He throws his head back right before he throws himself down on my bed.

Anyone else would annoy the shit out me, but he knows how to brighten my day. Okay, so he pisses me off just as often. Still, Mat is a shining star. He’s been through hell in his life. We both have. Nothing ever sticks. Nothing brings him down.

Where I am hard, stone cold, he is just as resilient. Only he is like a river, persistent and flowing. Even when he is dammed up, shut down, roughed up … he lets it all flow by. Probably why he and Ciro are two … how do you say it?

Pods with the peas.

Ciro’s light is much dimmer than I remember from when we met, but I know it’s still there. Which is why I like seeing them spar, joke. And why I need Matvey to look out for him. Ciro will protect my brother in turn.

“Did you need something?”

“Just wanted to warn you. Fyo’s on the rampage today. Be on the lookout.”

“He’s in rare form every day since you know who got here.”

“I’ve never seen someone get under his skin like this. He throws little child tantrums. Especially when he sees you two together. Like he thinks he owns you or something.”

“He is good soldier. Always has been, he just has misconceptions about us. After all, our parents were close with his. They made plans and promises …”

“Yeah, well, that ‘promise’ does mean shit if it’s not what you want. This is the twenty-first century, Van, not some aristocratic arrangement.”

“Sometimes I wonder … the way we do things. It’s outdated.”

“You can dress it up with tech and leather, but the Bratva will always be about blood and vengeance, right?” He smiles, quirking an eyebrow. Got to love his sarcasm.

“Politics will always be right there waiting to muck it all up too. But I have too much to do to think about Fyodor. Something about crossing bridges when I get to them,” I mutter, waving my hand dismissively.

“I think there is another bridge in your way right now if you would just cross it.”

“That is shit metaphor.”

“Ciro is bridge. Just to be clear.”

“Thanks, and shut the fuck up. Stay out of my love life, da?”

“What love life?”

“Don’t you have protection payments to collect?”

“Alexi handled it. But he wants me to spy on some local hooligans. Some ‘suspicious’ activity down in foundry. Probably another underground dog-fighting ring. I’ll shut it down, or make them pay.”

“Good boy. Do not get into trouble or gamble away your monthly stipend.”

“Yes, Mama,” he quips dodging out the door before I can throw something at him.

Wrapping up as much of the paperwork as I am going to get done for now, I dress, heading downstairs. A few hours out of the house will clear my head. Besides, I need to check in with my informants, see that some of the men are behaving. There is a contingent of pigheaded outliers that tend to avoid checking in with me unless they are trying to impress Pyotr.

Fortunately, most of our members respect me. I’ve earned my reputation. Still, a time is coming soon when I must step out from under Pyotr’s shadow and clean house. Another day, though.

For now, I drive to a few spots, pay for tips, give orders of who to watch.

It’s boring. Just like the paperwork.

But I get to haul ass around in my car. It kills time before I must head back for meetings with the captains.

Stopping in the back coat closet on my way into the house, I am shrugging off my thicker coat when the door creaks open behind me. Immediately my body goes tense, the hairs on my neck standing on end.

“There you are, been looking all over for you.”

“I’ve been in my room all morning. Then errands.”

“Ha, lounging away like princess? Shopping?” Fyodor chuckles condescendingly.

“Doing work. You should try it sometime. Assuming you can read.”

“Cute. Speaking of books and pages … I have been wanting to make sure we are on the same. Page, I mean.”

“We’ve never been on the same page, Fyodor,” I say casually, making to push past him.

“Come on, Vanya, don’t fucking avoid this.” He leans into me, blocking my path and pressing in too close.

“Fyo. I need to go.”

“You need to remember. How good we are together. Remember Barcelona …”

“That one night in Barcelona was a mistake. And a long time ago.”

“The only mistake was not doing it again. Your body is even better than it was back then, baby.”

“And a lot stronger than it was then too. Back. Up.”

“See? You are strong. Powerful. We will make the perfect power couple to rule this place when Pyotr’s time is up.”

“Watch your mouth.” I glare up into his eyes finally, baring my teeth. He’s always toed that line, bordering on mutiny. Obviously, he wants the throne someday.

“Relax. I just mean you and I are right and left hand of Sokolov empire. It’s only right for us to join.”

“And it could be viewed as us teaming up for a coup. Running your mouth is going to get you killed someday, Fyodor.”

“I would die for another taste of you. Or you let me run my mouth another way and I’ll shut up,” he rumbles, pulling me toward him with a huge hand on my ass. “Run my tongue, I mean.”

Rage boils up in my gut, rippling through my body.

“Stop this. Now.”

“Or what? Come on, let’s get physical. I know you like it rough, and I can take it.”

“The only thing you can take, is your hands off me.”

Elbowing him hard, I try to slip past, but he’s too big, too strong. I shouldn’t have let him corner me. Or maybe it never occurred to me that he would be so bold, so aggressive. His hands lock around my waste, pinning me to the wall.

No matter how hard I struggle, I know I cannot overpower him. And I cannot let him dominate me. That will be the end of everything.

But Fyo’s our best trainer and fighter. He also has a temper that Ciro and I have been fueling for too long.

I should have realized this was coming.

“Look. We can bring this up with Pyotr later, see what he thinks, alright?”

“You already brought it up, if you know what I mean.” He grinds into my front, his erection pressing through the front of his tight pants. His lips inch closer to mine, and I’m ready to bite down hard when a cheery voice echoes in the hallway.

“Oh there you are, I was just looking for the two of you!” Ciro kicks the door open a little too hard, slamming it against the shelves, making a ruckus.

Fyodor wheels away from me immediately, startled and flustered.

And pissed off.

“Fuck off, pleb! Can’t you see we are in the middle of something?” Clenched fists at his sides punctuate the threat in his voice.

“I wanna play assault in the closet too!” Ciro snickers. The glimmer of anger in his eyes offsets the smile stretched across his lips.

“Do not test me, fuckerfacer. One of these days I will find you alone and have you all to myself. Then you will see how you like it, Diamante.”

“Oh, Fyo, are you saying that you wanna have your way with me? At least buy me dinner first.”

“That … is not what I meant!”

“Feels a little Freudian in here, huh? Or should I say Fyo-reudian? Oof, that was bad, but I can see your boner.” He points down, snorting derogatorily.

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

“No. You need to shut yours,” I shout, storming toward Fyo, shoving him off balance and out into the hall. The two guards at the back door turn to look and he balks, like he got caught. “Try this again, anything like it, and I will cut your testicles off and feed them to you in your sleep, Fyodor Morozova.”

“This is not done,” he growls, stomping off down the hall and out the back door.

A long, shuddering sigh escapes my lips, easing some of the fury clenched in my chest. Leaving only the tension of how achingly close Ciro is standing to me.

So I stomp off in the opposite direction, rushing into one of the unoccupied rooms we use for storage. The door clicks shut behind me and I know he followed.

Not that I didn’t want him to.

No. I didn’t.

Fuck! Why is he …

Rounding on Ciro, I stab a finger to his chest, backing him against the door.

“What gives you the right to interfere with my life? Messing with Fyodor out there is one thing, but you have no business stepping in between us. It only makes it worse!”

“I was diffusing the situation … er, trying to.”

“No. You were being just as much a dickhead as him, trying to assert some claim. Quit trying to piss on me.”

“What?”

“Like you and Fyodor having pissing contest, but also trying to mark me as your territory,” I fumble, flustered to be so close to him and frustrated with trying to express my anger in English. In the next breath I rattle off a series of curses in Russian, telling him off smoothly.

He seems to get the gist of it.

“Mixed metaphors aside,” he chuckles, raising his hands in defense, “I do push too hard with him. I can’t help it. Especially when he⁠—”

He always does this, getting me fucking worked up. Pissed off. Turned on. More pissed off at how turned on I am.

“I do not need you to protect me.” I lean in closer, making him press into the wall. That’s right. Back down, bitch.

But I’d rather he fight back.

“He was about to⁠—”

“You are not a knight in shining armor, Ciro. I am not damsel.” I love making him squirm.

“I know you’re not. I’m sorry. All I want is to have your back. That guy is not going to stop.”

“I am well aware. I have known him my entire life.”

“Then I will trust you to know how to handle him.”

“Damn straight, ‘noble knight.’ At least I know how you really feel about me now.”

“Wha—no. That was not⁠—”

“Shakal, I can see it in your eyes. When I am close. Especially this close …” I breathe up along his neck. Goosebumps pebble his skin.

“Keep dreaming …” he grumbles, looking up and away.

“You can’t resist me. You’re in love with me,” I taunt him, grazing my fingers up his chest.

Tilting his head back, he sighs, refusing to look down at me as I press my chest into him.

“You wanna play this game, huh?”

“What game?” I lick his chin. This is so foolish. But I don’t want to stop.

“This one …” Ciro drags a finger down my back, snapping his fingers.

A little gasp slips out as I realize he unfastened my bra. Sly bastard.

“You said you wanted to have my back, huh?” I whisper, turning right against him and rubbing my ass along his front, feeling the rock-hard length of his cock pressing through his jeans.

“If you think I won’t play along, you’re wrong. And I never back down,” he croons into my ear, slipping one hand down to cup my ass cheek, the other tickling the skin on my exposed stomach. The sensations are scintillating, tantalizing.

I close my eyes for just a second, resisting the urge to moan.

“Hm. Not bad. I think you could do better.” Leaning back into him, I tip my head onto his shoulder, lipping his earlobe.

“You have no idea …”

“Are you too scared to show me?” I strut away, spinning to lean against the shelves on the opposite side of the room. He crosses to me in a heartbeat, slamming one hand into the shelf behind me and looming over me. Yet he stays just outside my space when he does it, balancing just the right blend of bold and enticing.

“I’m not scared. But you are just playing me.” Ciro’s fingers dance along my hip, tracing circles on my skin. It’s fucking delicious.

“I like to play, yes.” My fingers dig into his chest, keeping me from reaching lower.

“Toying with me could prove dangerous.”

“Oh? So not everything is a joke to you.”

“When I find something that I want, I can be like a dog with a bone.”

“Where would you like to bury your bone, sobaka?”

“Ohoho … you are dangerous, aren’t you?”

“That is how we live in the Bratva,” I say, slipping my hands up the back of his shirt, grazing my fingernails down his back. Ciro gasps, baring his teeth and leaning closer.

“Since day one, you have been fucking with me. Trying to get in my head. First the shower. Then sparring …”

“Maybe I want to figure you out? Or maybe I want to get in somewhere else …” My hands explore lower, down his sides, along his abs, inching into the lip of his pants, skirting around to the button, flicking it open.

In response he smiles, slipping one hand around my back, his fingers dipping into the back of my waistline.

“You won’t find anything in there,” I murmur.

“Is that so?” His breath quickens as his fingers spread, showing him that I am not wearing anything underneath. “Bold.”

And I am feeling bold.

Kissing up along the column of his neck, I pull on his zipper, letting the mouthwatering girth push out through his boxers against my palm. He’s so fucking big.

Licking my lips against the urge to swallow him whole. I mustn’t give in …

“I bet you won’t …” he whispers, popping the button on my pants.

“Bet I won’t what?”

“Let me do this?” He cups the back of my head with one hand, drawing me into a deep, sensuous kiss. I give in fully, deeply, flicking my tongue against his playfully, hungrily.

Pulling back, breathless, I lock eyes with him, our gazes simmering.

“And will you let me do this?”

Squeezing him through his boxers, I stroke up and down firmly, admiring the shape of him through the material.

“Fuuuck,” he gasps, arching his back and flexing in my grasp.

“Who is winning this game, do you think?”

“I think we both are …” Ciro palms my lower abdomen, pressing two fingers between my thighs, rubbing in just the right spot.

“I want to win over and over …” I moan softly, ready to let him bend me over the table.

Which is right about when a loud knock at the door interrupts us.

“Miss Sokolov?” A deep woman’s voice announces.

“Shit!” I curse, buttoning my pants and shoving Ciro away. He immediately stands to attention as the door swings open. “Come in.”

Mira folds her hands, looking a bit uncomfortable or possibly hiding a smile as she looks in. Ciro has the good sense to look dejected, downcast and ashamed like I was just dressing him down for messing up.

“I’ll deal with you later,” I grit out, stepping out into the hall. “What is it, Mira?”

“Your father needed to see you for a meeting. And also, he wanted you to assign this.”

She hands me a file, a couple of photos.

Looks like one of our shipping locales. And some unfamiliar faces giving the owner a hard time. Interesting.

“Shakal,” I snap, and he emerges from the closet, a hint of a glimmer in his eye. Oh, we are so not done with this.

“Mira, tell my father I will be there momentarily. And tell him I will take care of this. I have just the man for the job.”

“For me?” Ciro sniffs as Mira hustles away.

“Yes. It is time for you to do a real job. Matvey should be back by now. Get him and gear up.”

“I’ll see you later?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe. If you don’t fuck this up.”

5

CIRO

“No, it’s bullshit. I don’t believe this show will do this to me.”

“Look, man, I’m not trying to give you any spoilers here, but don’t get your hopes up. The ending of the show sucks.”

“Saying this is spoiler!”

“Yeah, I mean kinda. I just don’t want you to get your dreams smashed to pieces.”

“I appreciate your concern, bro,” Mat snickers, making a face. “But I do not believe this. The ending of show cannot be bad if I enjoy so much. I will still watch.”

“Prepare for disappointment!” I sigh, shaking my head.

“I cannot be disappointed by amazing show I’ve never seen before. It’s all new to me.”

“Ah, the wistful hopes of naive youth.”

“Speaking of hope, I hope this fucker shows up soon.”

We’re sitting in Matey’s car just before sunset out by the docks. It’s our first real mission. Not that I haven’t done this sort of thing before. Like, my entire life.

Coming up in the Diamante family syndicate meant I got the full regimen of mob training from grunt to Don. Matvey is more or less in the same boat, I’d wager. Even if he was pampered early on, growing up in a crime family makes it nearly impossible to avoid being put to work.

“I still can’t believe you’ve never watched The Donfather,” Mat continues our conversation, killing time.

“Uh, I grew up living that shit. I don’t need Hollywood telling me about how they think it is. And you’re one to talk, you haven’t even seen Killhard! And worse, because you basically have access to a pirated movie treasure trove.”

I keep meaning to get down to the bootleg shops near Bagrationovskaya Station. Maybe I can pick up a translation dictionary while I’m down there. Or they could make up words for things that have less syllables?

“Sure, and all the time in the world, right? Not all of us were playboy superstar mobsters.”

“Just because I lived in New York, you think I was some socialite rich boy?”

“Weren’t you?”

“Yeah, but fuck you anyway.”

“Always tempting me with good time …”

“Finally, you’re getting the hang of American humor!”

“Da, I must lower myself to your level so it is fair.”

“Asshole.”

“Zhopa.”

“Hang on, lemme get my translate app so I can understand your pathetic insults!”

“Shove it up your app. Look, cops are here.”

Damn. That was actually a good one. So much so that I let it go, snapping my mouth closed. One point for Matvey.

Slipping out of the car, we skirt along the buildings, keeping a low profile to get a better view. At the corner, Mat leans against the wall, lighting a cigarette and nodding for me to post up across from him against a mailbox.

“What do you think they’re doing?”

“Same thing I was waiting to do. Hassling Mr. Andreev. He is good informant, oversees a lot of smuggling through his fish packing warehouse.”

“And was he the guy theses strangers were talking to in the photos?”

“No. But he will know any new faces in this area.”

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool. We just gotta wait for the po-po to clear out. Speaking of which, we pay off dirty cops back home to get things done hush hush. What’s the protocol here?”

“Mutual hatred, mutual respect?” Matvey shrugs.

“So basically the same.”

“Yes, only the whole organization is corrupt. We do not pay them. They make their own money. They are almost like a branch of Bratva themselves.”

“Ah, I think I get it. So if they decide to seize some contraband …”

“It’s usually because they want to own it and sell it. Use it for coercion, etc. They are careful, though, not to step on toes too much, only nabbing small shit. We let them have most, and they keep noses out of bigger dealings.”

“And you let them clean up some of your messes too, people intruding on your turf?”

“Exactly. Give them tips on who we want gone, they look good to the public for keeping petty crime down. Win, win.”

“All while you collect money to actually protect the average Jogov and their way of life. Huh. But the cops technically could arrest any one of you just to be spiteful.”

“It happens. Catch is, Volk run the prisons. They cannot keep anyone in jail for too long, don’t want to send anyone back to the fold. It’s how you say, rub-and-tug?”

“Noooo. That’s something way different. And more fun.” Like what his sister was doing to me earlier … “You mean tug-of-war.”

“Ah, yes.” Mat gives me a look as I try to hide the flustered look on my face. “Let’s get a closer look, ah?”

“Sounds good. Lead on.”

We mosey down the walk, crossing the street in the dim, letting the flickering lights and the fact that this isn’t the nicest part of town offer cover. Hoods up and hands in pockets doesn’t hurt either. Just two local shitbags minding our business.

“Are they shaking him down for money right now?” I peer across through the side window of the store front. “That’s …”

“Russia, baby. This is how it works. Everybody gets their cut of the thing. Everybody also hush hush. There’s a lot of rules and regulations in our country that make things difficult. Uh, like pretending to be conservative, yeah?”

“I get that. Usually makes the people on the ground level just hide their indiscretions better.”

“Exactly. Like prohibition in your country.”

“You see that in a movie?” I snicker.

“I went to school fuckface. College for two years in America too.”

“Oh yeah! I forget you can read sometimes. It’s the pronounced brow.”

Matvey squints at me, grimacing. Sometimes I can’t tell if he doesn’t get the joke or he’s playing dumb to get a rise out of me.

“Anyway, you get used to this relationship with the law. Always trust that they will fuck you. This way, no surprise.”

“They try to get guys on the inside?”

“All the time. But we have better moles in the government, so we get tipped off. You remember Crovak?”

“My bestest friend! Yeah, I still have a piece of his tooth lodged in my knuckle.”

“He was fed. Total traitor, played both sides. But he made a grand gesture on his way out of secret police. Killed a pain-in-the-ass politician. Now he is for life in Gulag, but he is also protected by Volk as long as he trains our people. Like you.”

“Tell him I said hi. Hugs and kisses.”

“That right there is how you get late-night visit, man. You gotta watch what you say around some of the men.”

“Oo! I do love a good pillow fight. Especially with bars of soap in the pillowcases.”

“More like brass knuckles and razorblades, Shakal. No joke. Until they trust you, keep your head down.”

“Aw, you do care.”

“We are blood brothers, Ciro. Pyotr likes you, which could be good thing or bad.”

“I’ve always been a magnet for jealous lovers. Thanks for having my back, Mat.”

“Da. Why are you squirming?”

“No I’m not.”

Waiting around like this gives me a different perspective on the ground level of the Brats. It also makes me itchy and impatient.

I want to get my hands dirty.

Do something.

“Chill out, you are like shaky rabbit.”

“Sorry, I gotta pee!” Or maybe I’m just antsy. Like I haven’t done this shit for all twenty-nine years of my life. What the hell is wrong with me?

“You will have plenty of chance to use energy soon. Who knows? Maybe we will find a boatload of Triad hit men trying to steal our drugs and we can have full-on cowboy shoot out!”

“Oh you poor repressed child. That also sounds like the world’s best way to set us up for fucking failure. I thought you Russians were superstitious? You’re gonna jinx us!”

“Oh we are. Very. So I try to speak to universe what I hope comes to pass. I’ve been bored as shit at home.”

“You just want to get me shot for hitting on your sister.” I glower at him.

“You were hitting on my sister?” Mat frowns back, squaring up.

“Uh …”

“I am kidding, ha! Your face is so stupid. I know you two are like dogs sniffing asses all the time. It’s fucking ridiculous. No worries, you will have a chance to impress her eventually. Or she will drop you like potato.”

I start to protest, but he’s dead-on. Instead, I sigh, slumping back against the guard rail.

Our little encounter earlier today has me on pins and needles, still feeling pent-up, in need of release. She’s so fucking sexy, and she pisses me off like nobody’s business. And to be honest, I love pissing her off too.

And as weird as it is liking my best friend’s sister, the weirder thing is the fact that he doesn’t seem phased by it at all. Like really calm about the whole thing.

“Why do you think I wanna impress her?”

“First, because you love to impress everyone. You are showboat.”

“Showoff, maybe.”

“And you really like my sister.”

“She’s a pain in the ass.”

“Yes, she is. I see the way you look at each other, and it’s none of my fucking business. You want to play with scorpion. You get stung.”

“You’re saying your sister is a scorpion.”

“To you? Maybe. My sister does whatever my sister wants to do. We’ve both been this way our entire lives. We go do things, we get in trouble, the other gets mad at the other. It’s back and forth, as you say. Only she always manages to get on my ass, and I am not supposed to get on hers. Like she is mama bear.”

“Back and forth. Yeah, I get it. My twin brother and I are kind of like that, except that we’re equal opportunity fuckups. Usually it was our older brother than mothered us and cleaned up our messes.”

“Like I say before … you are spoiled rich kid.”

“Damn skippy. I worked hard for that lifestyle, I’ll have you know. Reputations don’t come cheap.”

“Oh, even we have heard of Diamante brothers’ tales. Did you really burn down a nightclub?”

“Geez. I mean, yeah. Some stories really have a way of following a guy.”

Mat chuckles, flicking away his cigarette butt and heading across the alley to the back of the fish market as the cops start to file out, hollering back at the owner, Mr. Andreev. We wait until they are driving off to step inside, shaking off the chill of the night and sniffing at the foul odor.

“Gavno!” The owner whines, noticing who just walked in.

At least Matvey’s reputation precedes him.

“Ey, Mr. Andreez, you don’t look happy to me!” I don’t bother hiding my grin. Watching Matvey in his element reminds me of home, of fucking shit up with my brothers. Makes me feel less …

Empty.

I wonder what Fiero is doing right now …

Focus on the now, dickhead. That’s what he’d tell me to do.

Still, I wish I could put out feelers, try some of the old contact methods. Of course, doing so without Pyotr’s permission is just asking for a bullet to the back of the head.

“Give me a minute, you leeches. I must lock up out back. Then I pay you.”

Matvey gives me a narrow look, a little confused, a little suspicious. Collections are due at the beginning of the month. That aside, something feels off. Andreev is jumpy. Nervous.

Hanging around in the front of the shop, I angle around to catch a glimpse through the swinging doors, leading back into refrigerated zone and the freezers, long troughs of ice and fish butted up to dozens of crates.

“What you want to do after this?” Mat asks casually, keeping an eye out front.

“I’m starving. Food?”

“You are always starving. How you stay skinny? Cocaine?”

“Very funny. How do you stay so damn thick? I feel like you never eat.”

“Vodka. It has calories.”

“You’re nuts.”

“That is why you fit in with us, you are too. I say we hit up the club.”

“Like a nightclub?”

“No, we go play tennis. Yes a nightclub. Girls. Drinks. We earn this.” He grins.

“Finally some perks to being the boss’s nephew’s best friend. I was starting to think you were only good for staying warm at night.”

“Never speak of that night again.” Matvey glares at me pointing one menacing finger.

A noise in the back catches my attention. Plus the fact that this Andreev guy is taking too damn long.

“It was two nights, and it was magical.” I chuckle, easing back through the swinging doors and nodding for him to follow.

And it was a few more nights than that, trapped in the basement of the prison, hiding and fighting for our lives during a days-long riot. We nearly froze to death.

“Oy, lavochnik,” Mat hollers before we quietly ease back through the hallway.

The older man shuffles out from one of the coolers, wiping his hands and looking more frazzled than before.

“Look, you come back tomorrow, yes? Take fish in the meantime, like when you were kid, da?”

His eyes flick side to side, noting the two of us posted up inside the entry, hands on our weapons.

“I appreciate the gesture. You always looked out for us when things were tight.” Mat’s jovial attitude drops. Right along with his voice,“Grigory, chto ne tak? What is wrong?”

Another clatter echoes through the warehouse accompanied by voices, several men. None of them speaking Russian or English. Andreev swallows hard.

Without hesitation, Mat strafes along the wall, gesturing for the elder man to get somewhere safe. Raising my gun, I follow suit, covering the rear on our approach.

Fucking classic. Fucking exhilarating.

We sneak through, keeping as quiet as we can, easing open the door in the back. Pausing just inside, we wait for a few moments, watching the scene before us, the cluster of hooded, black-clad men wrenching open crates of fish, dumping others across the concrete, digging through others.

All to find sacks of what are undoubtedly drugs, adding to a stacked pallet on the back of a truck.

“Heroine?”

“Looks like it.” Matvey whispers back under his breath. I see his hand go for his phone, tacking in a quick text.

“Should we say hi?”

“Or we could shoot back at them⁠—”

“What do you mean—” The first bullet zips between us just before all twelve of the foreign smugglers start shouting in another language and shooting at us.

I’m diving for cover before my mind can tell my body to do it, popping off two shots low to the ground, taking a fella in the ankles. Flop, roll, bounce and I’m skidding around a forklift, kicking the first face I see right in the teeth as the Middle Eastern looking guy turns the corner, staying low.

Leaping over his projectile spray of blood and bicuspids, I spin midair, rattling off a few more shots just to cover my prima donna twirl, landing face-to-face with another rage-faced troll with the prettiest eyes I’ve seen in a while.

“Who does your eye makeup? Or is that a natural liner?” His arms close around me, lifting me off my feet.

But I’ve gotten way fucking stronger these last few months. And tougher than tits on a tiger.

My forehead shatters his … let’s just say his whole face.

Which leaves me falling from his limp grasp, back onto my heels, my ass, my back, knocking the wind right out of me. From my cozy spot on the fish gut-covered ground, I catch an eyeful of Matvey beating a dude’s head in with a frozen tuna, wielding it like a freaking baseball bat.

It also gives me a second to note a few details about the six guys surrounding me.

They’re definitely not from around here. Dark skin. Dark hair. And each one of them has a distinct mark on their cheek, and a very specific looking dagger tucked in their belts. Something in the back of my head tickles at the mark on the hilt, a memory of some job in some distant country drunk off my ass and fighting for my life.

Common theme.

And I don’t have time to revisit that dark alley as a boot comes flying for my face.

6

VANYA

My first round takes the man about to stomp Ciro’s head in right through the throat.

Letting go of the tightly twisted arm of the screaming man I just disarmed, I kick him down; he clutches his broken wrist. A swift tap to the jaw leaves him sprawled in a pile of soggy boxes.

Spin, flick of my wrist, two daggers in two arms, guns clatter to the ground.

Dive to avoid a spray of bullets, roll and come up on my knees sliding, blasting through wooden crates and showering the walls with these fuckers’ blood. They scatter like spiders, dragging away their wounded.

Organized.

Efficient.

Just no match for me.

“Do we pursue?” Matvey pokes his head up from his cover. Smart boy. He knows when I arrive to stay out of my way.

“Net. We make sure Grigory Andreev is safe. Find out who they were, why they were here. I will call in scouts to track them.”

Offering a hand to Ciro, I pull him to his feet, sniffing at his filthy clothes. The look he gives me makes my stomach do a flip, so I scowl, leaving him to watch me walk back inside.

“Explain,” I order to my brother as he falls in beside me.

“The short version is that we discovered some illegal drugs being stacked out of Andreev’s fish crates. I think those guys are the same ones from the photos, or at least affiliated with them.”

“So Grigory is smuggling a little on the side?”

“I don’t think so. He was pretty shaken up. Looked terrified. Not to mention they clearly did not like us walking in on them.”

“Hm. I do not like it. We’ve gotten more reports of foreigners at several other ports conducting business without local consent. Let’s see what our fishmonger has to say.”

Just as I speak the words, I spot him to my left, hiding.

“Talk, Andreev! What the fuck is going on?” I snatch the back of his coat as he sneaks out, trying to make for the side door.

“I-it is not what it looks like, Miss Sokolov! They threatened me …”

“Were those threats made in cash? I checked your safe. Looks pretty full to me.”

“I did not want to take it. These men … they are killers. They showed me pictures of my granddaughters.”

“I do not care what they said or showed you, Grigory. This does not look good for you. Even under threat, you know what to do; you should have contacted the Volk. For fuck’s sake, you have my number.”

“I panicked.”

“Coward. We cannot protect you if you are not forthcoming.”

Mr. Andreev drops his head, nodding.

I hate being the stone-cold bitch, but people behave foolishly. They do not learn and must be taught hard lessons.

The same lessons I learned early on, clawing my way to my position.

“P-please put in good word with Pyotr, I cannot lose my business …”

“Don’t piss yourself. Relax. I believe you did not have choice. But I will follow up on this, and you better not be lying, Grigory.”

Letting go of his coat I wave a hand of dismissal.

What to do next …

Out front, some of my guys shove through the door, my lieutenant barking an order to let me know they have secured the perimeter. I love how efficient they are.

“Mikael, search every crate. Looks like drug smuggling. We need to know who these bastards are and what they are doing on our turf.”

“Da, Kapitan.” He salutes.

I step out of the fishy confines of the warehouse, taking a breath. The fight was exhilarating, but not enough. Pent up energy courses through my veins, making me twitchy.

“I am going to report back to the compound, directly to Pyotr. He will want to know about this,” I announce to my crew, leaving them to their work. Pausing in the doorway, I catch a glimpse of my next targets slinking along in the dark alleyway outside.

“Trying to sneak off, you little brat?”

“Just getting clear of the mess, letting your team do their work,” Matvey smiles at me, only glancing at Ciro once. But it’s the twitch of his nose to the left that gives him away.

“Where were you really headed so quickly? And what the fuck were you thinking engaging with a hostile force without backup?” Now I am starting to get heated, emotion trying to take the lead. He’s still my brother after all, and he almost just got shot.

“Uspokoysya! Calm down. We were just defending ourselves, right Ciro?”

“They definitely shot first.”

“They would not have shot if you did not get spotted, ah?”

“Semantics! They would have gotten away with the drugs and disappeared if we didn’t go back there and stop them.”

“Stop them? I distinctly remember doing most of that work myself while you lay in fish guts. You fucking stink.”

“Hey! I’m a pretty good fighter, thank you very much⁠—”

“No. I mean you stink.”

“Dammit! She’s right. Now we have to go shower before—” Mat drops off mid-sentence, muttering something about needing to get to bed early.

“Before what?”

“Before reporting to Pyotr.”

“Good boy,” I snap, turning back to Andreev and nailing him with one last hard stare before we leave. “Come, we go together. I want more details, anything you can remember.”

Ciro and Matvey follow me out.

“Yours or ours?” Ciro jingles Matvey’s car keys.

“Yours.”

“I’ll drive!” Matvey holds up his hands for the keys.

“Nope. You talk, he drives.”

“No fucking way, I just got it back from the body shop!”

“What are you trying to say, Mat?” Ciro chuckles, sliding into the driver’s seat of the jet-black Camaro. My brother and his inflated ego. Not that I don’t love muscle cars.

“You do not put scratch on it.”

“Oh, you’ve never driven with me before. Cute.” Ciro grins, revving the engine once before slamming it into gear and gunning it.

“Fuck!” Mat yelps, falling back hard as the car jerks forward suddenly, roaring down the street.

A little laugh slips through my lips at the thrill of speed and the expert, insane half-donut that Ciro pulls at the end of the cul-de-sac. Smooth as silk, he peels out into the night, swerving through the sparse traffic like he owns these fucking streets.

“I’m impressed.”

“Easily, it seems.” He sniffs. Cocky bastard.

“Do I have to sit back here and listen to you two flirt?”

“That or you can buckle up. We’ve got company.” Ciro’s tone drops.

Through my side mirror I see the two cars, zagging along behind us, keeping pace. Bold move on our turf.

“I guess I will get a chance to be not so easily impressed, ah?”

“Hang on!” Ciro skids a hard right, looking past me to catch a glimpse of the two cars pursuing us.

“What the hell are they thinking?” Matvey muses. “Following us in our backyard is … just fucking stupid.”

“Maybe they want to know where home base is?”

All three of us flinch as a gunshot sounds, cracking into the back of Mat’s car.

“Or they want to stop us before we can tell someone about them!” I yell.

“Aw come on! I just got last damage fixed!”

“Better the car than your head!”

“Eh, I dunno, he could use an extra hole or two,” Ciro snipes, that telltale laughter shaking his voice. He’s getting worked up. And the grin on his face is widening as the stakes rise.

“Take left, we lead them away from compound, to industrial area. We lose them, or we kill them.” And hopefully keep one alive for questioning, I leave unsaid.

I bark off more directions for him, knowing these streets like my own skin. This is my home. And they have no clue who they are toying with.

“I should have driven, I know area better.”

“But I’m a better driver.”

“Says you.”

“We’ll see what you have to say when this is done. If we live.”

My chest heaves as he increases speed, locking eyes with me as he does. It’s the speed. Yes, only the speed that is making my heart pound in my chest. Not the smoldering stare that he never breaks as he swerves around a stopped truck, through an intersection, a red light, veering around two near collisions at breathtaking velocity.

The tight streets of the old factory district offer much cover. Parked cars, trucks, containers. But as hard as it makes it for them to get a shot, it makes it just as difficult for me to return fire out my window.

“We need an opening!”

“I need a goddamn barf bag …” Matvey mutters.

“Motion sickness?” Ciro chirps.

“No. You two make me sick.”

Ciro’s mischievous smile is contagious. And more than just the banter between us, I am enjoying this danger with him way too much. The worst part is, he fucking knows it.

Two more wild, hairpin turns and I’m flushed, thoroughly riled up and excited. And absolutely not because he slipped a hand over onto my thigh. Protective arrogant bullshit.

Or he’s just pushing the limits.

Either way, it’s a good thing my brother is in the car. If it was just us, I might get some crazy ideas putting his concentration to the test.

The back window explodes suddenly, drawing a string of curses from all three of us. Ice cold air whips into the car.

“Sorry Matty! But at least now you can give them some payback!”

“You do not have to tell me two times.”

“Twice!”

He sets to it immediately, turning around and clearing the rest of the pebbled glass. Unfortunately, our tails have the same advantage of cover, staying just far enough back to avoid Matvey’s assault.

“I think it is time to turn tables, no?”

“Agreed. The straightaway up ahead?”

“Da.”

Ciro veers to the left, through a chain-link gate. Then he slams the gas, the magnificent engine roars and we rocket forward onto the wide, vacant avenue between two abandoned brick buildings.

He continues to accelerate, smashing us back into the seats, and the two black cars follow suit.

“They’re gaining!”

“Let ’em.” Ciro growls and I cannot resist any longer, completely caught up in the fray.

My hand is on his thigh, sliding across his lap. Only to find his cock already rock-hard and straining against his pants. Biting my lip, my fingers tighten, gripping him as we soar toward the waterfront.

“Brace!” He shouts, and slams on the brakes, throwing a hand across my chest and copping a feel in the process. Just before he slides his hand down, grazing between my thighs and pressing just enough to make me arch my back and flex.

Matvey curses, bouncing against the back of Ciro’s seat as the car screeches to a halt and the two pursuing sports cars whoosh past us, barely missing on either side. Then Ciro’s hand is back on the shifter, first gear, surging after them.

Both cars hesitate, turning along the route, clearly at a loss for how to handle us chasing them. One slows, trying to come alongside us while two dark-eyed killers take aim out the back window, automatic weapons. So I quickly take the opportunity to blow out a couple of tires.

The car spins, clipping the loading dock wall, Ciro whips in, clipping their bumper, sending them into a roll as we speed away. As much as I hate to admit, he was right. Ciro is more than impressive behind the wheel.

He is a fucking magician.

Leaving the first car tumbling in our wake, we gain on the lead car. Guns emerge from the windows again, spraying bullets back at us, but Ciro doesn’t give them an easy target. A few more shots and they have to reload.

That’s when their driver decides to try a maneuver of his own, making to spin around on us to either make us hit them, or give them a clear shot. Dangerous, no matter how you look at it.

But Ciro huffs indignantly, swerving wide, pulling the hand brake and whipping us into a tailspin, using our heavier vehicle to clip the front end of the BMW as it comes around and causing them to loose control.

With a crunch of metal and glass, the other car slams into the brick wall, coming to a sudden stop.

And Ciro simply rides out the momentum of the drift, easing us up right beside the wreck.

“Go!” I order, bolting from the car as I see men exiting the crashed vehicle, readying their MP5s.

Matvey dives out the back window, still grumbling about the damage to his precious car, Ciro making a beeline to the wall and flanking. A rain of bullets chases all three of us to cover, ducking behind anything we can find.

“I’m out!” I grit out through clenched teeth. Foolish of me not to grab another clip. Not that I expected to be chased across town and shot at tonight.

Bolting from my cover, I launch a throwing knife into one of the thug’s legs, dropping him to his knee with a shout, just in time for Matvey to take him in the head, laying more cover fire for me to get behind some crates and leaving an opening for Ciro.

“Shakal!”

“Got it!”

And like we planned it, Ciro sprints at the wall, stepping twice on the bricks as if he can fly and leaping out over the smoking car, the four remaining attackers, all gawking up at him with priceless expressions.

He’s an angel of death, turning a roundoff in midair, drawing his guns from his sides, his coat flapping in the wind.

Raining pain and vengeance down on them.

Fuck me, I think I might be falling …

Ciro hits the ground, stepping down out of the sky and throwing a glance over one shoulder to assess the damage. Three dead.

Two more shots off to his right and I know the survivors from the other car are no more.

Shaking my head I rush out in the heat of the onslaught, catching my brother’s eye as we zero in on the driver trying to slip away unnoticed.

A nod is all we need to silently agree on a plan.

Mat always goes low, I go high. My twin takes the driver’s feet out from under him, pitching him back. Right into my flying knees, taking him right at chest level and driving him to the ground with brutal abandon. The wind blasts from his chest, a strangled scream as the pavement shreds his back.

“Who are you?” I shout in his face, planting one palm across his chin and neck and a blade to his cheek to keep him from moving. “If you flinch, I take your eye out.”

“Hng … N-never,” he manages to choke out, following his intelligible protest with a string of what I can only imagine are insults in another language.

“Sounds like he wants hard way,” Matvey snickers, standing behind me, guarding my back.

A vicious grin spreads on my face as I jam my knuckles into a wound on his arm, making him shake and growl.

“Give me a name. An organization,” I hiss, leaning in close to his ear. The proximity seems to make him more uncomfortable than the pain, and pure hatred fills his eyes as he tries to pull away from me. “So you do not like women? Or Russians?”

“I think he just doesn’t like you, Van.”

“Tishina!” I snap over my shoulder. Not in the mood for jokes. “Shakal! Do you recognize his language?”

“Not off the top of my head, but something about their daggers is familiar.”

The man’s eyes widen a fraction as I dig down into his belt, yanking the blade free. “This, ah? What can you tell me about this?”

But I see him jawing, making strange movements with his mouth.

“Shit! Poison, stop him!” Ciro shouts.

Matvey is beside me in an instant, jamming fingers into his mouth, flicking a capsule away in a spray of blood and spit.

“Fucking disgusting!”

“Fucking insane.” I agree, distracted for a split second by the realization of what was about to happen. Long enough for my prisoner to squirm an arm free, shoving me off balance and onto my ass.

He’s on his feet and sprinting away before I can make it back to mine.

“Got him!” Ciro takes off running and I’m right on his heels.

But Matvey’s warning shout gives me a moment’s pause just before I hear the sound of a motorcycle nearby, closing fast. A flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye sends my instincts into overdrive.

I dive hard, tackling Ciro at the waist.

Gunfire echoes all around us, the sound of a rifle. Two shots.

We land hard, Ciro on his back, gasping, holding me to his chest. Hard footsteps draw my attention up and Matvey runs past raising his pistol. To my left, the foreign driver lies dead, shot between the eyes.

“Mat!” I call after him, catching sight of the shooter. Jet black leather from head to toe. And a black mask with a white symbol on the forehead, covering his face. Jet black eyes send a shiver down my spine right before he revs his motorcycle and burns out, peeling away as Matvey unloads his clip.

It’s of little use. In a moment, he is gone.

And I feel the body beneath me, the powerful arms around me. The scent of soap and a hint of cologne raising my pulse. It reminds me of pine trees, winter mornings.

“You alright?” Ciro asks softly.

I’m on his chest.

“I save you, asshole. I’m fine,” I snip, feeling his fingers tighten on my back, the other hand brushing my hair aside, caressing my cheek.

We lay there for a second longer, looking into each other’s eyes, our bodies pressed together, perfectly curved to one another. He’s warm. Hard.

And just before I shove myself off his chest, I brush his lips with mine, so fast, barely tasting his breath. He staggers to his feet, stunned, blinking.

And of course, I pretend nothing happened as Matvey rushes back to check on us.

“He got away. And my car is fucked.”

“It’s better you did not follow alone. The masked one … he was assassin. Professional.”

“I could take him.”

“Don’t be fool. We are alive. We will hunt the rest of them down and the hitman. As brotherhood. With plenty of backup,” I promise, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Call for ride, we need to see Pyotr and the other council members tonight.”

“Da,” he salutes automatically, digging for his phone. Glancing at Ciro, he smirks at the look still lingering on his face. “Hey, um what were you two doing down there?”

“Uh …” Ciro gives me a heated look.

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing, you want me to let you finish?”

“I’ll finish you if you do not shut your fucking mouth, little brother.”

“Always with the ‘little brother’ when it suits you. Pretty sure Mama told me I came out first, so …”

“Mama said anything you wanted to hear because you were spoiled brat.” I turn, storming off toward the sound of cars speeding down the drive. And to avoid Ciro’s eyes I can feel searing into my back. He is too smug. And I also cannot handle the way he looks at me when Mat and I bicker. Like a forlorn puppy, probably missing his own brother.

I will not be sappy like some American woman.

Along with a driver for us, the cleaning crew pulls in to handle the mess.

“Clean up must be quick. Quiet. Do not let the politsiya get wind of any of this,” I grumble to the first lieutenant out of the van.

“Da, Kapitan.” Immediately he conveys orders and a dozen men set to work.

More than the police, I am worried for optics on this disaster. It is unexpected. Makes us look like we had our guard down. We cannot be seen to be weak to other Bratva branches.

Ciro and Matvey catch up as I reach our ride.

“What do you think we’re dealing with, Shakal?”

“Hm. I’ve encountered guys like these before. Usually mercs for hire, like the Lyras.”

“You’ve met Greek assassins before?” Mat marvels. Fucking mafia fanboy.

“Yeah. Lucky to be alive. This is different, though. More organized, less specialized. These guys were part of a larger force. Grunts.”

“And what about this?” I hold up the knife as we drive across town back to base.

“Reminds me of legends my great-uncle Giancarlo used to tell us.”

I nod, watching the city sweep by. “Old World.”

“Exactly. Like older than the Camorra. Maybe as old as the Yakuza.”

“Holy shitballs.” Matvey wonders, sighing through a wide-eyed smile. Of course he would be excited to be part of a gang war with an ancient group of killers.

“Do not get hopes up. We will leave this to elders to discuss. They will know what to do, and heads of Bratvas will have more information.”

“So we report in and then what? Just go to bed?”

“Then go do whatever you want. I have plans,” I say dismissively.

Because I need to unwind. To drink, dance.

Maybe even find a distraction from these constant thoughts about Ciro’s hands exploring my body. And I know just the place to find all of the above.

7

CIRO

“Speak only fact. Keep it short. To the point, da?”

“Who do I look like?” I raise an eyebrow, smirking.

“Jackass. Pretend you are not you for a moment,” Vanya says almost at a whisper.

She went in first thing when we got here, spent thirty minutes in the conference room with five grizzly looking dudes, including Pyotr. I am not excited for this dressing down.

Or maybe they’ll just give me a pat on the back and I can go have ice cream.

The look on Matvey’s face as we waited for our turns has me a little skeptical.

“Shakal. Come.”

Pyotr sits in the center, obviously leading the council. The others could be straight out of Bond films, except for the one guy to my left. I sort of wanna drop him off the top of a building in Nakatomi Plaza.

“Gentlemen. Ciro Diamante, at your service.” I grin, wondering if I should bow.

“You will speak when spoken to, Italian interloper,” a guy who just has to be named Boris growls, clenching his fists. Must be grumpy because he’s a Soviet double agent. Or because his chin and his nose have matching butts.

“Ach, don’t mind him, Shakal. We have heard good things about you. But maybe keep your mouth shut,” adds the Captain Ramius look-alike, showing just a hint of a smile.

“Vanya and Matvey have already filled us in on the details of the smugglers, the shooters.”

Pyotr raises a hand for something like order. The final member only sneers at me like he wants to take over Air Force One, keeping his comments to himself.

Looking awkwardly at the scowling menace with double ass-face, I raise my thumb and smile as awkwardly as humanly possible. Mom always said I was her handsome boy.

Pyotr frowns.

I think he’d get along with Adriano and Alessandro. They both always made the same face at me. Like all the time for no reason.

After another few seconds of extremely comfortable silence, I clear my throat.

“Am I supposed to say or do something?” I finally choke out, unable to hold it in any longer.

As one, three of the members suddenly throw their heads back, laughing loudly. The double-cleft wonder and that wizard kid’s godfather even huff a little chuckle through their sour looks.

“Ha. Haha. Ha?” I join in, shrugging and then actually give in, letting their laughter get me going. Nothing like a good manic chortle to lighten the mood.

“They said he was funny, but that look on his face!” The gray-bearded, jovial one shakes his head, leveling me with a stare and a nod. “You made an impression at the prison, my boy. I see good things for you.”

“And speaking of good things. You deserve a reward for your actions this night. That is why we call you in. And to make joke with you.”

A joke I apparently still have to figure out. I’ll never understand their idea of humor.

“I love rewards. But you really don’t have to. I’m Volk. I was just watching my brother’s back. Then my brother’s sister. Er, my sister? Ew. I mean … uh. Uverditel’nyy?” My salute could use some work.

“Remind me to put you with tutor for Russian. It’s terrible.”

“Wodka?” I sputter, holding out my hands.

“Or we could just give him three more months in Gulag …” the Boris guy growls.

This time I get the joke when they laugh at my wide-eyed expression. I mean, I pray it was a joke.

“Thanks for this, Shakal,” Pyotr smiles, his expression darkening some. “Not the news we want to hear, foreign gangs encroaching on our lands. But we get a bit too serious sometimes. Especially Boris.”

I nearly choke. His name is actually Boris.

“Unfortunately, the reward I have for you is not exactly good news either, but it is what I promised you. As much as I know about events with your brothers, that is.”

News about my family. But he said it wasn’t good …

Whatever you do, do not cry in front of ass-face. Swallowing hard, I nod, keeping my gaze steady and locked on Pyotr. He nods once, seeing my resolve.

“I am loath to inform you, Ciro, that all reports indicate that your twin brother is dead.”

I almost laugh.

Almost.

But as short a time as I have known Pyotr, I still can tell when he is being serious. And he is dead serious.

“How?” It’s the only question I can think of.

“From our informants, we gathered that after Dom took your elder brother’s place, he started making deals he had no intention of keeping. He double-crossed dozens of contacts, us included. This is why we captured you when you came to parlay. We suspected treachery. A tip let us know you were coming and where to find you.”

“I mean, Dom is a piece of shit, so I’m not surprised. But we only worked for him to keep our extended family and fiscal interests safe. Because we had to.” I shouldn’t say that, share those secrets, but Pyotr likely already knows that much. Plus, I’m babbling like an idiot. At least I’m competent enough to know not to bring up Aless.

Isabella.

The kid. She’s going to be due soon if she hasn’t already had the baby.

Need to keep them safe. At all costs.

Fuck. I hope they’re still safe.

“How.” This time I mean it, I say it without thinking of the consequences of mouthing off to my superiors. I’m fucking shaking as the news sets in.

“When feds took Dom Vipera, he blabbed. Threw anyone he could under the bus for a deal. No one knows now where he is. But collateral was global. Agencies hit targets all over the world, like they knew exactly where every shady deal and exchange was going down. Assassinations foiled. Just about every contract and hire working for Dom at the time got tagged.”

Like me. Like Fiero.

My twin. Sent to I don’t fucking know where on his last mission. Except that we were sent by Adriano, not Dom. Adri told us to go make contacts, to get help and then disappear. He would not have set us up knowingly. It doesn’t add up. Unless Dom knew what Adriano was planning. Changed the rules, set us up.

“I know this is a shock. Alessandro, your leader and older brother killed, then Adriano, second to Dom, disappears. I am so very sorry, Shakal.”

“Thank you for staying true to your word, Pakhan.”

“We are family now. Truly. I know you must grieve, but you are one of us. We grieve with you; all of us have lost family along the way. Take some time to rest.”

I nod, taking the gesture of his hand as a dismissal and leaving without acknowledging the rest of the council. No one says shit, so I guess it’s fine.

Dumbstruck, I make my way back to my room, sitting on the side of my bed. I should just sleep. Rest. Shut off.

I earned acclaim tonight. And the news he just conveyed.

Great.

I just wish I could revel in the fact that I discovered a cell of infiltrating enemies, smugglers. Instead, I’m T-boned with the news that I am the last remaining Diamante that anyone knows of in the world. And I have no way to reach Aless, to tell him that our brothers are gone. Even if there is hope that Adriano may have escaped.

I feel so damn alone.

My twin is dead.

It’s unfathomable. Incomprehensible. We were one. Two halves of the same person.

And we were Diamantes God dammit. We were invincible.

Rage boils in my chest.

I can’t believe this. Not until I see his fucking corpse. So I rush out, showering, changing. I’m halfway to stealing a car for the night when Mat catches up to me.

“Ciro, what happened? I looked for you after, but …” His eyes widen slightly as he catches sight of my face in the lights of the garage.

“We going out?” I ask, my eyes burning.

“Da,” is all he murmurs, snatching the keys and nodding toward a vehicle.

He drives in silence, all the way to the party district, letting me simmer in my sorrow. My anger.

By the time we arrive and park, we’ve killed a bottle of vodka and I’m feeling a lot better.

“This place, this is a good spot to let loose, I promise.”

“Thanks Mat.”

“Hey, it’s all good.”

“It’s really not. So thanks.”

“You are my blood now, Ci. Never forget. Now, just for tonight, forget the bullshit. We are fucking Volk. We are fucking unstoppable, ah?”

“Fucking right.”

The club is exactly my kind of place. Dark. Lights flashing. Hardcore music thumping.

I’m six deep and dancing with a girl in bright pink in no time, letting the bass bash my worries and pain away. The line of blow doesn’t hurt anything, or the couple of hits off of a few jays.

Soon, I’m lost in the middle of the dance floor, Matvey off somewhere flirting, trying to score.

I should be a better wingman.

He deserves a better wingman. But tonight, I’m gone.

With full access to the VIP, I can have anything I want. Reminds me of New York. The underground scene. So many summers where I partied nonstop for weeks on end, barely sleeping.

Taking a much-needed break, I settle back into a plush lounge chair, almost perfectly in sync with Matvey flopping down next to me.

“Damn. That girl was nuts! Wanted to peg me in the bathroom,” Mat laughs, offering me a drink.

“Do they have anything other than vodka here?” I tease, taking the glass.

“Why would they have anything else?”

Sitting in the haze of disconnection, I let my eyes drift across the seething mass of bodies below us, the lights playing off of glow-painted skin. I’ve already been approached by gals and guys alike, propositioned for drugs, sex. Maybe I should, but something holds me back.

And I realize what it is when I catch sight of the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen dancing across from us on the opposite balcony. Purple, skintight dress. Jet black hair. Ice blue eyes. She locks stares with me, freezing me in my seat.

Those curves, muscular thighs flexing with every move, exposed to the base of that short-cut dress, tits pressed together and accented in neon. A faint smile tilts her lips, and I sit up suddenly, recognizing who I am looking at.

Vanya.

And now she’s grinning like a fox, watching me watch her from under hooded lids.

Of course she’d be here. She’s all I’ve thought about for weeks. And she’s made it damn clear that she’s happy to keep fucking with me, toying with me. I would let her use me. But I want more.

“Earth to Ciro …” Mat thwacks my arm, slurring. He’s hammered. “Hey, come on, these two girls want to dance with us, they’re smoking hot!”

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“No. Fuck no,” he groans, following my gaze across the club. Immediately his expression changes. “You’ve got to me kidding me.”

“What’s wrong with her being here?”

“I leave town for three months and she takes over my spot? It’s fucking weird with my sister here, man.”

“Let it be, Mat.”

“Yeah, maybe. She’s waving for you.”

“Really?”

“You are such a freaking sucker.”

“Go talk to those girls, I’ll tell Vanya we don’t want to hang out.”

“Bullshit. You’re going to go dance with her!”

“Says who?”

“She says. I know the minute you go over there, she’s gonna make you start dancing, just to piss me off. And then I’m here riding stag like a loser with thumb in my ass.”

“Hey, you don’t have to put it there. Pegging girl is still giving you the eye from the bar …”

“Eat shit.”

“Just go grab those two ladies and bring them with us as a buffer. I want to at least say hi to Van.”

“You kidding? Vanya and her friends would murder those poor women. Never mind, anyway. They already found some other pricks to bounce on.”

We circle the upper level, weaving through the crowd and all I can think about, all I can see, is Vanya. She’s dancing like a beacon leading me toward her. Matvey’s right. I’m a sucker.

“What’s up, cock block?” Mat shouts over the beat, making a face. Vanya turns at the voice, her eyes narrowing.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Several of Vanya’s friends perk up, giving Mat and I the eye. A quick glare from Vanya has them giggling and rolling their eyes.

“I thought I saw you getting shit-faced over there.”

“You’re just as drunk,” Mat accuses, looking like a pouty toddler. Show some dignity, dude.

“Unlike you, I can handle my liquor.”

“Why are you here?”

“I didn’t realize this was your private club. Maybe I need to unwind after a mission too. Pick up some guys …”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s typical. Double standard. You can whore around all you want and I am supposed to stay home and clean up your puke in the morning?”

“You know I don’t mean that⁠—”

“We like coming here. The bouncers are our guys. It’s safe and I like the music.”

“You’re just here to cramp my style.”

“Matty, give it a rest—” I start, reaching for him, but he shrugs me off. Oof. Sloppy drunk.

“She’s just doing this to piss me off.”

“I am now.”

“Alright,” I sniff, shaking my head. Why am I playing moderator? “I’m getting another drink. You two fist fight or whatever and be done with it.”

“Don’t be such an asshole, Ci—” Mat starts to yell, taking a not-so-playful swing at me. Easily dodging, I sidestep him and he trips, eating his shit onto one of the lounge couches.

“There he is … my little brother.” Waving one hand, Vanya calls for one of the massive black-shirted guys standing nearby. “See him home, please? My driver is outside.”

“You’re always like this! Telling me what to do, trying to play mother to me!” Mat shouts, barely putting up a fight as the huge bouncer guides him out.

“He won’t remember this, will he?”

“Not a chance.” Vanya sighs.

“Has he always been an angry drunk?” To be fair, he had the equivalent of three bottles in as many hours. I’m impressed he’s still standing.

“A brat? Yes. He tries to act like a big man and gets in trouble. I have to bail him out.”

“You could go easier on him. He kicked ass tonight.”

“Being easy on him is why he gets like this! He needs discipline, do you not agree?”

“None of my business.”

“Good answer. Because I would hate to have to send you home too.”

“Oh really?”

“Da. I have other plans for you.”

She’s already tugging on the front of my shirt, pulling me toward her. And any other thought about fuck-all else flies out the window. Her red-hot body is pressed into mine, moving to the music.

Her curves grinding into me make my head spin, more intoxicating than the drinks, the drugs. The scent of her hair, her perfume …

I’m so screwed.

Especially when she drags me down to bite my ear and whisper, “Come with me, right now.”

I’m grinning like a fucking idiot as she drags me down a hallway like a piece of meat. I love every second of it. Through a doorway and a storage back area, into a private room with couches along the walls, the music fading slightly into the background.

Before I can say a word, she slams me up against the wall, planting a deep, sensual kiss on my lips. My fingers spear into her silken hair, gripping tightly, claiming her mouth and twining my tongue with hers. Heat explodes in my core, stars behind my eyes.

Jerking her head back with a light tug of her hair, I pause to catch my breath, to look at her alluring features, her intense stare.

And just to fuck with her, I ask, “You sure you want to do this?”

Her eyes flare with the challenge. “Would you dare to tell me no?”

8

VANYA

His fingers in my hair make me wild.

No one ever has dared to treat me this way. Tugging my head back, being forceful but in the most affectionate way.

Most of the men I’ve hooked up with or tried to be with were weak, intimidated by me.

They act tough until I take a step forward and they don’t want anything to do with me. As if a woman taking the lead is somehow shameful. That’s the problem with being in charge. Being in control.

They want a submissive, demure woman.

And I’m anything but.

Ciro Diamante is another breed of man, one I have never encountered before. He tests me, challenges me, but expects me to snap right back. Every play I throw at him, he returns.

It makes me insane most of the time, trying to keep up.

And it makes me fucking hot. The way he resists with his eyes, but obeys orders. I know I cannot break him. Nothing can.

Then he smiles … my God that smile.

It pisses me off. Turns me on.

Ciro pulls my head back, grazing lips across my throat, drawing a low moan from my lips. Turning my head, I nip at his ear, fighting back just a bit. In response, his hand swoops around my waist, pressing me to him, pinning me to the wall as he releases my hair, cupping my chin possessively and tilting my head farther to kiss my neck.

I tense, pushing back, and his grip tightens, lower.

Never in my life have I let a man grab me by the throat. But something about the gentle way his fingers clench, brushing my skin. It’s pure fire.

Closing my eyes, I let my head loll as his teeth devour my neck, my ear lobe. Lower, he licks and sucks along my collarbone, igniting every nerve in my body with heat and desire.

The tight wound tension and control I keep over myself slips, my stomach turning a flip, my center flooding with a tingling sensation. If I were wearing panties, they would be drenched.

“You …”

“What about me?”

“Make me …” I gasp, rolling my hips against him.

“Oh, I will make you …”

“What will you make me?” I whisper, dragging nails down his back.

“Beg,” he breathes into my ear.

Fuck.

I need him. So badly.

I want him to take me, to bend me over the couch right now and fuck me until I scream. But something inside me clamps down, refuses to let me say those words.

Stupid control!

It’s like nuclear warfare between my pussy, my heart, and my head. Each one wants something different. To be clear, they all want sex …

But my heart warns me against giving myself to this man.

My head says he is more than dangerous. That he will run the first chance he gets. Or betray us.

Fuck it.

I’m a little drunk. A lot turned on.

So I bite his lip and he lets out a deep, surprised moan.

“You make me fucking nuts, Vanya.”

“This coming from the man who drives me insane on a daily basis?” I growl right back at him, slapping his face gently with one hand, leaving it pressed there as I push him back down onto one of the couches. Settling next to him, I drag my lips down his jawline, back to his lips.

I can see how hard he is through his pants and the sight of that length makes my mouth water. I need to taste him.

But he has other plans. Pulling me on top of him, he rucks up my skirt, cupping my ass cheeks as I grind down on him, lashing his tongue with mine in a deep, intimate kiss. A shocking slap as one palm strikes my ass, then another, setting me aflame inside. Everything he does is a shock to the senses.

“You daring prick,” I whisper viciously into his lips as I take them once more, our tongues dancing. As I pull back, I tear his shirt open, popping several buttons. His chest is exactly as I remember, muscular, chiseled. My fingertips and nails explore, pebbling his smooth skin. There are some scars, more than there were when I sent him away, I know this. Some are still pink, fresh. And I am the reason he got them.

Something about that fact, and the look in his eye as I explore them, amplifies my desire.

He survived my challenge, my test.

Ciro is strong, stronger than I could imagine. And I want to feel that strength, taste that power. More than this, I want him to make me do it.

A moan slips through my lips as his fingers caress between my ass cheeks, spreading me apart and letting him know just how turned on I am.

“Fuck … you’re not wearing⁠—”

“Anything underneath. No.”

And I am soaked for him. Rising, I let his hands guide me as I turn, sitting down on his lap, sliding my ass along the length of him through his pants. Seeing it in the shower, feeling it in the closet at the estate, I have a sense of how big he is, but pressing into me, it feels even bigger, filling my ass cleft from my opening to my lower back.

To feel it inside me, filling me, stretching me to the limit. I almost cannot stand it, to hold back. It sends a thrill through me that is only matched by the sensation of his fingers drifting down around me as he pulls me close, slipping down between my thighs.

Two of them slip past my clit with a feather light touch, sending shivers through me before slipping so easily into me. The rush of pleasure has me gasping, tossing my head back against his shoulder.

Another hand cups up under my breasts, popping them out of my tight dress and squeezing sensually. Fingertips pinch my hardening nipples, the chilly air of the back room cooling my scalding skin.

Turning my head, I bite at his neck and he pinches harder, enough to make me cry out.

“You fucking asshole,” I growl, my hands slamming down onto his hips below me, sliding up under his shirt and then down into the waistline of his pants. I can barely get a hand underneath me, palming the shaft of his cock, gripping his balls a little too tightly.

“Who’s the asshole now?” he grunts, flexing to my touch.

“Still you, because you won’t let me—” I lose all track of what I’m saying as he closes one hand around my neck, the other curling deeply inside me, pressing into the sweetest spot. I’m fucking helpless in his grasp, my legs locked around the outside of his, my hands pinned between us. The lack of control is …

Fucking delicious.

Waves of pleasure ripple through me, as much from the thought of him dominating me as the feeling of his long fingers pumping in and out of me. The palm of his hand rubs against my front, tantalizing the apex of my pleasure, zinging jolts of ecstasy up my spine, into my toes and fingertips.

“Damn you, Diamante …”

“Ah, ah,” he growls into my ear, circling those fingers in a spiral, making my brain melt.

Each time I try to speak, to fight back, he changes the pace, the pressure, and I’m reeling. It’s going to make me lose my mind if I do not come soon.

A moaning growl escapes my lips as another torrent of bliss rolls through my core.

“You feel incredible.”

“You have no idea,” I grit through my teeth.

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It sounds like a promise. I am going to kick your ass if you do not fuck me!”

“Not yet. I need you to do two things first.”

Another shuddering cry blasts out of me and he tightens his grip on my torso with his arm, his fingers massaging my neck and jaw.

“What?”

“I want you to ask me, to beg me. And I want you to come.”

“How dare you talk to me like that?” The words are barely audible, my incredulity lost in the swells of torturous pleasure.

“How dare you drag me into this back room and expect me to be your fucking play toy?” he snaps right back. “You think you own me?”

“I think you want me to.”

“Only after I make you mine.” His voice barely makes a sound, so soft that I am not sure I heard him over my heaving chest.

But whether he said it or not, I am melting in his hands. Coming undone.

No one has ever done anything like this to me. Taken me and made me come.

And I want to fight it, to drive my desire higher, my anger and lust. But my body and my heart are lost in the undertow of Ciro Diamante.

I am his, at least for tonight.

For this moment.

If I could move, I would rip his pants down, drive my hips over him and take every inch of him inside me. Ride him until he fills me with his love.

Instead, I am trapped, holding on for dear life as my legs begin to quiver and quake.

Every attempt to please him is moot. Any attempt to do anything but bite my lip and wait for the rush is pointless.

The intense rapture surging through my core is scintillating, mind-blowing. He knows exactly where to touch me, how to spread me apart, how to push my button. Literally.

It’s almost infuriating how good he is.

His breath on my neck adds another layer to the ascent, another sensation to consume me.

Pressure rises, higher than I have ever felt. My voice screams out, ragged and unbridled.

“Ciro, fuck, oh, I am going to⁠—”

“Yes … Yes.”

The world tips, throwing me out into a raging storm, comets bursting behind my closed eyelids.

“Ciro!” I scream his name, my king, my god.

“You feel so fucking good, so fucking wet …” His words are distant in the rush of blood in my ears, but they only extend the flood of heavenly bliss destroying my world.

I can feel my legs going weak, my center erupting as I clench and tighten around his fingers. The only thing that could feel better than this would be his dick, driving into me.

And I want it so bad.

But I still can’t move. Mostly because of the aftershocks, shivering through me as much as his grip on my body. When I finally gain enough control of my limbs, he lets me turn over, rubbing my exposed nipples on his chest, licking the cleft between his rock-hard pecs.

“You …” I glare, shaking my head. And he just sits there and smiles at me. Smug bastard.

Instantly, I’m fired up again, this time a little ticked. He wants to play?

Sliding down I pop the button on his pants before he can stop me, dragging them down and drawing him out. Every rigid inch of him standing erect in my hand. Licking my lips once, I lock eyes with him and swallow him.

His skin is silk soft on my tongue, red-hot and throbbing.

Tilting my head I take him deeper into my throat and I watch his eyes bug out, his mouth dropping open in surprise. With a little wag of my head, I circle with him seated to the hilt, the muscles of his stomach tight and twitching.

Then I suck in my cheeks, pulling him out across my tongue, through pursed lips.

His eyes flutter closed, his hands reaching for my head. I slap them away, clawing nails into his abdomen for good measure. The sharp cry of delight and shock make me grin around the massive girth of his shaft, once again deep in my throat.

Harder, faster, I pump up and down on him, wrapping my fist around the base of him to squeeze him. Each time he attempts to reach for me, I simply pinch one of his balls, shaking my head and making him cry out or moan. But it’s the growing look of irate disbelief on his face that gives me so much satisfaction.

I feel him tighten as I continue, his hips setting a rhythm to my lips, and I know he will finish soon. I will make sure of it.

His perfect chest heaves, rising faster.

My lips suck him in, slick and soaked.

And then he does the unthinkable. He sits up hard, fast. Grabs my hair to pull me away from him. Lifting me up with one hand as he rushes toward the bar on the other side of the room. There he plants me down, spreading my legs.

“Yes …”

“No.” But he says it with a smile.

And then his fingers are in me again, spreading me, spearing me deeply. All I can do is groan into his lips as he kisses me deeply again, holding me around the waist as he drives me toward another unraveling.

My hand finds him again, wrapping tightly around him and refusing to let go. If he wants to do it this way, then fine.

But I will not let him win.

Even if I do not exactly understand the rules of this little game. I must retaliate.

None of this has gone to plan, although I am the one who dragged him back here. But it could not be more fun, more satisfying. Ciro has a way of twisting anything I throw at him and making it his own.

So I will play along. Make him mine.

I let go of any other thought, stroking his shaft, bucking my hips in time with his pulsing fingers. Our lips lock, our tongues branding each other.

In no time, we are panting, sweating, heading towards climax.

My moans turn to growls in his mouth, and I bite down on his lip as my legs tighten, as my ass cheeks clench and I start to unwind. The pace of his fingers increases, thrusting inside me quickly, rapidly.

It hits me like a hurricane, barreling through my legs, up through my chest, tingling in my scalp. Our moans intertwine, our lips still brushing.

He is a typhoon, a storm on the seas. I am capsizing, and the only thing I can hold onto is him.

“Just like that … harder …” he breathes, just before he starts to pulse in my fist, gushing out onto my hand, the floor.

We sit there, frozen for a moment, for several seconds, our eyes locked.

A deep, sharp ache throbs in my center, right between my legs. And I know I need him there. I will not stop needing him. It’s the only thing that will satisfy me.

“Ciro … I want you …” I breathe.

“And I want …” He backs off, pulling away. “More.”

He winks, buttoning up his pants with that smile, that fucking devil’s grin. Then he draws me close, kisses me deeply.

Right before pulling away and casually walking out.

Leaving me sitting there like a dumbstruck fool.

9

CIRO

I’m still worked up as fuck as I leave the club, slipping out the back and into the chill of a classic Russian night.

I can barely believe what just happened. And that I fucking bailed on her when she was ready to go. For fuck’s sake, I’m still ready to go!

It’s got my head reeling, my stomach in knots.

She felt more incredible than I could have imagined.

Normally, I would just enjoy it. I would indulge in it. And the fact that she’s kind of my boss would make it even fucking hotter.

I was dominating her, that she was letting me, that she was liking it, and that she wanted me so bad in return that should have been enough to send me over the edge to take her right then and there.

But I hesitated. I held back.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed it. Too much.

The main thing I kept thinking about was how much I didn’t want it to be a onetime thing. Like a sad sap. Who am I? Adriano?

Or maybe the way things have gone the past year really have broken something inside me. No outside contact. Lost in a frozen hell.

I stalk down through a more or less familiar alley, heading toward a street I know pretty well. It’s been a few weeks of driving, doing errands, training. I’ve always been good with directions.

The first thing I made sure to learn when I got here was where not to walk.

Sighing out a gust of frosty breath, I almost cave and turn around, go back. Then I almost cave and buy a pack of smokes. Alessandro always had one when he was stressed. Sometimes I’d join him, just to let him berate me for smoking.

Bad habit, little brother. Ha. Speak for yourself, Aless.

Condescending asshole.

I miss him.

For the first time since I arrived, I have time on my hands. Time to consider bad news, to speculate on what might be going on out there. With my brothers. With the Diamante family, our assets, the extended members of the syndicate across the globe.

None of that was ever really my concern.

Now, it still isn’t. I’m so far removed. Yet it plagues my dreams. My idle thoughts.

Who will lead? Will our empire fall apart completely?

Somewhere, I know Adriano and Gloria must be in hiding. Maybe he’s biding his time. Maybe he’s trying to find me.

Or they’re doing what Alessandro and Isabella are doing and moving on with their lives. Starting a family. Who knows?

“Pyotr,” I mutter, scowling. “He has to know more.”

Thinking back on our interactions so far, I can see it. He knows more than he’s been willing to tell me. Probably to use, to keep me on a leash. To bait me and keep me in line.

It’s exactly what I would do in the circumstances. Given everything that’s happened recently, I’m a handy little bargaining chip if he can figure out when to play me. Either to offer me up to an enemy, or use me as an attack dog.

Why they even wanted me as part of the Bratva to begin with is still beyond me, but now I am in, for life. And that in and of itself has me at odds with myself.

If my family is really gone, then fuck it.

If they aren’t … I may have signed my own death warrant if I ever see any of them again.

At least I have Matvey. Vanya. Not that I’m ready to let somebody crack my shell, really let them into my heart, let alone my pants. Vanya, not Matvey.

Ugh. I need to pull my head out of my ass.

I’m sick of my own bullshit by the time I reach the pier, flinging stones along the surface of the canal. It’s so fucking cold here. But I don’t want to go back yet.

So I let my feet wander through different parts of town, getting to know the side streets, the signs, the landmarks. St. Petersburg is stunning. But it’s also so different from my history.

The one thing it has in common is that old-world feeling.

Iconic.

Brighter lights around me signal that I’m in a new part of town, somewhere different. At this point I’m just walking to keep from freezing.

Maybe I should just run. Not right now, although it would get my blood pumping.

But in general. Like Adri wanted me to do.

Leave the life behind. But I know I would fall back into old habits. Gambling. Which would inevitably lead to taking shady jobs for cash. Smuggling. Hit man. Then I’m right back in the life again. Assuming the Bratva wouldn’t immediately track me down and kill me if I bolted.

“Stay the course, young Zero,” I whisper, hearing my uncle Giancarlo’s voice. “Or better, show these assholes who you really are. Show them what Diamantes are made of.”

Because that is what has really been warring inside me. This spark to prove myself. To win.

I hate how much I want to show Fyodor, Pyotr. All of them.

Maybe it’s time to stop being the spoiled, lazy shit I’ve always floated by on, and make a name for myself.

Or maybe I’ve been walking all night getting caught up in typical semidrunk all-nighter overthinking nonsense.

With that in mind, I turn toward home, intent on getting a few hours of sleep before going to see Pyotr or Fyodor. I need a task. I need a goal. I need answers.

I’m stomping along with my hands in my coat pockets, my collar shrugged up to my ears, when I hear something ahead. Down a side street.

Sidling up to the corner, I sneak a peek.

Two guys. Roughing up an old lady, holding her at knifepoint in the front of her café.

“I already paid you this week. You Volk said that I would have till next month to make the rest of the money and to come back. I was told by the boss himself!”

“Oh yeah? Which boss was that? Me?”

“Ha, right? We don’t care who it is that you think you know. Give us more money right now to ensure that we don’t bust up this place.”

“P-please. There is no need to⁠—”

“Hey,” I say before I can stop myself. Stepping out into the open, I grin my best “fuck you” smile.

“Well, if it isn’t the giggling wonder?” One of them sneers, his eyes looking glazed. Drunk.

“Yep. Always good for a laugh.”

“Only because you are a joke!”

“Hey, we’re all brothers here.”

“Bullshit, you’ll never be one of us. Get the fuck out of here.”

“Or better, since you think you are Volk, keep watch while we take care of this old lady. I think she has a pretty daughter upstairs in college, no?”

“Hey, maybe she can pay …”

I watch the older woman’s face go pale. Well. Shit.

Guess this is happening.

“Fuhgeddaboudit. That ain’t gonna happen, boys,” I say doing my best impression of my uncle Giancarlo. “How about we all take this little party outside? We can sit down and have a cuppa coffee and call it night, eh?”

Just as I thought, one of them watches American films. And my thick accent has him chuckling and slapping his friend on the back.

“You talk like American gangster from the movies! This is cute. Too bad you are weak-assed American punk, instead.”

“Come over here and I’ll show you exactly how weak I am. I’ll show you a good time.” My lips peel back in a teeth-gritting rictus.

Bring. It. On.

And the stupid shit rushes me headlong, raising his fists.

“I will show you how to talk to me, bitch!”

I really need to learn my lesson about getting myself into these situations. Just for the sake of not breaking so many asshats’ bones.

His first swing flies wide, careless. I slap his hand aside, kneeing him in the groin, dropping him to his knees. Winding up my right hand, I open my palm full, striking him across the face hard.

“Who’s the bitch now? You gonna act like a bitch, you’ll get slapped like one you piece of shit!” I cackle in my best Jack voice. Another slap drives him to the pavement.

Right in time to welcome his buddy, whipping out a switchblade.

Small time, low-level d-bags.

“What is this? East Side Story? Put that shit away before I break your wrist.”

“I will gut you, swine!”

“Rum-digga-tum,” I sing, swiveling on my feet and leaving an opening. He lunges into my trap, stabbing the blade straight forward, right between my arm and ribcage. Pinning his arm tight, I beam down at his stunned expression. Right before I ram my forehead into his nose.

It’s a classic move and one he should have seen coming, especially with that crooked nose. Now it’s broken again.

Being used to that pain, however, he struggles, tugging his arm to free himself. All I have to do is twist my arm slightly, and his wrist snaps, driving him down. Then I take him right in the teeth with my knee, knocking most of them out.

He’s spitting blood as he helps his buddy up and they scurry off.

“We’re telling Pyotr about this!”

“Please do. Tell him exactly why I had to kick your asses, policing you sons of bitches for treating our people like shit.” It’s bad enough for the rabble having to pay taxes to the Bratva, they could at least be fair about it.

They’re cursing in Russian as they head off, leaving the alley silent.

Except for the dozen or so eyes watching me from behind curtains, through windows. Definitely going to regret the attention this brings.

Always gotta play hero. Make a scene.

“Are you alright?” I mutter, leaning down to help the old lady back to her feet.

“I am fine. You should not have done this.” She tuts, tapping my arm with one finger. She’s Turkish, if I’m not mistaken. If the sign above her little shop is any indication.

“You let me worry about that. Those guys should know better than to treat the people they’re supposed to protect like that.”

“Protect? I know you are not a stupid boy.”

“Well, I have been known to be pretty thickheaded. Still.” I shrug, escorting her to the doorway.

“Thank you.” She turns, giving me a nod.

“I’ll see you around.”

“Where do you think you are going? Come, I must repay kindness with kindness.”

Knowing better than to argue with my elder, I follow her into the café, suddenly realizing how hungry I am. The store smells incredible. Baking bread. Coffee.

We head back through the quaint storefront to a little table in the kitchen, likely meant for her children or grandchildren and I plop down. The spread is simple. But it’s hot and delicious.

Oats, berries. Toast, eggs.

Still a little fuzzy from my night of partying, I’m stuffing my face like a heathen.

“Do they not feed you in the Bratva?” A wry smile accompanies the jab.

“Not as much as I would like. And I got in the habit of eating as much as I could, when I could in the Gulag …”

“Ah. Yes.” A shadow passes over her expression.

“Someone you know?”

“My son, Demir.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It is the way things are. Life is hard. So you look for small joys, like feeding a young man with good intentions.”

“I see your point.”

“Keep making efforts, young man. And come see me from time to time if you need a hearty meal.”

“I will. And you give me a call if anyone bothers you.” I rise, jotting down my burner cell number on a napkin.

She probably won’t call. Proud, stubborn.

But I feel better trying. The same way I feel right leaving a couple of bills tucked under my plate for her trouble.

Heading back towards the compound, I realize the sun’s just peeking over the horizon.

Great. Maybe I can get an hour or two before someone attacks me or drags me out of bed for sparring. Seems like everyone wants a shot at me.

I’m about to knock on the pedestrian door beside the gate when it suddenly rattles open, a car rumbling right inside. And what a delight, the guy behind the wheel glares at me, pointing one finger as he lurches a few more feet to pull alongside me.

“Hey Fyodor. Looks like somebody shit shards of glass this morning.”

“Get in,” he barks.

“Uh, I was gonna⁠—”

“Get in, or I will have to whip your ass.”

“Whoop my ass,” I correct, very politely.

“What?”

“The saying.”

“I am saying I will get whip and give you lashes, ah? Get the fuck in the car.”

“Cool.” I duck in, snapping my seatbelt as he guns the engine of his sleek burgundy Porsche.

“So … Flattop’s looking extra flat today.” It dawns on me that maybe the reason he has a flattop is so that he can fit his colossal ass in this tiny sports car.

Fyo’s nostrils flare, but he ignores the jibe. “Got a tip. Another secret shipment. Movement all over docks. I want to check it out.”

“Without backup?”

“There’s you and me. We are each other’s backup. Or are you gandon?”

“I will never understand that insult. So I’ll just say, no I am not chicken shit.”

“I disagree. You are all the shits. But I know you can fight. Da?”

“Da.”

Several quiet minutes later, we’re in the dock district, easing along behind a warehouse.

“What’s the game plan?” I ask, rubbing my hands together.

“You tell me. You’re a newbie. I want to see what you have. You’re apparently expert in all of these ways. Show me I can trust you.”

Not sure how me having to make sleepless tactical decisions equates trust when he made me come here … but.

“Super. I vote we call in an aerial assault. Drones. That way we can go back to bed,” I mumble, getting out of the car.

Fyodor growls something filthy in Russian as he hands me a piece and I give him a coy smile and bob a curtsy of thanks. Tucking the gun in the back of my pants, I lead us around the side of the main building, across the yard toward a maze of shipping containers and pallets.

A quick assessment says this is a terrible plan.

Too many places to hide. Too many vantage points.

Asshole probably brought me out here to kill me and hide my body.

Around the wharf, skirting the dock entrance, I find a gap in the fence and slip through. He gestures that our goal is up ahead where I can hear voices.

“You sure there’s something happening here?” Not a lot of movement. Nothing feels out of place. Or maybe I’m losing my edge.

“Just keep moving.”

Skirting another crate, I spot the group of men, sitting around eating and talking in low voices. Not from around here, but definitely not the caliber of guys we fought the other night. These guys just look like some poor migrant dock workers, taking a break from unloading a shipment.

Two of the guys smile as hand-rolled cigarettes dangle from their mouths.

Definitely poor. Clothing unkempt. But they could be the same nationality as the others …

I wish I had Adriano’s factoid brain. He would know where they’re from based on the weave of the fabric in their outfits or the smell of their farts or some bullshit.

Not my forte. I’ve always been better at putting on a show.

So I do.

Stepping out, I walk boldly forward, tucking an imaginary document into my jacket and smiling tightly. “Gentlemen, I am from the port authority, need to check your papers.”

Glancing around like I own the place, I step right into the middle of the gathering, crossing my arms.

Two of them look at me, their eyes popping slightly as they exchange uncomfortable glances. As expected. They don’t speak Russian.

The others, however, scowl. So those two understand me well enough.

“Well? Just need to see some documentation and you can go about your business. Shipping manifesto, passports. Come on, guys, you know the drill.”

One of them backs away, the other fishing in his pockets for something. Hopefully not a gun.

Either way, I know Fyodor is waiting in the wings, likely ready to fire. I hope. He could be leaving me as bait to get shot on purpose.

The dockhand that tried to slip away suddenly yelps, drawing my attention.

“Oh, look at that,” I muse, flapping my lips as several men in black jackets spread out, all four dockhands holding their hands high.

I guess I was right about these poor guys.

But so was Fyodor.

And this is definitely an ambush.

10

VANYA

It’s way too fucking early when I open my eyes.

Especially with how much I drank last night. Yet I could barely sleep after what happened with Ciro. The way he made me feel, the way he touched me, the way he dominated me.

Unacceptable, insane, fucking wonderful.

I dreamt about it, and I woke up soaking wet.

My hand trails down, stroking my clit. So tempting. I ponder seeking him out, going down to his room.

Until I hear a car screech out front. Hopping out of bed, I rush to the window in time to see Ciro get in Fyo’s car and peel out.

Shit.

Too many thoughts zip through my head.

Did that domineering asshole find out about last night? Is he going to retaliate? Or is he just taking Ciro to fuck with him?

Either way, I can’t resist the urge to follow.

Throwing on some black jeans, boots, and a sweater over a midriff tank top, I’m out the door. I grab my coat in the hall and head out to the garage, pinging Fyodor’s phone as I get into the Jeep. They are heading toward the docks.

Hm.

Fyo would kill me if he knew I hacked his phone. But this is not the first time I have wanted to know where he is, or isn’t.

As far as Bratva captains go, he is the best. Otherwise, he is a pain in my ass.

In this case, with Ciro and me involved …

He hates anyone who comes near me. And he hates Ciro with a passion. Put those two together and they’ll both be dead by noon.

I keep my distance once I spot their car, finding a good place to park and tailing them across the shipyard. Rooftops are easy access in this part of town. And they give me an overview of the situation.

Up ahead, I spot several boats docking, most unremarkable. But something seems off about them. They do not hold much cargo.

A moment later I hear a gunshot, and I do not have time to wait to see what those boats are carrying. Leaping down, I tumble, roll, and I’m running toward the sound of fighting.

I see my path clearly before I see the altercation.

Off a low overhand, onto a pile of pallets, over a crate, leaping the gap. A man dressed like the ones we met last night stalks below me, his gun raised to fire.

My dagger in the back of his head drops him quietly.

Two more are closing in on Fyodor. I spot him struggling with three attackers behind a stack of lobster cages. So I assist, dropping right behind the incoming assault, drawing my pistols and double tapping them in the skulls.

Out in the open, Ciro is fighting for his life.

Rushing the first enemy I see, I slash the back of his knee, dropping him and popping off another bullet at a shooter taking aim from atop a shipping container. Fyo shouts as the body drops beside him, followed by a cheer.

“Help has arrived! You bastards are fucked now!” He hoots, laughing maniacally.

Someone screams and my attention is back on Ciro.

“Where the fuck did you get a machete?” I yell, hurrying to join him against the press of enemies.

“Sometimes I think I just make wishes and weapons fall out of the sky!”

“I cannot tell sometimes if you are joking.”

Both of us grunt as six assailants circle in on us. And Shakal falls into a dance of death like he was meant for this.

He’s fucking magnificent.

Parrying, dodging, disarming, and maiming. We fall into sync, providing openings for one another, killing the ones the other missed, blocking wayward blows that would surely incapacitate or kill.

It’s honestly the most romantic thing I’ve ever felt.

No one has ever been able to keep up with me in a fight, let alone complement me. Before long, we are pushing them back, several dead. But more are on the way.

“This seems a little less like a smuggling operation and a lot more like a⁠—”

“Down!” Fyo bellows, unloading a shotgun in a spray as he kicks the last of his own opponents to the ground. It clears a path for us.

“Move, we can regroup on the other side of the pier.” I break into a run, not waiting to see if they follow.

“You showed up at just the right time,” Ciro snarks. “Almost like you were following us.”

“He is not wrong.”

“Shut up, both of you. I saw you leave and figured it was to go get into trouble.”

“Be honest, you thought Fyo was going to drown me in the river.”

I glare back at him as we run, all while clamping down on the urge to laugh at the thoughtful expression on Fyodor’s face.

“It was on the list of ways I thought of to end Shakal.”

“Hey! You said I was here for backup and good fighting!” Ciro fakes offense.

“You are. I just considered making accident with your body afterward.”

“Why does everyone want my body so bad?!”

“What does he mean by this?!” Fyo growls, giving me and Ciro a dirty look.

“Nothing!” We both shout at him simultaneously.

Reaching the far side of the pier, we duck down, catching our breath. Dozens of squads appear down below, fanning out, searching for us.

“How much ammo you have left?” I ask.

“One clip. Five shells for shotgun.” Fyo snaps, scoping out our position.

“I’ve got five bullets and a dozen knives. And Eddie.” Ciro rolls his shoulders, bouncing on his toes.

“Eddie?’”

“Eddie Machete. He’s rusty, but he’s trusty.”

“Why did I ask?” I grumble.

“I hate you so much right now,” Fyodor adds, edging out along a row of stacked boxes. Two of them explode right beside him in quick succession.

“Answers that question.”

“Snipers?”

“Snipers.”

We are pinned down. Outnumbered.

“Best route is through the factory, there. Good cover from fire.” I offer, gesturing for Fyo to cover me as I roll to another spot.

“Lead them into a funnel?” The bull of a man nods, signaling for Ciro to move.

“Deathtrap. Da.” I raise my gun as a few shouts announce that we are spotted. Three shots sends the group scattering for cover.

“Deathtrap. I like it. Reminds me of Sheila.” Ciro muses, waving us on, keeping an eye on a closing troupe of gangsters moving back into formation.

“Who is Sheila?” And I regret it the second I ask.

“My ex. Had to call the fire department with the jaws of life to get her off of me.”

“Keep your head down!” Fyo barks, shoving us forward. The way ahead is clear and we scurry like rats. Without a proper bead on the sniper, we cannot be careless. Clearing the factory doors, we slow, assessing the surroundings, looking for a back door.

There is no way out except the upper-level catwalks.

A few shattered windows high up near the rafters will give us access to the adjoining roofs. If we can make it up the broken stairs, the rusted ladder.

But by the time we reach them, this warehouse will be full of black-clad bastards with guns.

“We need backup, I will call it in—” I flip out my cell, pulling up the number.

No bars.

No signal at all.

“This fucking building is blocking my signal!”

“New plan,” Fyodor cocks his gun, setting it next to the door. He proceeds to haul machinery, anything he can reach in front of the opening, blocking the way. They will have to climb. Ciro joins in.

Angry shouts outside announce the arrival of our pursuers. Dozens of them. A few wayward shots ring out before the front of the building erupts in a ticktack of bullets. Only a few make it through the doorway, sending us diving.

“One of us should get out, try to get help.”

“Vanya, you are fastest⁠—”

“No way. I am not leaving you here to die.”

“Van …” Fyo growls a warning, spinning to unload a spray of pellets into the first face trying to get through the opening. “Do not make me pull rank …”

“Bullshit!”

Because technically he can in a situation like this. He is in charge of missions, troops. I am the operations manager. So in the field …

“Fyo, do not be stubborn. We will find a way⁠—”

Ciro shoves me aside as a canister clatters into the factory, spraying smoke.

“We are going. Now!”

Their tactics actually buy us time. They think they will smoke us out, so they do not rush in right away.

Just enough time for the three of us to climb the scaffolding in the back corner, reaching the rickety catwalk. But the window is too small for Ciro or Fyodor.

“Go!”

I start to argue but they both move to lift me up, forcing me bodily out of the thin gap. A part of me wants to scratch and kick for the indignity of this.

“I swear, I will kill you both when this is done!” I shout, climbing to my feet and running for the edge of the building. Gunfire echoes around me, down below and inside. They see me, but I am too quick, hopping down onto an old fire escape.

Landing hard, I look around the old yard, blocked off by high walls. The only way out is an overgrown gate.

But a grin spreads across my face as I take stock of the various vehicles. This is a parking lot. For industrial vehicles.

I only have eyes for the massive crane in the center. Let’s hope it still works.

Scrambling up into the cab, I fumble around, discovering the keys in the cup holder.

The ancient thing roars to life after two tries.

“What is it Miley said?” I grit out through my teeth, cranking the levers, “I came in like wrecking ball!”

Spinning the cab and the entire structure around, I build speed, dragging the enormous metal ball around, straight at the wall. The impact nearly unseats me, bashing through old brick.

“Holy shit!” I hear in the haze of dust ahead as I stumble down, raising my gun to pick off a couple of shadowy figures inside.

“Ciro!” I yell, scrambling over the rubble.

He and Fyo shoot out of the hole in the wall like bats out of hell. Which means any other shapes in the gloom are targets. I empty my clip, skidding as I reverse directions to follow my guys.

Fyodor is already in an old truck, coaxing the engine to life.

“Into the bed!”

I almost squeal as Ciro swoops an arm around my middle, lifting me effortlessly and tossing me over the side of the truck. He hops in behind, slapping the fender.

The chain gate barely puts up a fight as Fyodor bashes us through, out onto a gravel road. We barely make the end of the drive before I hear the sounds of cars firing up to follow us.

Leaning around the side, I shout to Fyo, “We need to get word to Pyotr and the others!”

“You try to call again?”

“Net. No signal.”

“For me too.”

Ciro nods, flapping his hands and shaking his head.

“You think they have jammed communication?”

“Da. This is not just a ring of smugglers. This is a full-scale invasion.”

The realization sinks into my gut as he says it. Confirmed almost immediately by the view to my right. We fly out along the wharf, hauling ass right beside the water.

Across the way, I see boats lining the dock. Dozens of gun-toting men in black form up on the shore.

Not to mention the caravan of trucks and SUVs that swerve out behind us.

Fyo takes a hard left, veering back into the industrial zone, backtracking and buying us time. After several minutes without a sign of a tail, he screeches to a halt right next to my Jeep.

“Come, we will get back to compound, regroup,” I affirm, rushing for the driver’s side door.

Fyo slams it as soon as I get it open.

“What the hell?”

“This is not protocol.”

“I do not care about protocol, our people need to know!”

“If our scouts are not already aware of the problem, we are already dead.”

Anger wells up, frustration taking control. With a furious snarl, I turn away, pacing. “I will not hide.”

“Uh, anyone wanna fill me in on ‘protocol’?”

“Fyodor wants us to split up. Go to meeting points. Wait for instruction from base.”

“Sounds smart.”

“I will take Jeep. Lead them on goose chase. See if I can find out who they are. Gather men along the way.”

“Fyo—”

“This is my duty. You have yours. It’s more important that you stay alive. Stay safe. Use brain. Not balls, woman.”

I quiver with rage as I glare at him, but I cannot speak. He is right.

I am not thinking clearly.

We stand there in silence for a moment, longer than we should. The three of us are battered, bruised. Fyodor has a couple of gunshot wounds on his arm, his leg. Ciro bleeding from a half dozen cuts. A gash on my forehead has me squinting out of one eye as blood trickles down.

Everything is going to shit. Gunfire echoes across the city.

“How did we not see this coming?”

“Maybe someone did.” Ciro’s eyes harden, meeting mine, then Fyodor’s gaze.

“You think this is inside job?”

“If it is, then protocol changes,” Fyo growls, leveling a stern look at me.

“Safe house.” I sigh. “We will wait out the storm. But you better radio me as soon as you make it to redoubt. As soon as you make contact with Pyotr and Matvey.”

“Da.”

Turning away from me he addresses Ciro. “Shakal.”

“Yes, Kapitan.” Ciro snaps to attention.

My eyes widen at the immediate response. Not even a snide remark or a raised eyebrow.

“Protect her with your life.” He’s right in Ciro’s face, speaking low and calm. “I trust you now, Shakal. Do not dishonor Volk.”

“Krov’ i chest’. On blood and honor. I swear I will.” They clap hands together like a cheesy American action film. But no one is laughing. Ciro takes the keys to Fyo’s car.

“Do not die today, brother,” I whisper, grasping Fyodor’s arm.

Fyo smiles grimly. “If I die, I do so for honor. For family.”

“For family.” I agree.

“Give ’em hell, Flattop.” Ciro nods, pulling me away.

“Fuck you, komik. There is reason I park here, lead them down this route.” He slides a device from his pocket, flipping open the panel on the front.

Ciro’s eyes widen as we climb into the Porsche, revving the engine.

“Dobro pozhalovat,” Fyo salutes the line of SUVs rounding the corner several hundred yards out. “On behalf of Volk Bratva, I welcome you to your deaths.”

He hits the button, firing off explosives and blasting the first few cars sky-high. Right as Ciro pulls away.

All I can do is watch in the rearview as he climbs in the Jeep and drives off in another direction. Despite our sometimes awkward relationship, I worry I will not see him again.

Our route takes us an hour, doubling back, assuring that we are not followed. Once we are on the highway, I settle back for a bit.

“Where am I going?” Ciro asks softly. I must have spaced out. We are already on the far side of the city.

“Head left up here. We can disappear, so to speak, by taking that back street.”

“I like it.”

“I do not.” Any of this. Not being there at headquarters. Not knowing if my people are safe.

But I know my duty.

We park in a coded garage, continuing on foot through several buildings, underground tunnels. By the time we reach the apartment building, we are both huffing. At the top of the stairs I lean against the wall, resting my hands on my knees.

“Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?” I look up, noting the hint of a smile on his face.

“Saving our asses.”

“I could not let you die. Not without getting you back for last night.”

“You rescued me so you can get revenge?”

“So I can do this.” All of the pent-up frustration in me bubbles over. My fears, my anger. Everything rushes to the surface and all I can think about right now is distracting myself from running away, from hiding. The last twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind.

And I need him close to me. Inside me.

Before he can say a word I throw my arms around his neck, kissing him, claiming his mouth. He lifts me into his arms, swinging me around toward the door, turning circles as I fumble the key from my pocket, ram it into the lock, never once pulling apart as he devours my lips.

Then we are inside, slamming the door.

I tear at his shirt, dropping my coat as he tosses his aside.

“Van—”

“I need you. Now. No games.”

11

CIRO

Glass shatters as the frame hits the floor.

The whole wall rattles as she slams me into it, ravaging me.

I shove off the wall, scooping her up, rushing across the small entryway, lifting her off the ground.

Everything on top of the buffet goes down next, scattering, clattering.

Vanya drags me onto her as she settles on top of it, wrapping her legs around me, tugging at my hair, my shirt. Every movement is wild, almost frantic.

And I love the chaos.

We roll to the side, knocking the table over, crashing into the kitchen our lips never more than a breath apart for longer than a second as Vanya growls softly, biting my lower lip. This is what I wanted. That side of her that I’ve seen, the unbridled creature that takes what it wants.

And for every lash of her tongue, I reciprocate.

Her hands grip me tightly, pulling me, shoving me.

So I shove her back, dancing away for a moment, breathing hard, watching her circle the discarded furniture. Stalking me.

I can’t resist her, though.

Leaping over the legs of the table, I grab her again, swooping my hands under the edges of her sweater, up and over her head, casting it aside. All she has on underneath is a tight tank top, formfitted to her perfect, full breasts.

She nips at my mouth, watching my eyes, playing with me.

“I’ve wanted this for too long,” I rumble, leaning in closer.

“Then quit making me chase you, do not leave me hanging again like you did last night.”

It’s hard to believe it was just last night. Maybe it’s cause I haven’t slept.

“What’s the fun in that?” I dodge away again as she reaches for my belt.

“I will show you the fun,” she moans low and sultry, rushing after me. I twist, sweeping around her, coming up right behind her back wrapping my arms around her and biting at her earlobe. She flips around in my grip, planting her hands on my chest and throwing me back.

Now she’s on the run as I push off the front door, chasing her into the bedroom.

She’s waiting just inside, tackling me with a deep, passionate kiss.

And this time I indulge the kiss, drawing her tongue into my mouth, flicking and dancing in a sensuous swirl of toe-curling pleasure. My hands explore her hips, her ass, her back, flicking the hooks on her bra open with a pinch. Pulling back, I tug her shirt up, needing it gone.

She obliges, crossing her arms as I pull up.

Then there’s nothing between us. At least on the upper half of our bodies.

“You have no idea how much I have wanted you. Since the first time I saw you,” I admit, worshiping each of her thick, supple tits with my hands, my fingers, my tongue.

“Liar. You just wanted to see me naked.”

“I mean yeah. But so much more.”

“Show me how much more …”

My hands can’t touch enough of her skin, massaging her sides, back, into the lip of her jeans. Even as her hands scratch down my back, pop the button on my pants. And thank goodness.

My cock is so hard it aches, pressing against the inside of my boxers.

Turning her around, I glide one hand down her front, teasing into her waistline, tickling her lower abdomen. All the while, I cup those magnificent orbs of her chest, sucking on her neck.

“You are something else, Van …”

“I don’t think I understand this saying. What do you mean by this?”

“That there’s never been anything, anyone like you.”

“I know this …” she whispers back into my ear, smiling luxuriously with her eyes fluttering.

My God I want to make her make that face, make her voice do that thing, over and over again.

She slams her hands down on the desk in front of us as I drag fingers down her back, my other fingers still tracing down the smooth curve of her belly. I need to touch her. Like I did last night.

But she thrusts her ass toward me and my hips jolt like we’re magnetic, ramming into her from behind, just hard enough to make her shout, laughing as she rolls those sweet cheeks across my crotch. Up, down, she arches her back, grinding against me.

The desk is our next victim, tipping over as we resume our wild endeavor. I spin her around, locking lips again, tearing the front of her jeans open, unzipping them.

Tracing around her waist, my hands dive into the back, squeezing the sculpted curve of her, just as thrilled as I notice she’s wearing lacey, cheeky, underwear. I can’t wait to tear them off with my teeth.

Vanya bites down on the crook of my neck, hard enough to make me gasp.

As soon as I toss my head back, she drops along my front, kissing down my chest, my abs. Her nails hook my jeans, dragging them down.

Before I can even blink, I’m in her grasp, then in her mouth.

It’s fucking heaven.

Even better than last night.

Her tongue flutters, her lips curling around my shaft. And the way she rolls her head as she slowly takes me to the hilt sends jolts of lightning down my legs, up through my back and into my brain, exploding in little bursts of light and sheer ecstasy.

I could let her continue and I know she would, voraciously driving me over the edge. But I need to taste her first.

And how dare she get me naked with her fucking pants still on?!

Hooking my hand below her jaw, I draw her up, guiding her back toward the bed. Vanya says nothing, her mouth open slightly as she licks her glistening, slick lips, her chest heaving.

My thumb tracks along her bottom lip, around to cup the back of her neck.

Then it’s my turn to work my way down, sucking on one, then the other firm, pert nipple, before I go lower, working the skintight fabric down and settling her onto the bed as I do. With a final tug, I chuck her pants to the side, gliding my palms along her thighs, marveling at the sight of her flawless porcelain skin. And the black lace nestled between those powerful, muscular legs.

On my knees, I lean forward, kissing the line of her stomach, savoring the taste of her as I lick, reveling in the feeling of her smooth belly under my lips.

With her legs, she tries to pull me up onto her but I resist, continuing my venture down, down, down. Right to the edge of her panties.

Only to reverse course, back up, sucking her nipples, dragging one into my mouth, circling it with my tongue, biting the tip of it with my teeth, before moving on to the next one, kissing every inch of the space between. All the while, I trace the lines of the tattoos running down her sides.

I did not expect those …

But they accent her curves. Faint, delicate lines.

Smiling, I hum my enjoyment as she tousles my hair, working my way down again. This time, I don’t pause, kissing the outside of the lace.

Vanya’s legs tighten, so I brace my hands on the sheets, holding my ground. It gives me pause though, and I look up to find her breathing hard, watching me with fire in her eyes. But also … hesitance.

That’s when it hits me.

“Have you ever … ?”

“I am not virgin, Shakal,” she scoffs, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s not what I meant. Not sex. Has anyone ever …” I glance down, brushing my lips along the lips of her panties, flicking my tongue against her skin.

Instantly I see the flush in her cheeks, spreading to her chest. The sight of her vulnerable like this, taken off guard, makes me weak in the knees.

“So, I take it Russian guys …”

“At least not the ones I have been with, no,” she snaps, biting her lip apprehensively.

I feel the tension in my shoulders relax and I smile at her, kissing the inside of her thighs.

“Relax … and let me …” I brush my lips down the silk fabric, massaging her hips and ass, disarming her. The soft sigh of surprise that escapes her lips tells me I’m on the right track, and that she’s definitely willing to try.

“Ciro, you don’t have to …”

“I am going to taste you, I need to taste you.”

Vanya’s butt flexes involuntarily as I kiss right over her clit.

“If you must.” Her eyes flick to the side, feigning indifference.

“I must. And you’re going to lay there and come in my mouth and love every second of it.”

Those eyes pop open wide at my bold words, even wider as I pull the black lace aside, dragging the tip of my tongue along her outer lips.

Just like that, we are back in the fever of things, heat rising between us higher than I thought possible. Especially when I slip the thin, soft fabric off of her and bury my tongue in her center.

“Oh, Ciro!”

Closing my eyes, I savor her, taking my sweet time exploring every fold of her sex, letting the desire build. Letting her fully enjoy the experience.

Pulling my tongue up along each side of her, into the cleft of her thigh makes her moan deeper. Dragging the flat of my tongue across her core makes her gasp. Spearing my tongue inside makes her abs tense, her eyes clamping shut in silent ecstasy.

Until a little laugh escapes my lips. I can’t help it. I’m enjoying this too much. But she glares at me, still squirming with my fingers playing at her entrance.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“No, I’m enjoying this. I’m teasing you. I like teasing you.”

“Teasing? I am not sure if I know this word.”

“You know, like when you go to kiss somebody, but you don’t. Like this …” I breathe, pretending to lick her, but staying just out of reach. Her hips buck toward my mouth, a little growl at her lips.

“So this is teasing.”

“Oh, I haven’t even begun to tease you.”

“Keep it up and I will tease my thighs around your head like vise grip,” she promises, giving me a hot look.

Message received.

This time, I only toy with her once before I dive back in, kissing her sex deeply.

Her hips speak volumes as I increase the intensity, circling her apex, playing a fingertip at her entrance. She falls into a tantalizing rhythm, gyrating and writhing to my touch.

I want to take all fucking day, all fucking night. To make her scream louder than she ever has. But I know I won’t hold out that long. The ache in my chest matches the ache in my crotch to be inside her.

For now, I can wait, watching the rapture take her slowly, watching her back arch off the bed.

“This is going to make me …”

“It’s all I want to do.”

“Mmm, yes!” she sings, meeting my eyes with longing. With a look that tells me she has never opened herself this way, never let anyone have the control she keeps in her life.

And that thought alone turns me on more than anything.

Vanya’s mouth opens wider, a silent cry as I slide a finger into her, twirling my tongue around her peak, sucking and fluttering. Her walls shudder around my finger, drawing me in deeper, dipping to let me press harder on the cluster of nerves just inside her.

I can’t resist the urge to reach down, gripping my rock-hard dick in my fist, working it from base to tip. She’s so unbelievably gorgeous. Sexy. Alluring.

I want to worship this woman.

I want to fall apart at her feet and have her put me back together. But at the same time, I want to be stronger than anybody’s ever been for her, because that’s all she does all day. She’s the strong one. Stone cold.

But with me, she can melt.

She can be herself.

A deep moan vibrates through my mouth and across her skin, making her shake. I know she’s getting close.

So I plunge my tongue inside of her as strong and as hard as I can, savoring every second of it. Right before I slide my fingers inside again, redoubling the strokes of my tongue at her hooded summit.

A deep, abiding desire rises in me, an urgency to give her everything. In this moment, to take her to the edge and cast her off into oblivion. Her hips rock up and down, her whole body undulating and pulsating beneath me.

“Ci-Ciro!” It’s breathless, desperate.

Then she’s throwing her head back, screaming wordlessly to the skies, shouting as she comes undone. Fingers clench in my hair, holding me fast to her as she rides the waves of bliss.

Hooking my arms around her thighs, I hold on as she bucks, another scream rattling the windows. Her hands slam into the wall above her, bracing as another orgasm shakes her core.

Then she settles, gasping, a little shiver tensing her legs. Crawling up the bed over her, I take the moment to drink in her form, the curve of her hips, the cleft of her throat, the swell of her breasts.

“I-I’ve never …” Her face says more than her words as I crane my neck down to nuzzle her cheek, kissing her ear.

“You don’t need to say anything, Vanya.”

“I want to say it. I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”

“I feel the same way,” I mutter into her lips and she licks mine, biting her lower lip, testing herself on me.

“Prove it.”

Her calves hook around my hips, drawing me to her, pressing us close. Seating me right at her entrance.

My heart is pounding. Against her chest, I realize I can feel hers too, matching mine hammer strike for strike.

I barely shift on top of her and the tip of me slips in, making me close my eyes, concentrating on not losing my shit completely. She feels incredible.

And she knows it, chuckling softly into my ear.

“Ciro …”

“Vanya …”

“Say my name again.”

“Vanya,” I hum, sliding deeper inside her, unable to wait any longer.

She’s soft as crushed velvet, sleek and tight. Absolutely perfect.

“Oh my God,” Vanya gasps, wrapping her arms around my neck, tilting to take me deeper, seating me within her fully. A deep inhale as she adjusts to my size, her eyes rolling back.

And I am fucking lost in her.

I’ve never felt anything like this.

Rolling my hips once, we get the feel for one another, our fingers intertwining, our eyes locked. Driving into her deeper, slowly, I sigh, leaning down to kiss her.

“Deeper …”

“Anything for you.”

“Tell me you want me …”

“I love you.”

My heart stops beating. The whole goddamn world stops spinning.

What the teenage lovestruck fuck did I just say?

Vanya’s brow furrows, her eyes bright and boring into me.

“I-I …”

Her expression is almost angry, insistent, passionate. Her lip quivers once.

“Do you mean it?”

Time itself holds its breath.

“I mean it with all of my heart,” I blurt out, taking the most horrifying risk of my life. I’ve never said it. Never even dared to feel it.

But she’s right there. Inside my chest, holding my heart in her hands.

Then she’s kissing me, melting into me desperately, our bodies rolling into motion. She envelopes me completely, and I thrust powerfully, a weight lifted from me that I never knew I was carrying.

There’s no toying, fighting. No games.

Just pure passion, lust, desire, love, whatever the hell you want to call it. She rolls, pinning me under her, grinding down on me insistently, rising over me and planting her palms on my chest, taking control.

And I let her.

She’s a Valkyrie, taking my soul straight to Valhalla.

Sitting up, my forearms encircle her back, the heat of her skin pulsing into me, our chests meeting as I pump up into her at the edge of the bed. The sensation is pure abandon, sensual and primal.

Vanya’s head tilts back exposing her neck, her chest. And my lips cannot keep up, devouring her throat, her collarbone, and the peaked tips of her swollen breasts. Ravaging her drives her wild, her hips bucking back and forth over me, grinding my cock inside her.

Silk walls flex around my shaft and I drive up into her harder.

Vanya cries out, clenching her teeth and planting her feet on the bed to either side of me, lifting herself up and down along the entire length of me, pausing at the bottom with a gusting moan each time. She increases the speed, bouncing against my lap, our voices joining as we both get more and more lost in the moment, in each other.

She’s insatiable.

So am I.

“Faster, harder,” she forces out between gasps.

I’m already rising, cupping her ass and lifting her with me, staying tight together as I rush across the room, planting her ass on the top of the dresser and raising her knees higher. Wrapping my elbows snugly around them, I start to pound into her, slamming the dresser into the wall with every thrust.

“Da! Ciro! Right there!” Vanya screams, gripping the lip of the dresser. “More! Boleye!

I can feel my oncoming eruption, the aura of my untethering building in my middle, my legs and arms flexed, prolonging the inevitable. She’s beginning to quake inside, the slick of her arousal flooding around me.

On a whim, I throw her legs over my shoulders, folding her in half, getting a better grip, a better angle. Her ankles loop behind my neck, closing her tighter around me as we rocket toward a tumultuous peak.

My eyes try to drift shut, my head tilting back, every other muscle in my body clenched for release. But I want to see her come undone. Watch us come together.

“Fuck, I am …” Her words blur into an ecstatic wail as I barrel into her harder, with every fiber of my being. She’s screaming in Russian, words I’ve never heard before, swearing, praying, cursing.

Her core locks up, her legs quivering.

And I can’t hold on any longer. The rush of her silken release and the grip of her walls around me send me over the edge, unleashing myself.

Then Vanya is rolling her hips to the rhythm of every stroke, dropping her legs to encircle my waist again. She shifts forward, forcing me back, falling, stumbling, and landing on my back on the bed.

Still buried deep within her.

My head flops back, the sensitive aftershocks curling my toes as she twirls her hips, her eyes fluttering closed, a hand in her hair, the other digging nails into my stomach.

All I can do is lie there, still rigid inside of her as she rides out another rolling tsunami of pleasure, this one longer, deeper. Her moans drop to a guttural whine. And I have never heard a sweeter sound.

She’s slowing, her chest heaving.

But I can’t resist.

I flex harder, clamping my hands down on her waist, pushing deeper.

Starting her off on another wave, making her throw her head back, crying out something halfway between a sob and a laugh. The insides of her thighs shake as she locks her knees into my sides.

“Oh, no … no more … not yet …” She drops to my chest, a look of absolute wonder in her eyes.

I can relate.

Every neuron in my brain is surging, flaring in the glow of her love.

Just like that, we’re both spent. For a little while at least.

As my mind begins to drift, the lack of sleep finally taking its toll, I marvel at the feeling of her curled in my arms, nestled against me. It’s a strange feeling. Something I have wondered about. Seen many times.

But never for myself.

Is this what normal people feel like? Is this what love feels like?

Distantly, I feel her grunt softly, sliding into the groove of my arm beside me and draping a leg over me, leaving our disaster soaking into the sheets. And I hear her mumble, slurred and far away, “Ciro … I trust you with my life. Moye serdtse …”

And I’m falling, lost in sweet oblivion, wondering what those words mean.

12

VANYA

A soft static scratch wakes me.

Slowly, I stir from a deep sleep, the deepest I have had in a long time. A deep breath reminds me why.

His scent fills my head, faint cologne. Our sweat and sex still on us.

Images play through my mind, rousing me again, making me smile. I will always want more …

Glancing at the window, it’s dark. Not a sound reaches us on the third floor. No traffic. Must be the middle of the night.

I stretch languidly, running my hand down Ciro’s smooth stomach. I feel the slow rise and fall of his breath.

He is still sound asleep.

Yet when I reach the edge of the sheet draped across him, he is certainly awake in one way. I am just contemplating sliding that magnificent column into my mouth when I hear the scratching sound again.

“Shit,” I hiss, flipping over and off the bed.

Radio.

Scrambling for my phone, I swipe it open. No messages. Signal is still down.

“Van?” Ciro mumbles as I dash to the kitchen through the hallway, reaching the shortwave, turning up the dial.

Low static.

Then a click.

Another.

Changing the station, I wait. Another click. A pattern. Sent periodically by automated signal to inform us which station to listen to for emergency.

Three changes later I stop, catching the last of a few words. Ciro rests his hands on my shoulders as he joins me, pulling me back to lean against him as I sit in front of the speaker.

The message in Russian starts again.

“Overrun at checkpoint five. Checkpoint six. All sectors compromised. Await orders. Pakhan protocols enacted. Await orders. Remain hidden. Enemy at large.”

It cuts out, another break.

But I have heard enough.

“How did this happen? Without any warning. Like they knew exactly where and when to strike.”

“The Volk are too strong for that. There’s no way these guys wipe us out,” Ciro reassures me, holding me close. “Besides, the other chapters of Volk will come running once we get a message out. They won’t stand for this.”

“Neither will our Rivals.”

“The others … they’ll support you?”

“In a situation like this, on our soil, in our homeland? Yes. All feuds are cast aside when an outsider makes a move in Motherland.”

“Good. Then we just need to get out of town. Just enough to make a call.”

“Not before I see the compound. The house. I need to know Matvey is safe.”

“He’s probably holed up in one of these houses just like us, bitching about not having cable TV.”

I want to smile, to appreciate his words and his attempt at calming me. But a sick feeling swims in my gut.

Something is terribly wrong.

“You are probably right. Still, I need to know. And if we can find a clue as to who these menaces are, even better.”

“I’m down to kill a couple. And of course, keep one for you to torture.”

“Thank you, Ciro.”

“Anything you need. I have your back.”

I am equally grateful that he did not try to tell me to stay here, to play it safe. He knows me better than that.

“There are guns, clean clothes.”

“Uh, great. We’ll get right to it.” He glances to the side, then down at himself. Then me. “Or, we could, you know, eat, shower, plan.”

Snorting lightly, I shove him out of the way, heading for the bathroom.

“Saves time if we shower together, da?”

“Da. Very da.” Ciro rushes to follow, looking like a sweet fool running totally naked through the apartment.

The shower is quick, rough, hot. And the water is too.

Ciro throws together a meal from what the safe house has in the pantry. Mostly MRE. Simple. Filling. He even does me the favor of keeping his thoughts to himself about the taste, even as he makes faces stuffing it down.

Big baby.

Because my thoughts are solely on my family. On this outrageous attack.

The sudden appearance of a foreign power.

A massive deployment of private troops. And zero response from the military, the police. Someone with a lot of money, then.

It all seems impossible.

Only slightly more impossible than what the man standing next to me as we exit the safe house a couple of hours later just did to me so many times earlier. And again in the shower.

No one has ever …

Shaking my head in the cold, I head off toward the street. I must stay focused.

Leading the way back to the garage I almost step out from the dark sidewalk to the orange of the streetlamp when I hear a sound.

“Ssst.” Ciro barely makes a noise, but in the dead of night it makes me freeze, glancing around. He points ahead, to the left. Then raises three fingers.

My eyes widen, mostly in irritation.

Here too?

They must be all over town. And they must have some sense of where our safe houses are if they are so close to us.

Ciro shrugs, waiting for me to make a call.

Gesturing with two fingers, I wave us on, heading a different direction. We slink through the darker alleys, passing one or two more pairs of infiltrators. Soon, we reach a smaller neighborhood. Quiet. Mostly cottages.

“No sign of them.”

“I figured. They must have gotten some intel, but no maps.” Otherwise our little tryst might have been interrupted.

“Just our shit luck that they posted up right by our ride.”

“It’s fine. We steal car.”

“Oh. Works for me. A little Faust and the Furious?”

“Faust was German.”

“Ah, shit. You’re not German?”

“You’re not Greek?”

“Ooo, them’s fightin’ words.”

“Shut up and break into this car. Assuming you know how?” I raise one eyebrow.

“Ohoho, please. What kind of lifelong criminal and mobster would I be if I couldn’t? I stole my first car at twelve.”

“Ah, so you got late start. Let me to do it for you. It is easy.”

Ciro doubles over laughing, covering his mouth. I press my lips together to keep from joining in. He really is contagious.

Or I am a stupid fawning girl.

“Light,” I snap.

“Here. Now please, show me your magical ways, princess.”

“Like this, see?” I sniff, pretending to pop the lock and opening the door. “Magic.”

“Ten points to Gryffin⁠—”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“And I am no princess. I am queen.”

“My mistake. You wouldn’t happen to need a king, would you?”

“Hm. Perhaps a serf to drive me back to my castle.”

“I’m starting a rebellion, so hard pass.” He grins, dodging my fist. “You know the streets better. And apparently, which neighborhoods people leave their car doors unlocked.”

He mutters the last bit, circling the old gray four-banger.

His lighthearted chatter helps me keep from spiraling as we make our way back toward the Volk center of power. Until we reach the first outpost, finding it occupied by a couple of invaders.

From there, we keep the lights off, taking side streets.

Ciro is right. I know the city better than anyone.

And my city is scared. Dead silent. Holding its breath.

Like its protectors suddenly went missing.

As we cross the heart of town, still far from our compound, I sense the presence of the enemy. The citizens watch us drive by through closed curtains. It’s more than unsettling.

It’s poison. Eating at my soul.

My blood is pumping in my ears by the time we get near the compound. It’s that tense sort of quiet stress. Like when you are creeping up on an opponent. Trying to surprise them.

Waiting to be discovered suddenly.

Another outpost, the closest to the house, and I am starting to unwind.

“These men, they were supposed to go off duty at midnight. Relief should have come.” I follow the logic, my mouth drying out. If they did not get backup, or reinforcements …

Panic rears its head in my chest.

“Hey, don’t think the worst yet,” Ciro says. “We’re almost there. No signs of any more goons. We’ll find Matvey, get a radio or whatever and⁠—”

“Shh!” I hold up my hand, opening my door and easing out.

I have a better idea.

And Ciro follows my lead, shuffling around to my six.

A single man stands leaning against the wall in the alley leading to the office we keep above the pool hall, his arms folded tightly against the cold. They do not look prepared for our weather. He is alone, left to guard the dead.

Or to wait for someone like me. I let him spot me, pulling my hoodie around my face and walking like a defenseless woman clutching her purse. He rises, striding toward the street with a dark look on his face.

But he does not see Ciro coming behind him.

My Shakal takes him behind the knee, dropping him and looping a chord about his neck.

“Gentle. I need him to be able to speak,” I implore, sauntering up to them and lowering my hood.

Immediately the man scowls, trying to spit at my feet. He raises his nose, even as Ciro tightens the chord.

“Hm. Interesting. I take it you do not respect women where you come from?”

No answer. Ciro’s lips peel back in a vicious grin, but I hold up a hand. A flick of my fingers and he releases the man to drop down, coughing. Right before he lunges at me.

Just like I wanted.

I use his momentum against him, curling my hands around his, snapping both of his thumbs and yanking down. The fucker flops to his ass, writhing, a wheezing squeal of pain barely clearing his swollen throat. Or maybe he cannot make a sound because of the pain?

Crouching, his broken thumbs still in my grasp, I lean in close. “Do you speak Russian? English?”

“F-fuck you, bitch!” he chokes out in broken English.

“English then.”

Ciro sniffs, looming over us like an omen of death, only his grin visible through the shadows.

The man shudders as he looks up, immediately looking back down, shaken.

“And more scared of him than me. Foolish. Tell me … where are you from? Who are you?”

“My nem eez … fuck you!”

I let out a sigh, smiling and nodding. Right before I jam my hand into his crotch, gripping him by the balls and pressing my dagger against his bulge. He sits up straight, whimpering.

“Listen closely to me. I will castrate you if you do not tell me,” I whisper, my voice hollow and frigid. “Where?”

“M-Morocco.”

“Anything else?”

“They will kill!” he forces out, anger and fear filling his face.

“So will he.” I retort, standing. Waving a hand in dismissal, I walk away. Behind me, I hear the snap of his neck.

“He might have said more.”

“Doesn’t matter. We have a location. That means our fears might be true. We will find someone higher up and interrogate them next. Make sure it is the Mocro.” But I really just want to get home.

We stop the car around the corner, approaching on foot. When we reach the house, I realize just how wrong everything really is. The guard station up front is empty. The gate hangs open.

Ciro readies his weapon, taking a tactical stance and nodding. With a slight shake of my head, I signal him forward, to go in first. It’s the smart thing to do. He is stronger, and I am a better shot.

Inside, the grounds are a mess.

Fires burn here and there, cars smoldering.

No sign of a single Volk.

We creep through the smoke and fog of the early morning, silently scanning the outer buildings. Nothing. Even when we head up the main drive, there’s very little going on. The barracks seem to be vacant. No one’s on the premises.

So we circle inward, toward the main house. Where things are much, much worse. The whole place is trashed, windows broken, bullet holes and grenade blasts.

Then I see bodies. Piles of them. The invaders. Our men.

“They had a standoff here,” Ciro whispers, his eyes tight, focused. He is like ice. And I am grateful. I need him to be my rock.

“We need to get inside,” I start, but a clatter stops us in our tracks. Ciro flicks his fingers to the left and rushes for cover.

Right as a half dozen men in dark coats come around the corner, muttering in low voices. What I can make out is not Russian. Each of them carries a bag or a pile of junk, poking through the wreckage as they walk.

I charge without hesitation.

“Hey!” One of the men looks up in time to take my knife in his throat.

But these guys are fairly well-trained. They fan out in a second, one of them backs off to run for help.

Ciro is a ghost out in the dark, making him vanish with nothing but a sharp scream. It echoes, making the rest frantically look around, waiting for an attack.

“Yes, it is a devil in the dark, come to seek vengeance. You think you can come into our city, our ports and just fucking take over?” I snarl, lashing out at the first one to go for his gun, slashing his hand.

The circle widens for a second, then they rush me.

I give them a prize for bravery. But they lose points for stupidity.

Disarming one with a twist of his gun, I pistol whip him with his own weapon, letting him fall back and using the opening to spin. My boot connects with a body, right as the two to my left hit the ground, knives jutting from their backs and a wild-eyed Ciro kneeling on top of them. The one on the right balks at the sight, the one I just kicked stumbling into him.

We stalk in as they tumble to the ground, scrambling. Like we were meant to hunt together. Our movements in perfect sync.

He is the balance of me.

Equally brutal. Possibly even more deadly.

As one, we pause, waiting for the two men to rise. They do, drawing those knives with the strange symbol we saw before.

Ciro offers me his hand. Palm up, and I take it.

He flings me into a spin as they charge, right between them, ducking down and swooping for their legs. Both leap, clearing my kick, blades aimed for Ciro. He deflects both, spearing hard fingers into one wrist, flinging the knife into the dark.

I’m there in an instant, slashing the gawking bastard’s throat out.

Our dance is precise, rhythmic. And they don’t hear our music. But I do.

Stepping out, Ciro dodges another attack, reaching for me, tugging me in his wake to parry the blade with mine. Rebounding from the momentum, he launches me over the man’s head, slapping his swinging arms out wide, keeping him from grabbing me.

I land lightly, spinning and taking his head from his shoulders.

Then Ciro is there, lifting me, twirling me. Just in time to miss the patter of bullets that hit the spot I was just standing.

His hands at my waist are searing fire, even in such dire circumstances. He makes me rage. Gets my adrenaline pumping.

Spotting the shooter, we split, sprinting to flank.

I see the figure, backlit in fire ahead. He is mine. His gun rises to take aim at me, he has me dead to rights.

Until I hear Ciro roar and the shooter’s head flips to the side. In the firelight I see the mask reflecting the glow.

The knife is gone from my hand before I realize it, flying toward the masked man.

At the last second, he raises his arm, taking the blade in the forearm and stumbling into the dark. Ciro darts after him. I start to run, feel the sting in my side. The pain forces me to my knees.

A few moments later, Ciro returns stalking back toward me with a closed expression.

“He got away again?”

“Like a fucking ninja,” Ciro spits, cursing. “You okay?”

“Fine. Took a hit to my side.” I shove his hand away before he can find the blood streaming under my jacket. It went straight through. Minimal damage.

Turning toward the house, we throw caution to the wind, storming up the steps and through the doorway. Inside, the rooms are ransacked, smashed to pieces.

“Pyotr?” I call softly down the hall.

Ciro splits off, clearing the other rooms.

He is just rejoining me downstairs, heading to Pyotr’s office when I freeze.

I cannot breathe as I see his body, covered in blood. My legs give out and distantly, I feel Ciro catch me. He helps me to Matvey’s side, propped up against our Papa’s desk.

I cannot cry.

I will not.

But my hand is on his face, and he is so cold …

“Van, he has a pulse. Barely.” Ciro’s words don’t register until Mat’s eyes twitch, flutter open. I know it is not good news, however. Ciro’s tone says it all. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him inspect my brother’s wounds. I see him bite down on the inside of his cheek hard, his eyes watering.

Still, I smile.

And Matvey tries to return it, the angel that he is.

“Van … am I dreaming?”

“Net, Matvey. I am here.”

“Klassno,” he mumbles, his eyes distant. “I fought hard, sestrenka. You would be proud.”

His words are faint, slurred.

“I am proud, little brother.”

“Now I know you are fucking with me …” The soft huff of laughter shakes his chest, makes him cough. I pretend not to notice the hint of blood at his lips.

“Only because I took out twice as many.” I sniffle, hiding it with a tight smile.

“I bet Ciro beat both of us, ah? Is he … where is he?”

“Right here, Matty.” Ciro chokes, taking my brother’s soot and bloodstained hand.

“Da, da. You are my brother, man, you know?”

“I am. Forever.”

“Now you take care of Vanya. She say she does not need … but she need … you,” he whispers, his breath coming in gasps.

“She needs you, Matty. Just hang on. We … we can …” Ciro’s jaw clenches.

“You lost your twin, brat. You are two of a kind.”

My heart implodes. My world crumbles.

And I cannot speak. I simply hold my brother’s face as the light fades.

“Mama will be pissed that I was out so late … Papa will …” Mat’s gaze focuses for a split second. He grasps my hand. “Papa …”

“It’s alright, Mat,” I sing softly.

“No, no. Pyotr. They took him.”

“Who?”

“H-him …” Mat’s hand guides mine into the blood on his chest. To the floor.

Where he scrawls a symbol.

Then he pulls my hand close. Kisses my fingers.

And he is gone.

13

CIRO

The drive out of town is quiet.

Vanya stares out the window for most of the ride, dozing fitfully the rest. There is nothing I can do to comfort her.

Her brother is dead.

My best friend is dead.

I carried him to the garage where we loaded up a van and we left the compound behind. With Mocro forces still roaming St. Petersburg, I pushed her to make the call.

Even though we both wanted to look for him, the man who did it. The symbol that Matvey drew in his blood …

It was the same as the mark on the masked villain’s black visage. But we had no way to track him. We needed time to figure out what to do. Sleep. Food.

Vanya needs time to mourn.

Checking the map again, I rub my eyes, yawning as the sun just peaks over the horizon. My body is sore, bruised.

But what really aches is the hole in my chest.

She’s sitting right there. Might as well be across a chasm. Not that I blame her. I know how it feels to lose a brother. Even if I am having a hard time believing my twin is dead.

So I really have nothing to offer her. No experience. And I am the farthest from being the go-to guy for emotional maturity.

But apparently, I have enough self-awareness to have those thoughts these days. Alessandro would be stunned.

We’re cruising through the countryside, my mind drifting, when Vanya’s voice startles me.

“Ciro.”

Shaking myself, I glance at her. Her eyes are distant. Her face calm.

Taking a chance, I reach out, resting my hand on her thigh. Her fingers lace through mine. Well, that’s something.

Then I wait for her to continue, keeping my mouth shut for the first time in my life.

“Tell me something. A story. About your brothers.”

“Um, yeah. Sure. Anything in particular?”

“No. You never speak of them.” She shrugs.

Frowning, I nod, realizing she’s right. “I guess it’s easier not to think about it, but I miss the hell out of them.”

Reaching down, I change the station on the radio, searching until I find some old folk station. Perfect. Gotta set the mood.

“Forty-odd years ago, Alessandro Diamante was born. This was before he became the mysterious legend you and the rest of the world know of.”

The faintest hint of a smile plays on Vanya’s lips as she gazes out the window.

“He was a gangly, blond kid with a knack for any sport you can think of. At least those are the stories I heard growing up from Aunt Eva and Uncle Giancarlo. When I remember him, he was almost an adult. Already weighed down by the responsibility of raising three little brothers. Stern. Stoic. Always looking off into sunsets with a cigarette in his mouth. Regular Marlboro Man bullshit.”

“He sounds like a legend in your mind,” Van sniffs.

“He was! We lost Mom and Dad when I was six. Aless was the only parent I really remember.”

“A shame. Matvey and I did not lose our parents until later. Many happy memories with them.”

“I have a few. Christmas at the brownstone. Chasing Ero through Central Park, Mom screaming at us to stop. A few more that might just be implanted from seeing photos and hearing the stories. But you know how it is growing up in a big mob family. There are stories and then there are tales. The ones I heard the most were of Alessandro on his way up with Dom. I wanted to be like him so bad.”

“So what happened?” She side-eyes me.

“You’re very rude. I think I became like the version of him I heard about growing up.” I smile, shaking my head. I’ve never told anyone this stuff before. Never really analyzed it.

“Larger than life, no?”

“Exactly. And truth be told, he was. Guy was one hell of a leader. Never really wanted the job, though.”

“You are more like him than you think, then.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing.”

“I am still deciding.”

“And I’m still trying to screw it up.”

“Take the old road up ahead on the right. It skirts the village,” she sidebars, stretching in her seat and yawning. “Who is next? Adriano?”

“Ah yes. Adri was the miracle baby. They lost a few between. The guy is a genius. And boring as fuuuuck. Organized, responsible. Wet. Rag. Which seems counterintuitive.”

“He kept the entire operation running, didn’t he?”

“Absolutely.”

“I think I can relate to this brother.”

“That makes him sound cool. Adri is not cool.”

“Paperwork is never cool. It is necessary.”

“Yeah, yeah. Logistics, supplies. No wonder he was always so damn serious and quiet. Less dour than Aless for sure.”

“Firstborn, awkward middle child. What does that make you and Fiero?”

“Accidents?”

“Not true.”

“Aw thanks …”

“Only one of you can be accident. Other one is like bonus. Like collateral damage?”

“I’m about to collateral damage this car off this bridge.”

“Don’t be crybaby. I did not say which one you are. You have not told me about Fiero.”

“We called him Ero.”

“Error?”

“Ha. Why have I never thought of that?”

“Because you are self-absorbed.”

“That was rhetorical. Anyway. Fiero is like the yin to my yang. Or maybe more like the ‘wang’ to my yin. Cause he’s kind of a dick. Girls think he’s hot cause he rarely talks in public. If they only knew! He always corrects me. He’s sour, brooding, borderline sociopathic. Scratch that. He is basically a serial killer. Never smiles. When he laughs, children cry and dogs freak out.”

“Sounds like he would fit in with Bratva.”

“Oh, he would. Clever as fuck. Agile, insanely fast, and he never. Ever. Misses. Not to mention his driving skills. Makes me look like a granny.”

“You admire him.”

“I’m terrified of him. Mostly because we are so much alike. Probably why I always leaned into being a silly bitch. Tried to balance out his demonic energies.”

“You are no angel.”

“You’ve got that handled …”

“Wow. How do you say? Cheesy?” But her smile says it all.

I take the dirt road she indicates, winding up into trees. It’s pleasant. Peaceful. I’ve never really been an outdoorsy kind of guy, but it’s picturesque. The cottage at the top of the hill is like a damn post card.

“This is yours?”

“Technically. Mama and Papa left it to us. We rarely come out here anymore.” Vanya steps out of the car, staring up at the house. I let her drift back through her memories for a while, grabbing the few things we brought with us, stacking our supplies on the porch to stay busy.

After a few moments, she joins me, carrying our bags inside.

It’s exactly what I expected.

Quaint. Cute.

“Seems like a nice place to grow up.”

“We stayed in the summers. Swam in the lake,” she murmurs, resting her hands on the sink, checking the water. The pipes rattle, sputtering to life. “It feels empty. They are all gone.”

Nothing to say to that.

I just stand at her back, letting her lean back into me.

“What happened to them? Your brothers?” she asks quietly.

I debate telling her everything. What does it matter now?

But I can’t compromise Isabella and the baby. Vanya would understand me keeping that secret. Even if it means lying by omission.

“Alessandro is dead.” He may as well be. As far as the crime world is concerned, he is.

“Dom made him bite the bullet. Literally.”

“I heard the rumors.”

“Adriano pulled the trigger. And he … disappeared after Dom went down. Probably in prison or dead. Dom burned everyone he could according to Pyotr.”

Vanya looks up, concern in her eyes.

“Ero was sent on a hit. Not sure where. All of our contracts got leaked.”

“You do not sound convinced. About any of this.” She meets my gaze, her ice blue eyes boring into me. She can read me like a fucking pop-up book. But she does not press the issue, squeezing my hand. “I had an older sister.”

“You have another sibling?”

“Da. She lives … somewhere else.” Her soft smile tells me everything. That it’s her secret. And she’s offering me this in kind. How did I get so damned lucky?

I leave her to lie down. It’s been one hell of a night.

But I can’t sit still. And there is a task that I can save her from having to do. Heading out to the old shed, I find a shovel. Out at the tree line, a small gap at the top of a hillock overlooks a pond. So I get to work digging.

A few hours later I pause, wiping the sweat and grime from my face. It’s only the late afternoon, but the sun goes down so early this time of year, especially this far north. Still, I got the job done before dark.

Heading back toward the house, I see her watching me from the kitchen window. Without a word, Vanya follows me to the van.

Together, we carry Matvey around the house, gently laying him in the ground.

The sun dips past the tree line. Dark settles.

Dinner is just enough to fill us. Then we both clean up. When I lay down next to her, I fall asleep almost instantly.

“Wake up, dingus.” A familiar voice stirs me.

Ero is sitting in the chair by the window, staring at me with black, empty eyes.

“Oh. It’s one of those lurid dreams.” I sigh, trying to close my eyes.

“Lucid dreams, fuckwit.” Ero huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Pretentious, even from beyond the grave. What do you want, Ero?” I shouldn’t be so put out. I should be happy to see him, even this way. But I’m exhausted. Trying to fucking sleep.

“Let me sleep. Or let me wake up. There’s a hot Russian goddess lying in bed next to me right now who I’d much rather talk to.”

“Cold. Even for you, joker. Choosing her over me. Just like your new home. Just like your new family. Cold.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry.”

“Neither did I. Now I’m stuck with you, haunting your dreams.”

“Wake up, wake up, wake up.” I try to pinch myself, to force myself up. “What do you want from me?”

“Just to tell you that you’re going to lose them too. Your new family. Just like you lost us.”

“I still have her. I still have Vanya.”

“Check again, Ciro. Your bed is empty.”

I bolt upright, gasping.

The sheets next to me are cold.

Snagging my jeans, I hop the bed, landing on my butt, flinging my legs into my pants and rushing into the living room. No sign of her.

I’m out the door in a heartbeat, noting the van is missing. Running out onto the driveway, I turn a quick circle, wondering what to do. It’s still dark, hard to see.

Rushing back toward the house, I hurry inside, grabbing my boots, a shirt. I’m halfway to the door when I look out across the backyard. Moonlight casts deep shadows, all silver and blue.

And there she is.

Standing at Matty’s grave.

My heart stops pounding as I step out the back, dragging my shirt on in the chill. As I approach, I notice how shaky she looks. Her coat, lying in the grass. Her harness, fully loaded next to it with two polished Glocks.

Out at the back corner of the shed I spot the van, the back doors open. She must have been loading it up from the stash case behind the old wooden building. Gunmetal glistens in the moonlight.

“You hear back from Pyotr?”

“No.” She sways slightly, her hands clenching at her sides.

“Then what? What are you planning?”

“To kill them. All of them.”

“Vanya …” I reach for her. Her skin is frozen. How long has she been out here?

“Do not!” She shakes my hand off, spinning on me. Her eyes glitter with tears. Behind her I spot the bottle of vodka, sitting by the grave marker, half empty.

“Do not what? Try to comfort you?”

“Try to stop me.”

“I won’t. Just let me come with you. Tomorrow. Another day. We can plan⁠—”

“All I ever do is plan! All I ever do is wait! Look at where that got us!” She slams her hands into my chest driving me back a few steps.

“Settle down—” I regret saying it the second it’s out of my mouth.

Vanya’s eyes widen, her lips peeling back in a snarl.

“How dare you tell me this! I will not settle down while those bastards are out there. They killed my family. My little brother!” Her shouts echo out into the night. “He was my everything!”

“I know …”

“You know? You who do not mourn your brothers. You who leaves his past behind like nothing! You care about nothing.” Her words slash into me worse than any knife.

“Do not tell me what I care about,” I warn, my voice dropping.

“I will say what I see. If you gave a shit about anything, not enough blood could be spilled in the world to make up for your loss. For our loss.”

Vanya snatches her things, stomping past me. I reach out, not intending to grab her, just to step in her path. In the dark I don’t see her fist until it’s flying right at my face. The brunt of the force deflects as I lean back, catching a glancing blow along my jaw.

“Get out of my way.”

“No. I won’t let you throw your life away.”

“Fuck my life. Fuck you. Fuck everything.”

“I will help you find Pyotr. I will help you hunt down and kill every last one of them. Just not like this. Not while you’re still⁠—”

“Still what?!”

“Lost! Grieving! Call it what you will.”

“I call you a coward.” She juts her chin out at me, moving to walk away again.

“Call me whatever you want, just come back inside. Sleep. Get warm. Sober up.” Back down the hill, I keep pace with her, staying between her and the van.

“I will kill you if you do not get out of my way.”

“Then kill me. Because you are the only thing left in this world that I care about. And I will protect you, even from yourself.”

14

VANYA

Red fogs my vision.

Hatred boils over and I must lash out.

Nothing has ever stood in the way of my rage. I focus it, guide it, control it.

It has fueled me through my entire life. Seeing me into my position of power, getting Matvey and I through our parent’s deaths. For all the love I have for my brotherhood, my people, I must use my anger to protect them.

And when I fail …

The walls of my world are crumbling.

So the only thing I know to do is use that anger for revenge. Or it will consume me and I will burn myself out.

“I won’t fight you,” Ciro rumbles, squaring off with me, blocking my path.

I know he understands this about me, sees into my heart. So why is he doing this?

He of all people must know that I need blood, that killing my enemies is the only way to bring my soul peace. To quell my anger, even if it kills me.

My first punch grazes his cheek, feigning and kicking for his side. He dodges, blocks, twists, avoiding another strike.

My fists become a flurry of violent motion, flying for his face, his ribs, into his stomach. I am a storm of fury.

Yet he manages to deflect every blow, every kick as I intensify my assault, throwing myself at him with reckless abandon. I realize I am screaming with each strike, snarling as I claw at him, slamming my shoulder into him in my dash to get past.

But at some point my goal fades from my grasp.

I just want to lash out.

To take out my energy and helplessness and bitterness on someone, anyone.

“It’s all gone! Everyone is gone!” I shout at the top of my lungs, launching myself at Ciro, knees first. The blow sends him rolling back, head over heels, back onto his feet in a crouch. It knocked the wind out of him, I can tell.

But I do not care.

I rush in, not seeing the danger, the look in his eye.

Or maybe I do.

My kick swings wide and he swoops under me, lifting me off the ground, soaring around and down. He tries to lessen the fall, but my attempts to grapple his arm loosens his grip.

The earth hammers into my back, blasting the breath from my lungs.

Still, I try to rise, slapping his hands away, gasping.

I am an animal.

But I am tiring, the small meal I was able to keep down and the vodka I shared with my brother leave me weak and tired. My punches flash out, but Ciro does not block.

He simply accepts them, letting me take all of my frustration out on him. Slamming my fists into him over and over. Until my arms are heavy, my knuckles chafed and cracked. He just stands there and takes it.

This man who knows my pain. My struggles.

Something inside me cracks. Splits. Shatters.

The first sob wracks my body with the final hit to his chest. My head shakes back and forth in denial, but it is too late. The dam is broken.

I have not cried in years, decades. Since I was a little girl.

But oh, the tears come now, bitter and hot. Pouring out of me like an infection from a wound. I look up into Shakal’s eyes and see the same agony there, tears rimming his eyes, and I cannot bear it.

That I caused him pain.

The first man to ever tell me he loves me. The first man I have ever fallen for.

“I am so fucking broken, Ci …” I whisper, clinging to his shirt. Pathetic.

But his name on my lips draws his arms around me, pulling me close to him in the freezing night air. He is warmth, heat. He is a beacon of light.

Blasting away the darkness inside my soul, casting aside the voice in my mind that has always told me I do not want comfort or affection. Certainly not love. That it is weak.

“I am too, Van. I’ve always been broken.”

And he lifts me up, cradling me as he takes me into the house. He sets me down, dries my tears, wraps me in a blanket and holds me. What is this?

In moments he has a flame kindled in the old brick fireplace. The glow plays across the ceiling, the only light in the house, hiding my sorrow and shame.

“I am sorry for being so weak …”

“You do not have to be strong all the time.”

“You are wrong. I must. For family. See what happens when I am not? They die.”

“That is not your fault. No one saw this coming. No one could have stopped the man in the mask or protected Mat. He was one of the best fighters I know.”

“He is gone …” I sigh hopelessly.

“I’m still here.”

Looking up into those light green eyes. Seafoam. Warm waters.

And I feel my heart rise from the frozen depths of the abyss, replacing my desperation with desire. With a passionate need.

Just for him.

I take his lips, cupping his face and pulling him to me. His skin is flushed, his cheeks red from my attack. So I kiss them, closing my eyes to worship him and silently ask for forgiveness.

The backs of his fingers caress my cheek, grazing down and around my head to draw me into a deeper, slower kiss, sucking my bottom lip and teasing into my mouth with his tongue.

Where we sparred in the bedroom the other night, tonight we explore. Taking our time.

His shirt has to go, and he flips it over his head, smiling softly over me as I lay back on the couch. Fingertips scan across his chest, his abdomen, and I know I have left him bruised. Sore.

So I scoop my shirt over my head, arching my shoulders back for him to see all of me.

Those eyes trace the contours of my breasts, my nipples.

Then we are skin to skin, devouring one another’s mouths.

His heart beats in time to mine, every breath inhaling more of him, his scent and his taste. All while cut, muscular arms curl around me. Ciro is stunning, powerful.

He rises up, pulling me with him and I straddle him, feeling his desire pressing hard between my legs. It never ceases to amaze me, his size, his thickness.

“I need to feel alive,” I hum into his lips, flicking my bottom lip against his. He licks softly, toying with me.

“You brought me back to life,” he smirks, thumbing my peaked nipples, sending shivers through my body.

“Shut up and kiss me, fool.”

And he does just that. Stealing my breath away, igniting the fire in my core with every nip and bite of his teeth down my neck. Like it is his mission to sample every inch of my flesh. I am certainly willing to let him try …

Tiny explosions of delight erupt deep in my center with every sensation, especially when his tongue finds that spot at the base of my throat, where my neck meets my collarbone. I nearly cry out to the rippling aura of arousal that pulses through me with only a flick of his tongue.

As we explore one another, my walls crumble further, easing all of my tension.

Fingers massage into my back muscles, relieving aches and worries simultaneously. He knows just what to do to release me from my cage, to unleash me.

And that mouth that never seems to stop talking goes to work doing something he’s even better at. Each kiss is a blessing on my chilled skin, warming me from my night outside.

As if he set a fire in the hearth, my body comes to life with heat, radiating from within, sapped from his love and tender touch.

I inhale, savoring him.

Nothing has ever smelled so good, his hair, his sweat, the faint hint of cologne and soap.

He grips me now, tightly, firmly. And I know how strong his hands are from fighting with him, from the other night when he pinned me and made me come at the club. When he locked onto me in the safe house and plowed me harder than I ever thought possible.

Those powerful hands heal me as he takes his time tonight.

Treating me like I am the most precious thing in the world to him. Like I am delicate.

Lord knows I am not.

But to be catered to this way …

We stand together, still intertwined, still kissing. But we both need the same thing.

Our pants fall to the floor, his erect desire barely contained by his boxers. Already, I can feel that I’ve ruined my underwear, soaking through the fabric with my longing for him. Even more so when he barely grazes fingers around my cheeks, rubbing across me, sampling my arousal.

Hands brush back down my arms, up my back. Tracing figures, shapes, each one scintillating and raising my want of him.

Lips kiss down my shoulder, my arm, my wrist. He sucks gently there, discovering another spot that drives me wild. All the while, he watches me closely, drinking me in from head to toe, his gaze smoldering.

This man is my equal in every single way. He is far beyond me in wit. He is a match for me in passion and prowess, and he disarms me at every turn. He takes down my guard, my shield, and leaves me gasping, starving for more of him, thirsty for a single word out of his mouth. He leaves me exposed and I long for it.

So that he may know me better.

Running my hands over him, I cannot hold out any longer.

I drag his black boxer briefs down, releasing him into my grasp.

“Vanya …” he moans, smiling into my kiss.

“This. This is mine.”

“Yes. Only yours. Just like my love.”

“And this …” I pull his hand to my chest. Our eyes meet.

He said the words, only a short time ago. I do not know if I can say them back. But I can show him.

“Mine,” he states, nodding slowly.

Then he turns me, lowering me to the couch and kneeling before me. In the light of the crackling flames, he is cut from stone. A sculpture of a god.

Such a hard man, a calloused man. Who now caresses my body with the gentle but insistent touch of a lover. Despite the harshness of our world, or maybe to spite that hard life we live.

Ciro does not waste time.

His thumbs massage my ass apart as he lifts my legs, running his palms up and down my thighs before resting them on his shoulders. Kissing down the inside, he sets my skin tingling, center flexing in anticipation of him. And after the first time he did this …

I can barely contain my excitement.

But he is intent on doing it his way. He kisses the outside of my black silk thong, letting me feel the heat of his lips and his breath through the thin fabric. If I was wet before, now I am drenched. His fingertips play at the edges of the fabric, easing it aside. The look of raw passion in his eyes is enough to make me shake.

He is my undoing.

So much so that when he finally drags the mess of silk down and tosses it away, I whimper, my hands trailing across my stomach. My hips writhe, my hands grip my tits, squeezing them to relieve the ache I feel in them.

“I could do this all night …” he mutters, lowering his mouth to me, watching my wide-eyed stare.

“You promise?”

His grin makes my toes curl.

Then the entire world narrows to one thing. One sensation. His tongue, lashing along my crease.

The sensation spreads to every part of me, stoking a flame that lay dormant in me. Setting the whole fucking world on fire.

Each flick along my apex, circling, curling and fluttering, sends my mind reeling. Pure bliss soars up along my spine, blossoming out in firework sprays of pleasure in my calves, into my toes. Through my chest, emanating out to my fingertips buried in his hair.

I am careening toward a precipice.

And I welcome it.

Ciro doubles down, increasing the speed of his heavenly tongue and twirling his fingertips just inside my opening. Then he does something completely heart-stopping.

Latching his arms around my thighs, he spin, lifting me off the cushions. He drops to the floor, resting his head where my back just was, planting my knees on the couch, never once letting up with his tongue.

I roll my hips, adjusting my position over him, gripping the back of the couch. His eyes track me, locked onto my figure with an avid longing that makes me ravenous.

And from his angle, I am in control.

His thumb toys at my entrance again, and I arch my back to give him better access, his lips locked around my throbbing peak. That devil’s tongue will be the end of me.

All of him will.

Rocking back and forth on his face, I let my head fall back, giving myself over completely to the rapture of riding Ciro Diamante’s mouth to the edge of existence. I tense, deep inside, my climax building for seconds, minutes.

My breath shudders in and out of my chest as the first crests of those waves whisper to me of the onslaught to come.

“Oh Ciro … oh Ciro … Cirooooh!” I cry, letting every bit of my angst, passion, stress, and desire burst forth from my core, erupting up through my chest and voiced in song. This man is a fucking legend. He is my king, and my throne.

My body roils without any constraint, no regard for anything but the pulsing orgasm wracking my frame. And Ciro nods in time to my bucking hips, keeping pace with me, driving me onward with that flickering tongue tip and a deep, rolling of his knuckle against the center of my bliss inside.

My forehead drops to the back of the couch as he slips out from under me. I cannot move.

But I am so far from done. And to let him know, I simply wag my ass, dipping my back into a deep, languid arch and spreading myself for him.

Peeking out from under my arms, I watch him in the firelight, standing in his glory. Every inch of his body is muscle, cut from marble. Shadows play along the curves of his arms, the dip in his hips. Leading down to his knee weakening prowess, standing tall and impossibly thick.

I quiver pulses within me, longing for him.

And he does not disappoint.

His head slides along my crease, up between my cheeks, dragging back down like there is no time, nothing else in the world but me. My heart pounds, my legs tremble.

Closing my eyes, I wait, savoring the anticipation.

Soon, his cock is slick with me, gliding along, up and down. At the bottom, he circles my apex, making my ass bend back toward him. At the top, he teases my other entrance, making me tighten up, my jaw dropping.

Wondering what he has planned.

I am panting when he finally places his immense head at my entrance.

“Ciro … if you keep teasing me like this …”

“Yes?”

“I am going to murder you.”

“Funny, because I am just dying to be inside you.”

This should not turn me on so much. But it does. Everything he says is pure desire.

And he never ceases to amaze me, surprise me. Tugging at my arm, he draws me around, pulling me into an embrace, kissing me sweetly. Tenderly.

Tiny fireworks pop in my head as he twirls that tongue between my teeth, massaging mine with his. I nudge him back, savoring the taste of his kiss.

His arms around me feel almost as good as the sex. And that startles me more than anything.

Even more so when he lays me down in front of the fire, cradling my head, kissing my chest, my neck. No one has ever treated me this way.

With such dedicated passion and care for my desires. My needs.

My leg skims up his side as he rolls over me, settling right where I want him. His stiff prowess presses into me, promising me pleasures to come. Reaching down, I pull at him, urging him on.

He does not disappoint.

Tonight, I do not want “teasing.” I need to be made love to.

His first foray into my core is slow, spreading me wider as he closes his eyes. I watch him sense every inch of his way into me. It’s fantastically arousing.

My walls adjust to him, swallowing his shaft every deeper.

The next thrust is just as purposeful, long and sumptuous. I would let this continue forever, letting the pressure build over time. But I am impatient.

Hooking my calves around his ass, I pull him in.

He bucks his hips smoothly, sliding out. I pull him in again.

We tug back and forth, finding our pace, our rhythm. It’s tantalizing and hypnotizing, the pulsing beat of each stroke, punctuated by the soft grind of skin on skin. His arms around me. Our lips joining as we fall into one another.

Losing ourselves to the moment.

There is only him. Only me. Then there is only this, us. Our union.

All I feel is Ciro, swelling within me, an aura of sensual rapture consuming me. I am aflame, writhing in the throes of his heat. He ignites me. Engulfs me, even as my inner sanctum engulfs his mighty pillar, drinking him into me.

Every sensation is an orgasm, microscopic pops of ecstasy in my mind, erupting constantly along my skin, sparks shimmering behind my eyes.

Soon, the roll of a tidal wave swells too.

It sweeps me up, into the current of my oncoming climax, carrying me toward absolute release. The first is rolling, a rippling rush through my muscles, blossoming in my chest, flooding my skull with euphoria.

I don’t have time to stop and savor it.

Another one hits home again as soon as the first abates. Distantly, I hear Shakal moan with a smile in his voice, knowing what he is doing to me. Warm air tickles my neck, shivering along my heightened nerves.

And still, he fills me, drives himself into me powerfully. Drives me toward heaven.

He must feel it too, the sweetest caress of my satin depths, hugging and drawing him to me. Every recess of my being feels each exultant plunge. And when he begins to join me on my unwinding, he slows. Dragging this out.

Making me drift farther into his spell.

He is everything. And he knows just how to make me feel … everything.

His love is so full, hard, impossibly big. It pushes me to my limits. And Ciro is getting close to his limit, I can tell.

“Mmm,” I breathe into his lips, flexing internally around his strength, “I can’t wait any longer. Come with me.”

“I want …”

“Yes.”

“More …”

“I will give you more. Just—” His deep, growling vocalization interrupts me, making me grin.

The grip of intoxicating liberation shudders through me and I clamp down what little control I can over my pleasure, holding out, waiting for him.

I won’t last long.

His speed increases and so does the maelstrom of gale force climax that crashes into my mind, through my body.

“I’m—”

“Yes!”

“Come into me, Ciro!” I beg him, I demand, wrapping my entire body around his as he plunders my core. We both reach the edge of oblivion at the same moment, leap off.

Falling. Soaring.

Together.

I spill over, as he spills into me. Coating him. Overflowing, spreading between us. My fingers drift down, sampling the disaster of our love, glistening in the flicker of dwindling firelight.

And I whisper his name over and over as I drift into a tingling reverie, curled in his arms.

Here, I feel … complete.

Unlike anything I have ever known.

15

CIRO

“Oooow …”

“You were not saying ow a moment ago,” Vanya purs.

“I was completely lost in you a moment ago. I don’t think my body’s been this sore in a long time.” I punctuate the statement with a painful, grunting laugh as I flop back on the bed.

“What you’re saying is that you cannot keep up?”

“Oh yeah? You ready to go again?”

Her side-eye has me laughing again and dodging away from poking fingers in my ribs.

“Maybe after a short break.” I know damn well she is as sore and bruised as I am.

The past few days have been a gauntlet of car chases, gunfights, and more recently, nonstop party-till-you-drop marathon of lovemaking mayhem.

Safe to say, I have not slept much.

Neither has she. And I am here for it.

If there was a challenge for every single position attempted in twenty-four hours, I think we’d give somebody a run for their money. It’s like, regardless of how many times I take her from however many directions, I can’t seem to get enough, I want her more and more. She wants me again and again.

Every time we kiss, every time she touches me, it makes me fucking nuts. Simultaneously we let out long, moaning, satisfied sighs. Followed by a shared, conspiratorial grin.

“You know, that thing you did with the legs bent back⁠—”

“Oh, definitely. I didn’t know you could bend that way, let alone me,” I marvel, ticking my neck to the side with a loud pop.

“I think I call that one ‘Break-Back Mountain,’ da?” She snickers, nestling into my chest.

“Ha! Clever. But um, maybe a different name … that one makes me think of, well. Other things.”

“Like the thing I did with my finger when you⁠—”

“Hey! You know, sometimes we both get caught up in the moment.”

“Don’t tell me you are shy now!”

I swear, she is unstoppable. And just as willing as I am to try … anything. Bold does not even begin to describe her confidence in the bedroom.

“No, no, no. I’m just saying that compared to the Gulag, you’re next level shit, baby.”

And I grin ear to ear as that fiery look takes over her face again.

“You say things like this, makes me want to take you one more time.”

“Then take me one more time, baby,” I rumble in her ear.

Her instant gasp and back arch absolutely do the trick for me, raising me right to attention again. Especially when she brushes her spectacular breasts against me. A slight groan escapes my lips as she climbs on top of me again.

Then it’s like I’m renewed. Replenished and ready to go.

Never mind the claw marks down my back, the teeth marks accenting both of us from head to toe. I’ve never seen something so beautiful or arousing in my life.

Wait, scratch that.

Vanya stretches up, craning her neck back, her arms overhead in a long, languid stretch. The midmorning sun clips through the curtains, kissing her pale skin, spotlighting her above me.

I could stare at her forever.

Until she backs that ass up, slipping me effortlessly inside of her again.

“Holy …”

“More like unholy,” Vanya croons, gyrating her hips. If I was hard before …

“How do you do that!” I gasp as she flexes inside.

“Secret Russian technique.” She bears down on me harder, biting her lip.

“If you tell me, you’ll have to kill me?”

“What do you think I am doing now?”

“Good point. Death by pussy was always my preferred way to go⁠—”

She drops down, snapping at my lips. Moaning, laughing, gasping, I flip her over, slamming her back into the mattress. My turn to rotate my hips, flexing up into her, hitting exactly where I know she wants me to.

“How do you do that?!” she cries, her hands gripping the sheets and twisting.

“No secret. Just my magic dick.”

“You are insufferable.” Her words gust out between ragged breaths.

“Suffering never felt so good,” I mumble and claim her lips, plowing deeply into her over and again.

“Do the thing …”

“Which thing?”

All she manages is a clap of her hands above her head and I know exactly what she means. Drawing her thighs along my sides, I settle back, flicking one of her legs then the other up over my shoulders. Easing out of her, just to the tip of my aching shaft, I slide my hands all the way up, past her knees, her calves. Grabbing her ankles, I grip tighter, letting her anticipation build.

When I shift forward again, I fold her in half, sliding deeper than ever into her depths.

“Fuck!” she screams, her lips pulling back in a smile that turns into a jaw-dropped moan.

With her totally pinned beneath me, nothing keeps me from pounding down into her, rocking the entire bed with my powerful thrusts. The whole fucking room starts to roll with our joined cries.

Vanya quakes under me, that unbelievably sexy look in her eyes locking me in, captivating me. It’s so intense, almost angry, and slightly confused. Like she doesn’t know what to do.

Like she can’t believe how good it feels.

Believe me, you goddess, I can’t either.

Her silken, soaked center pulls me in every time, hugging me so tight. Gripping me in heavenly velvet.

“Harder, fuck me Ciro!” she begs, finally closing her eyes as her hamstrings start to shudder. At this angle, it’s a one-way ticket. Like a fucking roller coaster straight off the edge of oblivion.

“Yes!” It’s all I manage to growl out, my entire body flexing, burning.

The intense rush of my climax is imminent, building in my core.

My full weight bears down on her as she clutches around her legs, behind my back, crushing me to her. And without warning, she lunges for my bottom lip as we kiss, hard enough to draw blood.

The effect is mind-blowing. The sharp pain, the aching muscles, the rippling waves of pleasure. I want those teeth on my neck, my shoulders. Anywhere she wants to bite.

I hear her voice repeatedly panting my name as I bite down on the pillow beside her head with a deep, wild growl.

The tidal wave crests, her core flooding hot, slick magma around my cock, a split second before she screams at the top of her lungs, convulsing beneath me. And I can’t stop myself from tumbling over the edge with her.

Her inner walls spasm, enveloping me in heated ecstasy. And we plummet together. Starbursts explode inside my head.

Vanya’s wail rises to a fever pitch as I unburden myself completely inside her.

I feel like I’m frozen, my back arched, locked in a moment of total abandon.

Then we both go slack, my arms trembling, her thighs settling around my middle. I slip to the side, rolling off of her.

Right off the bed.

Thump!

“Wha?!” She giggles.

“I swear to God, I nearly passed out.” Gamma particles warble at the edges of my vision, red and green spots dancing.

“I think I did blackout for a moment.” She peeks over the edge of the bed. Right before she flops down on top of me, snuggling into my arms.

“I’ve never felt anything like you.”

“And you never will, lover,” she whispers, pinching my chin between two fingers and forcing me to look at her.

“I never want to,” I say sassily.

“Careful saying these sweet nothings. I might have to take you again.”

“I will actually die if you do.”

“Same. My body is depleted.”

“I need water or a meal or a ten-hour nap. Oo! Or maybe vodka!” I say in my best-worst Russian accent, eliciting a scowl and a slap across the ass from her as I bounce up from the floor. I shake my ass just a little on my way to the kitchen.

“Yes, vodka! Pour me a glass.”

“Geezus! A glass? I was gonna take a shot.” Dammit, the stuff is growing on me.

“Babies take shots. Have drink with me like man.”

“I mean, if we have any grapefruits or cranberry juice …” The flat stare that I get around the corner has me snorting with laughter. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. I would never ruin perfectly good vodka with juice.”

“You ever put fruit in my vodka, you get a fruit in your ass.”

“Whoa! Don’t tease me with a good time, Vanya. We’ll get to that stuff later.” I wink, hopping out of view. Her snarling growl of … anticipation? Promise?

Either way, it sends shivers up my spine.

A few shots and a delicious meal of potato soup and bread with cheese later, we’re on the couch, wearing slightly more clothing than we’ve had on in quite some time. The afternoon sneaks up on us, napping for a few hours.

“Wake up, Shakal. I want to hit something.”

“You are the most incentivizing alarm clock.”

Before I know it or want it, we’re out back training for the rest of the day. I’ll admit, once I stopped wanting to puke, the exercise does me a whole shit ton of good.

Target practice proves that we can both hit a fly from fifty yards. Vanya does not like flies.

Sparring renders the usual results, both of us scraped, panting, and contemplating heading inside for another romp in the sheets. My only advantage this time is the lack of a certain black-and-tan-furred ally to keep me on the ropes.

Vanya’s worried about Skanda.

But until we can make our way back to St. Pete’s there’s no way to know anything for sure. If we get to go back. There’s been a conspicuous radio silence ever since we left the city.

Aside from one message alerting all Volk nearby to lay low.

So we lay low.

And wonder where the fuck Pyotr is. Where the fuck anyone is.

Sparring and practicing with Vanya is the only thing keeping her occupied enough not to go rushing headlong back into danger. So I will spar twenty-four seven.

Not that I don’t want to figure things out myself.

We will need intel soon.

“Seriously, every time I think I figure out how to pin you, you somehow manage to bend the wrong way and get me in a choke hold!” I snap, dancing away again.

“Every time you try to pin me, I simply refuse to let it happen. This is mentality you must have.”

“Gee, thanks Miss Miyagi.”

“Dōitashimashite, Ciro-san.”

“You speak Japanese?” I duck a flying kick.

“A bit. Pyotr sent me for a year to train with instructor in Kyoto.” She bobs back on her heels, narrowly missing a swipe of my hands.

“Wow. And here I thought boxing with Fat Mike at Rumble Guts Gym in the Bronx taught me everything I needed to know.”

And just when I think I’ve got her timing down and lunge in, she tricks me.

You know that spinny, ridiculous, stupid flippy leg thing superhero chicks do in the movies? Yeah. That. But harder. With a backflip.

Onto my stomach with her still locked around my neck.

When I wake up from my tiny little nap, she’s standing stock still. It’s hard to make her out in the half light of dusk.

“Van?”

“Shh!”

Instantly, we are both on high alert. I’m on my feet with a pistol in my hands veering off around the far side of the house while she takes the nearer side toward the sound of an engine on the road leading to the cottage.

Posting up at the corners of the building, I signal that I’ve got eyes on the headlights through the trees. Inside the house I can just make out the beeping sound of the perimeter alarms we set near the road.

Fortunately, we hadn’t turned on any lights inside for the evening yet.

“Who would know we’re here?” I hiss.

“Only a handful of people. Unless they tracked us.”

“Doubtful. We should neutralize whoever it is just to be safe.”

“Wow. Great idea master and commander,” her reply barely reaches me in the dim. Vanya is getting really snappy with those comebacks. Good to know she’s learning as much from me as I am her.

“Don’t worry, I am not trying to undermine your authority.”

“Thanks for clarifying. You are so fucking dramatic.”

“I—” I drop it as the car comes into view. Even in the low light I can tell it’s beat to shit. It putters around a bend in the drive, moving slowly. Whoever it is must be watching for movement.

I realize something is wrong with the situation, more than the fact that someone is here, as the car wavers. They nearly hit several trees as it clears the base of the hill, slowing to a stop.

Vanya is strafing down around the slope, staying just out of the eyeline of the driver as I spot her, trailing behind low and slow.

Movement at the car.

The door. A body slumps out onto the ground.

“Ciro! Come!”

“Woof,” I mutter, running to catch up.

“It is Fyodor. He is bleeding, help me.”

“I mean, he’ll probably just keep bleeding if we don’t do anything. Problem solved,” I joke, getting a narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder. Risky, that line of joking when her Volk family is in question. She’ll probably kick my ass later.

In the meantime, I’m hefting the heaviest sack of borscht up the driveway, through the door and into the kitchen. With a mighty heave I manage to get him up on the island counter.

He’s pale as fucking death. There’s blood everywhere.

And more pooling.

“Where is he bleeding from?”

“Where isn’t he bleeding from?” I settle his head on a towel, raising an eyelid to check his pupils, a finger at his neck for a pulse. That’s the extent of my medical knowledge other than stitching up a few of my own bullet wounds over the years.

“F-fucking Diamante …” gurgles out of his mouth and I can’t help but smile.

“Well, he’s not dead yet.”

Vanya tears his shirt open, tracking the worst of the wounds to a gunshot on his side. Scanning down his body, he’s battered. Two more bullet wounds gush a steady trickle from his upper arm, his lower leg.

Other than that, the only thing I can think that would cause as many cuts and burns on his skin and clothing is …

“I think he went out a window,” I sniff, helping Vanya turn him over enough to check his back. He must have been in the barracks when the bomb that clearly went off in the remains of that building went off. Not surprising he made it out.

The guy is basically an eighties movie action hero.

Dick.

“Second floor,” he mumbles.

“He will bleed out if I cannot stem the flow. But I need to know if bullet is still inside.”

“Th-through …” Fyodor mutters, passing out again.

“Hearty chap, ain’t he? And so helpful.”

“Now you be helpful. Get me hot water, towels. Medical kit is in hall closet.”

Immediately I hop to it.

I scramble through the house, gathering the rest of the gear she needs. The tool kit for cauterizing, the med kit for sewing and clearing. Every towel we have.

Soon the water is boiling on the stove and I’m standing by as she sets to work.

“I will do the best I can. You must hold him if he wakes. I do not have anesthetic.”

“Yes, doctor.” I chirp.

Vanya’s shoulders drop just a bit, her tense stance relaxing a fraction. The faintest smile passes over her lips as she meets my eyes. She nods once, as if to thank me.

Weird.

My humor has always gotten in the way.

For the next two hours, I play nurse to my least favorite member of the 1980 Soviet Olympic hockey team. It gives me time to think of some deep cuts to compare him to.

Adrenaline starts to fade in hour three, but when Vanya slumps back into one of the dining chairs, Fyo is breathing steadily. Sleeping from all appearances.

The sheer amount of blood on everything in the house would make Jackson Pollock jealous. That’s my only art reference outside of movies.

A slight queasy feeling has me heading to the kitchen to wash up. I’ve never really been squeamish about wounds and blood, but Adriano or the Diamante squad doctor Julian usually handled the bulk of the “hands-on” or in this case “hands-in-guts” work.

Pinching together Fyodor’s meat will be a lovely nighttime dream companion for me for a while.

That came out wrong. I didn’t pinch his meat.

Dude is HUNG, though.

Boiling water for some tea feels like the right thing to do next. It’s something Aunt Eva would always do in these sorts of situations. She was such a warm, matronly lady.

At the same time, that woman had ice in her veins when it came to saving her family.

I once saw Aunt Eva stone-faced amputate one of our guy’s feet to save his life. Two of Giancarlo’s bodyguards puked.

Vanya reminds me of her in so many ways.

Sitting across from her at the small table, she glances up after a long while.

“Thank you, Shakal.”

“For what?”

“It’s Fyodor.” She shrugs.

“Just cause I don’t like the guy, doesn’t mean I want him dead. Much. And he means a lot to you.”

“Da. Not in the way he says, though. You know this, correct?” Her eyes belie her hesitance.

What the ever-loving shit? Just when I think there are no more layers, she goes and shows me more strength. More vulnerability.

“Van, you don’t owe me any explanation.”

“He’s like … brother to me. We grew up together. He was always there for us, watching out for me and Matvey.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s always been anchor. Steadfast. He does not change. Reliable. You know?”

“My oldest brother was a lot like that.”

“I wish I could be like him in many ways. Fyo never becomes overwhelmed. He never hesitates.”

I nearly do a double take at her words. “Vanya, you are …”

All I can do is shake my head.

“What?”

“Let’s just say I’ve only ever met one person who handles life-threatening situations as well as you. And she was a refugee from Italy in World War II.”

“This story I will hear sometime. In detail. For now, I am, how you say, bushy.”

My snort makes me check to see if I woke up Fyodor. “Bushed. You mean bushed.”

“Da. Now we wait to see if Kapitan wakes up. Without blood transfusion, I worry.”

“He has to pull through. Fuck, he’ll do it just to spite me. And to tell you what happened to Pyotr and the other council members.”

Vanya nods, her eyes red.

After a quick shower, she collapses into bed. After I had to repeatedly assure her that I would sleep in the living room to keep an eye on Fyo in case he wakes up. Stubborn woman.

I love it.

Lying on the couch, a fire crackling to my right, I stare at the ceiling for a long time before sleep takes me. Despite the stress, the lack of sleep …

I’m frayed. Wired.

And somehow … inspired.

Holding Fyodor’s hand while she dug those bullets out, the fucker didn’t flinch. Not once.

I’ve always just joked my way through things, but these two … they face it head-on.

Just like Aless always did.

Just like I always dreamed I would someday. Instead of faking it until I make it.

I guess our lives define us. And mine wasn’t nearly as hard as theirs. Until recently, anyway.

We were rich. We partied, drank. Girls, movies, TV, upscale, rich New York living.

And I took every second of it for granted.

Now, looking up at the ceiling of an old, simple cottage somewhere in Russia …

I don’t miss it.

Okay, maybe a little.

The thrill of a night out, music, booze.

But getting by with nothing but the gun in my hand and the clothes on my back with the girl of my dreams at my side? What else could I want?

Good God, I’m a fucking delusional sap. And I’m probably still smiling like an idiot when I finally doze off.

I smell the coffee machine brewing. Open my eyes. Despite the general lack of rest, I feel pretty good. Rising to check on Fyodor, I nearly jump out of my skin to find him up and around the kitchen.

“Uh. You know you almost died.”

“Yes. And?”

“You look like shit.”

“Not all of us are pretty boys.” Fyo leans over the sink, his shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths. “How many?”

I hesitate, leaning against the counter. “Too many. But we took out a lot of their guys.”

“Pyotr? Matvey?” His voice is gravel.

“Vanya should be the one to⁠—”

“I did not ask Vanya. I ask you, brother.”

His tone is pure hate, but it’s the first time he has ever come close to acknowledging me as one of them.

“We think Pyotr was taken. Matvey …”

“Mat is dead,” Vanya’s harsh words ring out through the living area.

For the first time since I’ve known Fyodor, I see him flinch. His face goes slack for a moment.

“Who?”

“A man in a black mask.”

Fyo nods slowly. “I followed him. He was leaving the compound in a rush.”

Vanya and I share a look. Sounds familiar.

Fyodor digs into the pocket of his tattered jacket on the table, tossing Vanya a glimmering object, covered in blood. A ring.

“Took it off the squad leader the masked man met with at the docks.”

“Ciro, look … the same symbol as their knives,” she offers it to me to inspect.

Immediately it tickles something in my memory, an old wives tale Uncle Giancarlo used to tell about spy craft and the old mafia. Twisting the signet on the ring, it clicks open.

“Microchip.” I hold it up.

Vanya’s eyes narrow as she takes it from me.

“And I know just the man in Moscow to help us figure out what is on it.”

16

VANYA

St. Petersburg is still overrun.

With cell service returned in the wake of the attack, the people are nervous, but the chaos has settled down. My informants and the few remaining Volk in the city tell me the enemy has set up shop in the ports, but generally left the citizens alone.

For now.

But no one has heard anything from the council. My calls and texts go unanswered. And with Fyodor’s news, his revelation along with Matvey’s dying words …

There seems to be only one path before us.

Moscow is our best bet to get any news, either from allied Bratva or the black-market underground. Not to mention a city where I am owed many favors.

A few hours on the train from Ushaki Station, and we are there.

By nightfall we have a destination.

Spy craft has always been a part of Russian history. Especially among the military and veterans. So it is a small task to locate one of my grandfather’s old comrades from the KGB. He will decipher the chip in the ring and keep quiet about it.

“So that’s it? We just contact some old guy in a pub and then wait?”

“Da. Do you not have networks of spies and informants in New York? You are not very good mob if you do not.”

“Hey! I didn’t say that.”

“No, you just insult my network of contacts and agents like yours is better.”

Ciro presses his lips together, making that face he makes when he wants to argue but knows better. He is finally learning.

And I am vindicated when I receive a message the next morning.

Unfortunately, it is short. But it is to the point.

A location. A code. And a short message of where to leave “live cargo” for sale.

“Sounds like human trafficking,” Ciro mutters as we make our way to a private airfield on the outskirts of Moscow.

“Sounds like we are going to Marrakesh.”

* * *

“This place is shit.”

“This place is free and we needed somewhere to sleep. And to be fair, my contact here in Morocco isn’t exactly my biggest fan. Turns out when you don’t pay your guys for a couple of years they get pissy.”

“He saw reason to get back in your good graces.”

“Yes. His balls saw reason. Do you have to squeeze every bad guy’s sack so hard?”

“Only ones who disrespect me and my man,” I sniff and Ciro’s eyes widen at my threatening expression.

“How do you manage to make my balls retreat in fear, yet make my dick so hard?”

“Because this.” I turn slowly, showing off my dress and how good my ass looks in it.

“Oh. You’re absolutely right.”

I had better stop before we tear each other’s clothes off again …

We have important things to do here.

“We will look ridiculous leaving this hovel dressed like this,” I snicker, peeking out through the tattered curtains.

“I feel like the digs are par for the course after that tin can martini shaker of a flight you had us on. Janky ride, ratty amenities.”

“Hey, Osel owed me a favor. He has plane. No questions asked and avoids authorities. It was fine.”

“My spleen is on the wrong side now. And doesn’t Osel mean ‘donkey?’”

“His name is joke, but yes.”

“Because he smuggles things like a pack mule?”

“Oh. I never thought of that. Everyone just calls him that because of his teeth and ears.”

“Clever.” Ciro snorts, repacking our duffel bag. I do love a man who can pack light.

We set our gear in silence for a few moments, waiting for the sun to go down.

As soon as dusk fades, we head out, keeping to the shadows until we reach a wide avenue, bustling with activity. Flagging down a cabby, we give him an address near our target.

We must be cautious about who knows where we are heading.

“Hopefully your contact did not spread word around that you are alive and in town.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much. The last time I was here was years ago. There’s no way anyone remembers.”

Ten minutes later, we are standing outside of a row of hole-in-the-wall casinos, black market stalls. The part of town where back-alley deals take place in the open.

“You were saying?” I mutter, pointing at a poster as we navigate the tight crowd. Ciro’s face is printed on the doorway of almost every locale with what I can only assume means either “wanted” or “banned” in bold red lettering on the top.

“Oof. Good thing it was during my ‘ironic glasses and frosted tips’ era.”

“Ah, yes. You were big douche, da?”

“Huge.”

“The scar on your face helps.” I remark, squeezing his arm through the elegant white coat he donned for the occasion.

“We do not speak of it!” he hisses, shuffling on.

I admire his ass for a moment before catching up. Giving him credit, he has excellent taste. Somehow he even picked my dress out, size and all.

And even more shocking, we blend right in. Dotting the scenery of the criminal rabble are other finely dressed moguls, socialites. Apparently, this is the place to taste the forbidden, even for the elite.

Following my GPS locator, we veer out of the flow of the crowd, down a dim alleyway. Hallways and alleys split off, a veritable maze that someone could easily get lost in. Likely to meet a cruel and vicious death at the hands of local thieves and murderers.

We have an edge.

Ciro’s generous contact slipped a small detail about the place we are looking for. The black light flashlight illuminates the symbols at each turn, guiding us to a doorway, guarded by a couple of gorillas in black suits.

I almost make a Ciro-comment about stereotypes. Our eyes meet and I bite my lip when he sees we share the same thought.

“I really am rubbing off on you.”

“Not out here. Let’s wait until we get inside?” I smirk, putting on my persona as we approach the stone-faced bouncers. My hips sway, my lips pout.

“Keep that up and the front of my pants will match my jacket,” he mutters.

One of the men raises his hand.

Ciro high-fives it.

Bad start. The other guard’s eyes widen until Ciro flashes cash and a smile, leaning in just before one of them pummels him and whispers the code we deciphered from the ring, “Afus n ucengu.”

A local dialect, apparently.

Immediately they resume their post, tapping on the steel door and looking ahead as if nothing happened. My kind of men. They know their job.

Stairs lead down into a bustling underground casino.

It’s overwhelming, a bit stifling. But it is luxurious, decorated with finery and sparkling crystal and gold at every turn. The guests are no less gaudy.

Tables of cards, craps, any game imaginable, fill each room, assigned to its game. Each holds entertainment as well. Small stages with performers, mostly half-naked women dancing, bending.

“She is beautiful,” I comment, nudging Shakal. The dancer in question bends back, her eyes focused on Ciro.

“Very,” he remarks offhanded, but his hand slides down my side, caressing my hip as he smiles. “But she’s not looking at me.”

“Hm. She is not my type.” I shrug, leading him on through the maze of color and sound.

“You have a type?”

“This is mystery you may never know …”

Ciro blinks a few times, his head tilting to the side in consideration.

“Shakal.”

“Huh?”

“You are drooling.”

“Well yeah. Look at this spread! All you can play, all you can drink. All you can eat …” He glances to a row of servers swaying by, each of them carrying a tray full of pills, powders, smokables.

“What is it you call it?”

“Buffet.”

“Perhaps later. For now, we focus.”

“And blend in,” his eyebrows wag as he offers me his arm and heads toward a table. “Keep an eye out for anyone being escorted to a VIP area or something.”

“I know my job, jackass. You focus on not making scene.”

“Pssh. I would never.”

Until several minutes later.

“Come on, baby!” Ciro bellows, laughing uproariously and enjoying himself way too much. “We could dispense with the formalities, chums. Just give me your money and we’ll call it a day.”

Every man at the table glares at Ciro and his ridiculous British accent. So much for lying low.

“Must be my good luck charm …” Shakal looks up at me lovingly.

“If I help you win, you owe me a new yacht,” I pout, dipping a bit lower over his chair and flaunting my cleavage. The tempers at the table cool down, distracted by my boobs.

Men are so predictable.

And frankly, my boobs are spectacular.

“If I win, I’ll buy you a fleet, gorgeous.” He grins like idiot.

I pretend to giggle, to swoon.

Ugh.

All the while scanning the crowds for what we need. There!

A cluster of dour looking men, all in dark suits, head toward one of the back hallways. Most of them scan the gatherings, clearly bodyguards. The two in the center are aloof, oblivious. Rich.

Tapping my lover twice on the shoulder, I signal that it is time to move. He should fold. Cash out.

“Call,” he croons.

Dammit.

Once again, the chips slide toward Ciro. With a haughty laugh and an innocent shrug, he rises. Every one of the opponents rises with him, looks of violence on their faces.

“Deal them in for a thousand each, and buy these gentlemen a lap dance on me.” Ciro turns, leaving the table without a backward glance.

Well played.

They resume, some of the men cheering his praise. An attendant rushes to the table, gathering the rest of our earnings and tallying them up. Efficient. Honest.

A well-run den. Whoever is in charge knows how to cater to their clientele.

“You know, you could have just let them win one round.”

“Hand. And no. That sort of weakness is unacceptable.” He puts on that terrible Russian accent again. Mocking. “But seriously, winning like a jackass will make me more forgettable than being mysterious or nonchalant. Especially since we stand out like a sore thumb, otherwise. This way, I am just a thrill-seeking, foolish debutant.”

“You mean target for when we leave.”

“Risks of the mission.”

“Hm,” I sniff, “Or perhaps you just cannot abide losing.”

“Oh, I’ve lost before. To be fair, it was to Ero. No one beats Ero. He’s too good at bluffing. Mostly because he never bluffs.”

“Your statement makes no sense.”

“My twin brother made no sense. But he was the only person who could ever beat me.”

We zigzag through the press, vanishing in ambiguity by watching the entertainment on each stage, room to room. By the time we reach the back of the building, no one is paying us a bit of attention.

Just to be safe, I grab Shakal, pressing into him.

“Frisky, are we?” His hands are firebrands on my body, drawing me close. Our lips connect, teasing. My hand drifts down, cupping the growing bulge in his pants.

No longer pretending to be getting handsy, we push through the door. To anyone watching, we are just two lovers looking for a quick tryst.

The game continues as we explore the back rooms of the casino.

Kissing, biting, slipping my hand down his pants. He tickles the crease at the top of my thighs, toying with my ass cheeks. Before long, we are both on fire.

Shoving into a storage closet, I nearly tear his pants open, sliding the stunning length of his cock out into my hand. Jerking him off roughly, I do not hesitate, rucking up my skirt and shoving him back against a shelf.

“You are my kind of insane,” he gasps, claiming my lips and slipping a finger down my crack, into my slick opening.

“It is your fault. You are too distracting.”

“Then we’d better take care of the problem.”

“Yes …” I moan as he turns me around, tugging my back against his chest and slipping his thick shaft between my legs, brushing along my folds. “We must be quick … we need to find secret entrance …”

Locking an arm around me, he spins, pinning me to the wall. My palms and my cheek plant against the cool stone. It’s a sweet relief on my blushing face.

“Found it,” Ciro breathes into my ear, plunging into me. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming in ecstasy. My hand clamps over my mouth as he thrusts again.

“You’re so deep …”

“You’re so wet,” he moans softly.

“Just for you …”

No more words are spoken. He simply grips my hair, pulling back to bite my neck. Shivers of delicious bliss and gentle pain send explosions through my brain. Heat fills my core.

He fills me so sweetly.

“Fuck me,” I beg, knowing I will come undone soon.

What can I say?

Danger makes me horny.

Ciro plows me from behind, filling me, stretching my inner walls to the limit. Each powerful stroke driving closer.

I am a second from reaching down when his fingers find my apex, spreading back the hood of my sex. Lightning strikes. Thunder roars.

Electric pulses careen down my limbs, up my spine and across my skin like static shocks. Biting down on my lip, my throat tightens against the scream I want to let out. Holding it in only adds to the tension in the pleasure, imploding into my center as Ciro erupts within me, gritting his teeth to keep from singing with me.

We pant in the dark, the tight space, his head resting against mine. Sweat and sex fill my nostrils, an intoxicating blend of us.

Until we hear a scuffle outside in the hall.

Fixing our clothing, we wait by the door, hearing footsteps pause, then continue. Trying not to laugh, we slip out into the hall, crossing silently behind the two guards to the opposite entryway.

Weaving through a few more doors, it is pure luck that has Ciro gripping my arm as he peers around the corner. “Van.”

The symbol in red painted on the wall at the end of a long, spotless hallway.

Scanning the lamplit surface, I am about to give up when my fingers pass over a groove.

“Shakal, the ring.”

“Sorry, the best man isn’t here yet. He lost it at the bachelor party inside a hooker. You know. Dirty comedy style.”

“If you hadn’t just melted my mind with amazing sex, I would choke you.”

“Are you trying to get me hard again, cause …” He passes me the signet ring.

The gemstone fits into place. A click. Then the wall slides open.

“Okay, now I really am turned on. That’s top-notch spy shit.”

“Agreed. Now quit trying to make me laugh. I still have you inside me.” I bob my eyebrows as we head inside.

“What do you me—oooooh,” Ciro whispers, taking my hand as we descend into a brightly lit foyer. A butler waits below, his expression impassive. “Hi, Kensington, party of two. We have reservation.”

The man does not blink. He simply holds out his hand.

With a shrug, Ciro deposits way too much money. The bills vanish with a flick of the man’s wrists, his hand returning to its position.

“The ring, darling.”

“Our invitation, my apologies. Keep the tip.”

Slipping the ring into a case on the wall, the butler gestures, waving us through the archway. A voice echoes through the corridor, a rich baritone, a light accent. Distinguished. Refined.

The auditorium is low lit, likely to hide the identities of the audience facing the stage. To add to the intrigue, many of them wear masks, opulently decorated, others simple. What strikes me immediately, are the paddles in each of the guests’ hands.

An auction, then.

As my eyes adjust and we are shown to our seats, I take stock of the stage. The host, or auctioneer matches the voice perfectly. Middle-aged. Middle Eastern. A clean goatee and a ten-thousand-dollar suit, standing behind a podium.

Next to him, several stands hold silk covered objects.

But it is not these that catch my attention.

A woman stands in the spotlight, shaking slightly.

Ciro and I exchange glances. This is the right place. Or perhaps the very, very wrong place.

“Do I have another bid?”

One paddle raises to the right. Another to the left.

“Two million. That’s two-five.”

The stunning woman in the center of the stage stares out into beam of the spotlight, her expression neutral, almost bland. Likely a concubine. Raised for this.

It makes my blood boil.

But this is the way of the world. These are the harsh realities women must face. I myself narrowly avoided being sold in my youth. Just after Mama and Papa died.

The men who tried did not survive.

Ciro squeezes my hand as someone else bids, the auctioneer announcing the winner.

“Once, twice, sold to the gentleman.” He gestures and the winner stands, taking a sharp bow. Asian. Probably out of Hong Kong. Possibly Triad leadership.

In the brief bustle of leading the “prize” from the stage and informing the buyer of where to retrieve his purchase, Ciro leans in close.

“You look like you want to murder everyone in here. You alright?”

“Fine.” The acid in my tone and my eyes tells him enough. Shakal leans back but keeps his hand on mine.

Twenty minutes and several more outrageous items later, the auctioneer calls for a recess. Most of the patrons retire to the lobby for refreshments. Shakal makes a beeline for the host.

“What are you⁠—”

Pointless to try and stop him sometimes.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” Ciro says in a very believable French accent, “My wife didn’t see anything that was quite to her liking tonight so far. I was curious if you had any other more … offres exotiques. More exquisite items, you know.”

A tight smile graces his smooth face. “The second half of the auction has much more to behold, I assure you. Surely something unique enough to please your enchanting bride.”

I smile demurely, letting him take my hand, kiss it.

Someday, I will cut those lips from his face.

“Indeed. One would be most gracious and appreciative to behold, or rather, preview said selections. T’es accord?”

Of course Ciro actually speaks French. Ridiculous.

“I understand you completely, monsieur. Follow me.”

Tugging at his sleeve discreetly, I flash Shakal a warning look. We are in the depths of a building we do not know the way out of. Not wise to venture further.

Yet he is right when he twitches his shoulders in the smallest of shrugs. What else can we do? If Pyotr is here, or any sign that he was, we must get behind the curtain, so to speak.

Ciro’s expression turns suspicious as the man leads us back through open crates, lined with hay, packing materials, many foreign objects. Straight to a rear door.

Sirens go off in my head right as we clear the doorway and it slams shut behind us.

Of course this is a trap.

Ciro starts to rush forward, collapsing into a heap as he is struck in the head, the attacker stepping from the shadows. Three more join him, encircling us.

But my stomach sinks further when the well-dressed host turns, leveling us with a sneer.

“Welcome to Marrakesh, Miss Sokolov. We have been expecting you.”

17

CIRO

Good quality flooring, these Moroccan basements.

No give. No bounce.

A-plus masonry.

My face continues to explore the texture of the dust in the grooves of the tiles as I regain consciousness. Vanya’s voice says something like, “How do you know who I am?”

And here I thought I got recognized.

“Come on, fellas, we can work something out. Payment in blood?” I mumble, trying to sit up. Instead, a garble of bullshit and just a little spit and blood comes out.

Gets their attention, though.

Someone drags me to my knees, pulling my head back by my hair. That’s so hot.

“You were clever to find your way here, but foolish to use the ring to gain entry.”

“The ring was given to us, a gift,” Vanya bluffs.

“Even if that were true, the giver would suffer a gruesome death for betraying our organization. Which means they must already be dead.”

“Along with dozens more of your soldiers,” Vanya snaps, shifting gears on a dime. The statement raises the temperature in the room a few degrees. Them’s fighting words.

Gotta diffuse this.

“Look, Mr. Kingsley, I’m sure we can work something out … I love your movies, by the way. Not so much the superhero one, but still.” This time I make words come out. Probably not for the best, though.

The fist across my jaw is expected, but shockingly painful.

Not his, of course. One of the four toughs holding us hostage.

“Impudent prick. I should have known you were American.” The auctioneer leers down at me over his prominent nose. He preens in front of his men, puffing out his chest a bit. His gaze sweeping over me.

This is going south quickly.

Need to turn things around.

But Vanya’s all over it. “Please, forgive my outburst. And him, in general. You clearly know who I am. And you are very aware of why I am here.”

“I do. But you can hardly expect to bargain from your position.”

So he does have Pyotr! I almost blurt it out.

He continues, raising his nose condescendingly. “The items we have that might have belonged to the Volk were purchased at fair market value. If you want your possessions back, you simply must buy them.”

Wait … what is he talking about?

“I came here for information, nothing more.” This time, Vanya’s bluff is solid, natural. “And to see what this fuss was all about.”

“This … fuss?”

“I do not care about heirlooms. I approved those sales myself. Your establishment intrigued me.”

“I see,” he mutters. Now it’s his turn to wonder what the hell she’s talking about. And mine. Still mine. I have no clue. “So you came to … vacation? What of the recent … events on your shores?”

Rumors spread fast. Let’s see how fast and how accurate.

“Clearly not your concern or your department. Unless any of our citizens made their way into your possession? This would be grounds for … retaliation.”

The man’s eyes widen slightly, somewhere between outrage and fear.

“You would threaten me, in my own club? In my own country? You are alone. Helpless.”

“Perhaps. But Pyotr Sokolov knows precisely where I am. And he is always eager for a fight. His kin going missing or being harmed would be … inconvenient for you.” Here’s the real roll of the dice.

“He wouldn’t dare.” Fear. Real fear. Which means …

“You know how far his reach is. And his close relationship with the Lyras.” Anyone who knows anything about the Greek assassins knows to fear them.

The auctioneer swallows hard, glancing back and forth between us.

So, he doesn’t know a thing about Pyotr. The invasion. Only that he’s come into some old trophies as a result. Well played, my love.

Only that kinda leaves us back at square one.

“We seem to be at an impasse. I cannot just allow you to leave.” He glowers down at me.

Vanya gambled. Now it’s my turn.

“You’re a purveyor of chance, and a good one. So let’s play a game,” I interject before the threats and tension can escalate into something unfortunate for us.

“What do you propose?” His eyes narrow.

Ha! Got him.

“A bet, a game. Anything you want.”

“The stakes?”

“If you win, you keep all of my winnings, my deposit, and I’ll even throw in a little extra.” I wink, nodding to Vanya. I pray she goes along with this for now. Her nostrils flare, but she stays silent. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

His eyes sparkle, his mouth twitches in a sick smile. “You would trade Pyotr Sokolov’s daughter for your freedom? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Fuck, I meant like a night with her, you wacko.” Choose my cards, place my bet. Now I wait to see if he folds.

The regal man’s head tips back, a pompous laugh echoing in the room. “Such an indecent proposal. You Americans have gall, I will give you that.”

The guards laugh along with him, elbowing each other and eyeing Vanya.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying. Even a man such as yourself must get lonely.” I raise my eyebrows suggestively, biting my lip.

The four guards behind me can’t see my expression.

The auctioneer shakes his head slowly, but I catch it, the slightest flinch of his eyes down my half-unbuttoned shirt.

“Leave us,” he announces, waving his hand. The guards hesitate for a moment, then file out. As soon as they’re gone, I stand, smiling at our host.

“What do you say? Shall we play?” I step closer, putting on my most sultry stare. “Can you really pass up those stakes?”

“You are lovely. And devious.” The man scoffs, his mouth curling. “As tempting as seeing you lose all of that money is and … other things, what makes you think I would share any information with you? What keeps me from just taking your winnings? I will not simply cave because you figured out my secret.”

“How often does a man of your tastes get an opportunity like this?” Vanya huffs, indulging my gambit.

“You know I cannot.”

“Then I guess we have you by the balls,” she drolls.

“Perhaps. But I too have a card unplayed. Isn’t that right, Mr. Diamante?”

Well, shit.

But I’m not done yet.

“You really do have a full house. But I’ve got a royal flush. How do you think your clients would feel if they found out a member of the Diamante family walked right into your casino and took you for one hundred million dollars and the contents of your safe. Last I heard, you were holding onto some pretty pricey items for the sheikh of Dubai …” Now that is how you gamble.

With your fucking life.

This time his eyes bug out of his head.

“You lie.”

“You wish.” I toss him a small object. The auctioneer pales.

“Where did you⁠—”

“From your office desk last night. When I broke into your safe.”

“You … There’s a reason we banned you bastards from our country.”

“I am that reason.” I chuckle, holding my fingers around my eyes like glasses.

“I should kill you where you stand …” he squeaks, rage shaking through him.

“But you won’t,” Vanya snaps, crossing her arms. Her expression indicates that this little charade is over.

“No. I won’t,” he grits out.

“Except you kinda will. And you even get to save face with your men. They’re going to think you are a badass after tonight. Vanya, if you would do the honors …” I brace myself.

She clips the edge of my forehead with a sharp blow, spraying blood across my face. Grunting in agony, I fall against the door.

The next several seconds pass in self-imposed violence as the auctioneer stands there aghast.

“Now …” Vanya growls, wiping blood from her lip. “Tell me what you know about a man in a black mask. Mocro symbol on the forehead.”

If he was shaken up by our behavior before, at this question he blanches.

“They … they are …” He shudders, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. “All I know is that they are demons. Spirits of death. Indentured to the head of the Mocro. His servants.”

He glances around as if expecting one to appear.

It’s all he’s going to give us.

Storming to the door, he jerks it open, signaling to his men. Two of them guide us out, looking rather pleased with our roughed-up state.

He walks with us through the maze of underground tunnels, leading to an ancient, wrought iron gate. A guard throws it open, shoving us out.

The auctioneer waves for them to wait as he steps out into the dark alley. “Let this be a lesson. Never show your faces here again, am I clear?”

“Y-you bastard,” Vanya snarls, holding her arms to her sides. The guards inside sneer, nodding amongst themselves. She almost looks like someone had their way with her in a back room.

Oh. Wait. I did.

I spit at his feet, looking far worse than Vanya, my white shirt and jacket torn and dyed red in my blood. “You’re sick!”

Some of our demeanor must have rubbed off on the guy, because he backhands me in perfect form, sending me to the ground. I really need people to pull some punches today.

Leaning over me threateningly, he whispers, “What about the contents of my safe?”

“They’ll be there when you go to check,” I mumble mysteriously, staggering to my feet and clutching Vanya as we hurry down the alley.

“You son of a bitch!” I hear him yell as soon as we are around the corner, this time in all seriousness.

“I can’t believe he actually thought I broke into his safe.”

“I can’t believe we found the same cat statue in the market after I took those photos through his office window,” Vanya snickers, wincing at the bruise on her cheek. “Or that you figured out his … preferences. I almost lost my shit when you offered him that.”

“See?! Isn’t gambling a rush?” I cackle, reveling in the night air. “Wait, you’re not jealous, are you?”

“I knew he would not try. Too risky in his culture. I can relate to some of this.”

“Man, organized crime needs to get with the times.”

Vanya rolls her eyes, leaning in to kiss me beneath a streetlamp. At this time of night, in this part of town, we would normally be targets. Except we look like we already got mugged.

Or we just killed somebody.

Just as our lips brush, instincts kick in. I drop to the ground, Vanya matching my movements as two knives lodge into the wall where we were just standing.

We’re on our feet in a flash, sprinting the opposite way.

The dark of the slum streets is a double-edged sword. While it keeps us relatively hidden, it makes it almost impossible to see where we are going and where our attacker is.

“Left,” Vanya hisses, ducking behind an old shack.

“We should have brought a car.”

“Good idea … that one. Pretend to break into it.”

“Deal. Wait, am I bait?”

“Yes! Go!”

I’m dashing across the street before I can chicken out or flip her off. Four or five bullets hit the pavement behind me, sending me diving behind the car. This guy is either not that good, or he’s fucking with us.

Another shot rings out, this time from Vanya’s position.

Where the hell did she …

But she’s running toward me, waving me on. Her cover fire only buys us a few seconds, enough to make the end of the street. Just in time for me to hear the rumble of a motorcycle.

“How do you say sorry in Arabic?” I stick out my arm.

“I do not think ‘sorry’ is enough …” She crouches.

I wince as the biker hits my clothesline, at a reasonable speed, launching back and onto the ground. Vanya is already in the air, leaping onto the bike and getting it under control.

“Go!” I hop on behind her.

Zipping through the streets on a motorcycle, we weave through what little traffic is out this late. In no time, I feel like we’ve lost any sight of our assailant. Vanya really did her homework. Cutting through side streets and doubling back on our route has us both sighing in relief.

Until we hit the side of town our little shithole apartment is on and I spot a tail.

“Dammit, how did they find us?”

“Does it matter? We cannot go back to the safe house,” Vanya barks.

She guns it around a bend.

Then everything goes ass up.

A gunshot echoes out, followed by a pop. The back tire goes out, sending us into a slide. I throw Vanya clear, shoving off the other way. We roll, tumble. The bike takes another battery of bullets.

“Dead end.” She checks the gun. Two rounds left.

“Not for us.” Because nothing can stop us when we are together.

But we are a little taken aback when a motorcycle skids to a halt several feet from us. The man in the black mask, decked out in black leather, steps off the bike. And the balls on this guy.

He doesn’t even appear to have a gun.

Other than the rifle I see strapped to the bike.

His stance is calm, balanced. Somehow, it’s still threatening as hell.

So I rush him, banking on the element of surprise.

A knife appears from nowhere, almost catching my face, my shoulder, my ribs, my arm. He’s insanely fast. Fortunately, so am I.

Parrying the first few blows, I pinch a nerve, dropping the knife into my hand.

Just as quickly, another one glitters in his other hand, meeting my strike and blocking me in a flurry of perfect slashes.

He drives me back a step, then another.

But I’ve got backup.

Vanya lunges in from his blind spot, sweeping his leg. Somehow he’s already in the air, hopping over the kick and driving the heel of his boot into her face.

A glancing blow.

Then he’s charging and it’s everything I can do to brace myself as he careens into me, tackling me to the ground. I scoop my knees under him in the tumble, kicking him into the air above me, right over my head. Like a goddamn circus performer.

Gloved hands hit the ground first, handspringing back to his feet.

The utter audacity of this motherf⁠—

Three knives gleam and I’m spinning, Vanya’s leaping. His throws are dangerously close. It gives us a moment to close, teaming up on him. He uses the wall, bouncing back on us with every kick, punch, and slash; matching us in speed, strength.

He’s a fucking ninja.

And add to the fact that we kicked our own asses tonight and Vanya is not dressed for action …

The killer has us on the ropes, driving us back, inch by inch.

Despite our best efforts he drives a wedge between us, pushing us apart. With a fraction of an opening, he feigns toward Van’s head and I reach out involuntarily. A stupid move.

Blood sprays from my hand, a fist following to smash my nose.

Then I’m soaring through the air.

Pavement cushions my fall. We’re old friends.

Off a ways, past my front-row view of my feet, I hear a sharp impact, a scuffle. Then a piercing yelp of pain. Trying to sit up, I catch him swinging her around, twisting her arm behind her and driving her to her knees.

“Vanya!”

Adrenaline floods into my numb extremities and I’m fucking fish-eyed, first-person-shooter vision and charging like a linebacker. In slow motion, I watch him swivel to the side, hooking an arm around mine, lurching me out of his path and away, stumbling in my own momentum.

He’s right there when I turn, his knee catching me in the sternum, blasting the breath out of me. Black dims the edges of my vision as I collapse.

And he scoops up Vanya before she can recover, pressing a blade to her neck.

“Enough. Move and she dies.”

“C-c-c,” I stutter, attempting to do anything but kneel and almost puke before I manage to choke out, “Cliché bullshit.”

For a second he pauses, tilting his head.

“Shakal …” Vanya meets my gaze, her eyes unwavering. “Go. Save yourself.”

“What did I just … say!” I rise again, way too slowly. “Enough cliché.”

But I crack my neck to the side anyway for good measure and to make a point. Hopefully it’s enough of a distraction to keep him from seeing the dagger in my hand.

“Utka,” I clip out in Russian. Vanya’s brow furrows for a split second, then she hammers her elbow into the masked man’s ribs, slicing her rigid hand up to deflect the blade.

And I am surging forward behind my thrown dagger.

In my adrenaline and pain addled state, I feel like I might actually beat the knife there for a second. Definitely delirious. Probably concussed.

He straightens from her blow in time to turn his head, the edge of the metal screeching along the metal of his mask. My fingers graze the lip of the mask as he realizes what I’m aiming for.

His foot flicks out, lightning fast taking me in the knee. I stagger.

Vanya stabs to gut him from the side. Somehow, he bends, throwing his weight into the movement and dodging into a headlong dash straight at the wall next to us.

Two steps.

Backflip. A fucking backflip.

And he takes each of us in the throat with a blow that leaves us choking.

Through the haze of my constricted airway, I see red spatter, droplets on the concrete. He’s wounded. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t finished us off.

But he surprises me again when he trots away, around the corner.

“We cannot …” Vanya grumbles, rising.

“Yeah. I go high?”

“Da. I go low.”

I muscle my way through the agony in my throat, my chest, my back. Dammit, my whole body is jacked up to shit.

She’s on the bike, speeding off after him as I take off, gaining speed.

I take the pallet at a jog, the dumpster at a run, clear the wall and leap to a rooftop, following the sound of her bike. Our ploy works. Vanya drives him right to me. A black-clad figure pops up ahead of me on the next roof, running at full tilt.

The opposite direction.

So I follow, whistling periodically to signal my location. The rev of a motor lets me know she’s keeping pace below.

He leaps. I leap.

I’m gaining and he knows it.

Down onto a lower level, he catches the edge of the next rise and I catch his ankle. Jerking him back down, he lands hard, rolling back into a crouch, lashing out at me with both hands. I catch both of his wrists, kicking him in the sternum. It feels damn good to connect a solid, devastating blow.

But the bastard won’t quit.

As I rush in, he bounces back out of his roll, planting both feet in my chest and blasting me backward. Reeling, my heels clip the lip of the building.

Looney Tunes saves my life with a wild flap of my arms. Regaining my balance, I’m after him again, rage fueling me up the wall, over the skylight of the apartment beneath us, and right after him as he soars across a much wider gap.

He lands a split second before me, turning to take my tackle and fling me right off the roof.

Falling through open air, I have a few seconds to watch as he jumps off after me.

Trash breaks my fall.

Right before he lands on top of me. Disoriented and winded, we grapple, the whole bin tipping over and spilling us like so much refuse all over the street.

At the feet of about a dozen Mocro soldiers.

The masked man rises, cracking his neck as if to mock me. Because they’ve already got Vanya, lying unconscious near the wheel of a black van. And of course, he led us right into a trap.

18

VANYA

Freezing water hits me in the face.

I would spit it in their face if I was not so thirsty. So I take what I can get.

These Mocro are not kind.

It’s nothing that I haven’t endured before, but in the hours since I awoke in this cell, they have made things particularly unpleasant for me. I know it is only the start.

What I do not know is the end game.

Why they kept us alive, when they could have simply eliminated us. Perhaps they want to know if there are more Bratva on the way.

Knowing there is no one coming for me is a concept I accept. What I am having a harder time with, is not knowing what happened to Shakal. Thinking of him that way, as the laughing psycho from the Gulag, helps me keep things in perspective.

It also keeps his identity safer.

They will wear me down, and I do not want to slip up.

After another visit from my guards, I lay still, assessing the state of my body. My head hurts, no surprise.

They clubbed me as I rode past on the motorbike. Which explains the road rash on my leg. My back. Otherwise, I am mostly hale. Aside from a few fractured fingers, a broken toe, lacerations on my arms and sides from our knife fight, and the splits on my lips and cheek.

“Shakal …” I whisper the name periodically in the pitch black, between bouts of unconsciousness. It’s sleep, of a sort. The kind where you do not remember passing out or waking. Time passes, though I cannot keep track. Other than the growing pain in my stomach, the gnawing hunger.

My only sense of day and night finally comes when my captors hose me down again, longer and more viciously than the other times. When they go, they leave a cup on the ground. Presumably so I can scoop up what I can from the grimy floor to drink.

If they think this is torture, they do not have a clue.

Survival, pain. This is the Bratva way. The Volk in particular have always prided ourselves on our knowledge of the hunt. Staying alive in impossible situations.

Pyotr taught me well.

So I drink the tepid, dirty water.

I bleed a few of the deeper cuts to flush out as much dirt as possible, then I pinch the wounds tight. With nothing else to do, I know this is a crucial time.

Hours pass, and eventually I fall asleep, curled in a ball in the corner.

When I wake, I am not alone. My mouth is parched.

“Good morning,” I croak, assuming from the long break that night passed.

“Hm. That’s a clever tactic,” the shadow mutters, his voice smooth, devoid of caring.

“Worth a try.”

“Anything to keep your mind on the outside,” he muses, almost as if he is talking to himself. This time when he speaks, it’s chilling in the way they make vampires out to be in the movies. If he wasn’t so inhuman, he would sound alluring.

“So, this is the psychological part of the torture? You will offer me solace, play mind games, etc.?”

“No. I will ask you one question. You will answer.”

“If I do not?” Likely another day or two of water torture, cold.

“The men outside will not come back, if that is what you are thinking. My time frame is short.”

“That’s inconvenient for you.”

“Who is the man you were with at the casino?”

“My brother’s boyfriend.” I sniff because laughing hurts my ribs. “Where is Pyotr?”

“I would not expect a Volk to be so glib,” he says mostly to himself. “And I will ask the questions.”

In the dim, I can just barely make out his shape across the cell from me. He stands perfectly still. Until suddenly he is next to me. It takes everything in me not to flinch at that deadly speed and precision.

The fraction of light leaking under the door gleams in his eyes. Hollow. Dark.

“His name. And you go free.”

“He did not tell you? He is movie star. Bryan Reynolds. You’ve heard of him, I’m sure.”

He does not sigh. He does not react at all.

That anticipation makes everything worse, waiting for him to strike, to slash me. But nothing.

For some reason, it’s shaking me to my core.

Even more when he’s back at the door suddenly, looking back as he steps into the hallway.

“You think you will endure this for him. I will use that against you. We will see how well he endures.”

Alone again, I breathe deeply, centering myself.

There is nothing they can do to harm me. Even if they take Ciro …

I will tear them to shreds if they kill him. I will die avenging him, to join him.

Darkness deepens. I close my eyes.

Pain lances through my back, I’m being dragged to the door. To my feet. Shoved out into what is likely a dimly lit corridor. But to my light-starved eyes, it’s a thousand suns searing my mind.

Every muscle aches, stiff with cold and disuse over the last two days. I should have warmed up. Stretched. But conserving energy is key.

The room they drag me to is empty, save for a single chair. I am thrown into it, told to stay put. A single candle lights the room, on a table in the corner.

As soon as they leave, I shuffle to it, cupping my hands around the heat.

I could use the fire as a weapon. Better to use my dress as a rope and strangle one of them. It’s already in tatters around me.

But I will wait, keeping as much material covering my skin as possible.

Lifting the candle holder, I return to my seat to wait. I stare at the door for hours. Until it finally creeks open slowly.

He is lean, tall.

Instead of his leather moto outfit, he’s dressed in a long sleeve black turtleneck shirt. Slacks. Gloves. All very stylish and fitted to his figure. The mask is the same though, covering his face and part of his head, revealing only his jet-black hair.

“You are as strong as they say.”

“Who says?”

“Rumors. I have never met a Bratva before.” His thoughts seem disjointed. His words even more so, like he speaks his thoughts without realizing it.

He circles the room, his footsteps completely silent.

“Clearly. You are still alive.” Does this mean they really do not have my uncle?

“So would your people, if things had gone according to plan.”

I can’t tell if he is misleading me, trying to get me to reveal something. Most of his statements seem innocuous, unplanned.

We sit in silence for a time, the shadow leaning on the wall behind me, my eyes focused on a stone on the wall ahead of me. If he will not speak, I will not.

“His name. Last time.” His tone tells me that he will begin the real torture next. So I must find my center. Latch onto my anchor.

“Shakal,” I finally say, the image of my lover, my warrior, locking into place.

“Hm.”

“Shakal.”

“When he sees what I’ve done to you, he will break.”

“Shakal does not break.”

“We will see.”

Hours. The cell grows colder. Men bring in a box, leaving it by the door. I do not open it.

Mask strides in a bit later. He abruptly snatches my hand.

And breaks my pinky finger.

Agony ricochets up my arm, through my head. My breath comes in heaving gasps through my nose as I grit my teeth.

Then he sets my finger, rests my hand on the arm of the chair. Where he proceeds to strap me down. I start to struggle, until he breaks my other pinky, setting it and returning my arm to the rest.

He is setting rules. Boundaries.

In the flood of pain, I cannot move enough to resist him belting my ankles. He takes his time opening the box, his back to me.

When he turns, I see the reason for the straps.

Wires. Two thick cords leading to prongs resting on the floor, the other red and black disappearing under the door.

The show is as much a part of the endeavor. But I do not need it.

I have been electrocuted before.

A shudder quakes through me, forcing me to close my eyes. He fits a strap between my teeth.

When the current hits my arms, it feels like someone hit me with a car.

Every muscle seizes at once, locking up. The sensation is unique. Almost like every fiber is cramping so hard it tears. To my perception, it lasts minutes, though only a few seconds pass.

I open my eyes. Drool pools in my lap, my head lolling forward.

“Who is Shakal?”

“A real man.” I spit the strap out. He forces it back in.

Shock. An eternity of hell.

Then cold. My entire body shivers uncontrollably.

He is careful not to keep it on too long, allowing me time to recover somewhat before he continues. Still, I can smell smoke and a faint odor of blistered skin.

“Shakal,” he whispers in my ear. Then hits me again, pressing the prongs to my chest.

The change of position staggers my resolve, shakes my focus.

“Shakal!” I scream it through my gag.

It goes on too long this time. I black out.

Water kisses my lips. Cracked and bleeding, I suck in a sip, swallow.

“His name, dear. Then you can rest.”

“Shakal,” I whisper.

Three more times. Four.

I lose count. But I hold to the image of him, my Shakal. My rock. He is here, somewhere. Or he is out there, coming for me. To murder every single one of these bastards.

Delirium sets in for a time. I dream.

Then I wake. I can’t open my eyes. They just do not want to respond.

“Sh … Shak …” I mutter.

Until I feel a warm hand on mine. Fingers lacing, palm pressed against my palm. He’s here …

“Volchitsa …”

“You know I hate that nickname, Ciro …”

My eyes snap open, my head jerks back.

“NO!” I scream, glaring into the wide black eyes behind the mask. And he just sits there in the chair next to me, his gloveless hand still intertwined with mine.

With a wordless roar, I twist my wrist, locking my fingers. At least one of his dislocates before he can jerk his hand back.

“Shit!” A low, menacing grunt muffles into the mask as he stands, stumbling back a step. With another growling sigh, he popped them back into place, straightening.

“There. You got what you wanted,” I grit out, my lips frothing with rage.

“Yes. I did.” He storms toward the door. Stops. Turns. “Now the Mocro must get what they want. I am sorry. Well, maybe not that sorry.”

He holds up his hand as he leaves.

Men come in his wake, turning me in my chair. A panel on the wall opens, and my soul leaves my body. In the next room, through a thick, tinted window, Ciro sits strapped to a chair just like mine.

And he looks like death. His eyes roll, his mouth open, dripping blood onto the stone floor. My heart breaks for his pain. For his suffering. As if mine was nothing.

Something about seeing him this way flips a switch inside me.

Pure, unfiltered fury boils over, unlike any I have ever felt.

And so it is that I must watch through a haze of red in my vision as they continue to torture him. For hours. Waterboarding. Submersion.

Yet for some reason, they never come to me. They only make me watch this horror show. So I do not look away. I behold their every strike, every wound they inflict on my lover.

Marking it down to return it tenfold on them.

But then the skeletal man administering the pain reaches for a pair of pliers, clamps them to Ciro’s fingernail. I cannot control the scream that tears itself from my throat.

Brutal, primal, it echoes out, reverberating through the walls.

His name.

“Shakal!”

The torturer hesitates, looking at the window.

Ciro’s head rises, just enough to look ahead. And I see my name on his lips. “Vanya.”

His eyes flick to the side, to the man still distracted by my wail. Standing a bit too close. Ciro’s forehead takes him full in the nose, spraying blood and sending him tumbling back.

Though I cannot hear the sound, I see the man’s mouth open. Shouting in agony.

It brings a smile to my face.

After this, the torture seems to be over. For now.

They return me to my cell. But this time, I am not alone.

19

CIRO

The theme from Who’s the Boss keeps playing on repeat in my head.

Only slightly less annoying than the days of torture that I just endured. Thank Danza they gave me a break. My ass was starting to itch something fierce in that chair.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been out when I wake up.

If you can call it that.

My mind becomes aware of acute pain. Very strong pain. In lots and lots of places.

“Shakal?” Her voice is angelic, like a Canadian Vegas pop star.

“Speaking,” I mutter, shifting my head. I’m lying down. On her lap.

Nice.

Somehow, despite a couple of rough days, she still smells like a hint of cinnamon. And blood, I mean definitely blood. And we both smell kinda burnt.

Hard pass on ever getting electrocuted again.

I let the warmth between us lull me back to sleep for a while, waking with her curled in my arms. Doesn’t get much more romantic than that. Minus the wet, stone-walled cell and the rats.

“Van, wake up.” I hate to disturb her.

“Hm?”

“The butler says the hot baths are ready.”

“Not funny. I would kill for a hot bath.”

“I would kill for … just kill. All of them.”

“Same.” She sits up, staying close to conserve our warmth.

“How’s your … everything?”

“Better than your face looks.”

“Why do they always go for the face?”

“At least you will have a few more sexy scars.”

“You know, most people would think you’re being sarcastic …”

“I’d kiss you, but …”

“It’s the drooling isn’t it? Doctor said it will stop eventually.”

“I am not sure which welt is your lip.”

“Oh the humanity,” I mutter in deadpan. A few years ago, I really would have been devastated by the loss of my perfect looks. Now look at me.

I make Jean Valjean look like a prince.

Shaking my head to clear the haze, I rise with a little help, pacing the room. It’s nicer than the first cell they had me in. Seems … higher up. Less deep.

Less cold.

“We really stepped in it, huh?”

“We should not have come,” Vanya grumbles, wrapping her arms around her legs.

“We had to rule out Pyotr being here. Shit, maybe he’s in the cell next door?”

Van raises an eyebrow.

“Would it make you feel better if we jump the guy in the mask when he comes back? I’ll hold his arms. You can question him.”

“I already tried asking him questions. He did not answer.”

“You do know the point of him torturing you was for you to answer …” It comes as no surprise that she would still be planning and fighting through even the worst torture.

“He must pay for Matvey. But I do not think we will get this chance.”

“He will pay. They all will.” I meet her gaze. “The Volk will not stand for it. Even if we never get out of here. Someone will come for these Mocro bastards.”

“We will get out. We must,” she says softly. “You deserve to go home. To your family. What’s left of it, anyway.”

“What are you saying, Vanya?”

“Matvey made you promise to stay with me. But I do not hold you to this if we can escape. I want you to be free. Free from Bratva. Free from Viperas, Diamantes. Whatever you want to do. Go be with your brothers, if you know where they are.”

I press my lips together, unsure of whether we are being listened to.

“I can’t leave. Not without you.”

Vanya’s composure wavers, her eyes boring into my soul.

“You would stay. Even if we must fight for the rest of our lives? Even if we die?”

“Especially if we die. I don’t think I’d be able to go anywhere after that,” I barely keep from smiling.

“Shut up, jackass.”

“It’s pronounced Shakal. And the words you meant to say were⁠—”

“I love you.”

No torture, no shock, no pain could ever hit me harder than her words. Only these are devastating in a totally different way.

I pull her into my arms, holding her to my chest.

“I love you too, Vanya. And we are blood. Forever.”

“Navsegda.” She nods, closing her eyes.

“Van, look …” I pull away a fraction, holding up my hand. A tiny dot of sunlight forms a faint dot on my arm from a crack in the ceiling near the back corner.

“It’s daytime.” She breathes, tears forming at the edges of her lids.

“Don’t start, or I’ll start.”

“I will cry if I want to.”

“Is it the torture? Or my breath?”

“Both. Quiet, someone is coming.” She raises a hand.

“Get ready. If it’s the masked mannequin, I’ma kick him in the balls.”

But it’s more than just one set of boots. And Black Parade isn’t among them. Just your average, lower-level soldiers. Although, these guys dress a lot differently than the mugs we’ve seen so far. More like … palace guards.

Each of them carries an assault rifle, not to mention the way they walk.

Military, for sure. Or ex-military.

The lead guy motions for us to come with them and at this point, I don’t see the point in putting up a fight. At least until they try to line us up for the firing squad.

The passageway is old stone, simple. It’s definitely day outside. Windows with bars high up on the walls let through golden beams. Never thought I’d be so happy to see the sun in my life.

Except for the blinding retinal explosion a moment later when they guide us through a steel door. Stairs flash red behind my eyelids as I clamp them shut.

Even in the tunnel, it’s more than I was ready for.

Vanya grunts at my side, experiencing the same overwhelming sensation.

Squinting, we place one foot in front of the next, until we are out in the open. Fresh breeze hits my face and I pause in the middle of the yard. It’s a perfect day outside. Sunny. Cool.

“Holy shit that feels good.”

“Not as nice as Russian weather, but I agree.”

“Come.” A soldier barks, motioning us toward another archway. This one is more ornate, leading through a wall that sweeps up toward, no-joke, castle-like parapets high above us. Where the hell are we?

The farther we go through the arched corridor, the more elegant the surroundings become. Finally, we reach a wide spiral staircase, sweeping up through a windowed tower and my breath catches in my throat as we ascend.

Even at this angle, just a glimpse of the outside of the place …

It’s enormous.

An honest to goodness palace in the middle of nowhere. My view is cut short as we reach the top of the steps. Outside, we cross another small courtyard, this one resplendent with a gurgling fountain, stunning mosaic tiles, greenery, flowers.

I so badly want to ask the guards who lives here, but I get the impression they are not going to answer. Or they don’t speak English, other than the one guy.

“Ciro …” Vanya scoffs, tugging at my arm.

The stretch of floor to ceiling windows just inside the doorway to our right has my jaw dropping.

Sandstone walls, some clearly ancient, line the stretch of rolling hills, cutting through endless hedges and newer structures paving the grounds for at least a mile or more. Pools, fountains, sculptures, all dot the architecture fading away into the distance, ending in what might be a fortress wall almost out of view.

And sweeping away majestically on the horizon, the mountains gleam in the midday sun.

This place is a fucking paradise.

“‘Arabian Nights’ …”

“What?” Vanya mumbles, giving me a look as we are led onward.

“Uh. Nothing. Just reminded me of a song.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh, that fern over there is more ridiculous than me in every way.”

We keep our voices low, but no one seems to pay us much heed. Other than making sure we keep moving. They barely even look at us.

Catching my reflection in a mirrored wall hanging I see why.

“Geebus!” I wince.

“You don’t look that bad.”

“I was talking about you.” I give her the eye, taking in her overall lack of clothing. There’s not a lot left of that dress. Or her bra.

“Keep it up, I give you makeover,” she croons, making my skin prickle as she shakes a fist at me.

Leave it to Vanya to threaten me with sexy violence in the middle of being held captive by cultist mafia royalty. I mean, I don’t know if that’s true, but this place is outrageous. I wouldn’t put it past them.

Gold plating, marble, anything fancy, shiny, and polished. Everywhere I look there are riches. Paintings that I know are stolen originals. It’s a black-market smuggler’s dream trove.

After another ten minutes of walking, we reach a pair of massive red and green doors, intricately painted and embossed with gold.

I’m feeling worn out.

Not at all in the mood to deal with whoever has summoned us.

But when the doors open, a short man in a robe stands there, holding a platter of warm towels. And waving us into the most elegant, spacious, glorious suite I have ever seen, let alone stayed in. Couches encircle a fire pit in the center, framed by pillars. Curtains longer than our entire house back home billow in the breeze coming through the twenty-foot windows. And outside, a balcony that stretches the length of the entire space overlooking more gardens.

The guards post up at the door just before it closes.

“Um. What is going on?” I ask, my voice carrying through the chambers, accented by the splash of an indoor fountain.

“You are the most honored guests of my lord Adil Abas. Be welcome and rest.”

20

VANYA

I can barely believe my eyes.

This place is a fantasy. It cannot be real.

A grin pulls at my lips as I notice the baths, the bed in the next room is massive beyond compare.

Even as a voice inside me warns that this is a prison, that we are still captive.

I have seen some of the Bratva leaders’ homes through the years, at parties and such. Pyotr keeps a relatively nice mansion just outside of town. But this is like the Russian emperors of old.

Forget that, it is beyond.

After so long in tight quarters, I feel strange in the open. The ceiling sweeps so far overhead.

It’s enough to make me feel the opposite of claustrophobic.

Until I smell food.

Suddenly, the surroundings do not matter.

My need overwhelms any other concern. Ciro is right there with me, his eyes lighting up as a we spot the table at the far end of the room on the opposite side from the bedroom. This place has its very own dining room.

Of course it does.

And the spread is unbelievable.

More than either one of us could eat in several sittings. But it is carefully chosen. After so long without food, we must be careful.

Our host seems to be aware of this.

Fresh fruits, mild dishes. Many of them are western, others familiar from home. Still others steam aromas of local fare.

Ciro thrusts a plate into my hands, heaping a bit of everything on his.

“Shakal—”

“I don’t care if it’s poisoned!”

“That’s not … never mind.” I chuckle, selecting a few things for my plate while sampling others immediately. The berries are unbelievably sweet and ripe, mingling with sweet cinnamon and cloves in the porridge. No matter how wealthy I may ever become, some flavors will always satisfy my cravings the best. Call it my simple upbringing.

Once we are full, I am magnetically pulled toward the steaming bath someone filled for us in the jacuzzi-sized tub in the bathroom. It’s bordering on scalding. My toe curls back in sweet blistering delight.

“Ugh, I am bloody mess.”

“That’s a terrible British accent.”

“Shut up and rinse off with me before we get in the bath.”

“So bossy.”

The shower heads rain down on us in the glass stall, big enough for at least four people. Ciro glances around, raising his eyebrows.

“Do not get ideas.”

“I was just thinking we could lay down in this thing.”

“Maybe later …”

The water stings on cuts and lacerations, clearing the grime and sweat from our battered bodies. At least enough so that I do not feel disgusting when we sink into the steaming depths of the tub. It’s better than I imagined. Utterly amazing.

Ciro’s hands on my shoulders a moment later tops it by a hair.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ve never had a massage before?”

“Net. I have no time for nails and spa days.”

“You should make time. And we have time now.”

“True. At least until they decide to come take us back to the dungeon or to the guillotine.”

“That’s what you went with? I was thinking firing squad. Classic hanging.”

“No. Not in such an opulent place. They would put on a show. At least a drawing and quartering. Perhaps even an iron maiden?” A moan interrupts my deathly musings. How can his fingers hurt so good?

“Hm, you’re a tied-up mess.”

“Mm, do not say things you will not follow through on …”

His lips brush against my neck, but I wiggle, shrugging my shoulders. “More.”

“Yes, madam. We may as well enjoy this while we can. Soon, they will drag out my intestines.”

“Fill my mouth with bees.”

“Mm-hmm. Burn us alive in a giant wicker statue.”

“You watch too many movies.”

“You know too many horrendous murder techniques for someone who hasn’t.”

“Less talking, more kneading.”

“You are all I need,” he hums into my ear. I am just too damned euphoric to turn around and smack him upside the head.

The bath lasts until neither of us can stand the heat any longer. We scrub, soap, shampoo. Drying off, I feel like a completely new person with our fill of water, food, relaxation.

I understand why people crave this. It is as close to heaven on earth as one might find. But it makes people weak. Ciro’s perspective holds weight, however.

Indulging every now and again adds spice to life.

Just like the lips of the man who holds my heart.

I drop the towel, swaying my hips as I lean in. It has been exceedingly difficult to ignore his erection this entire time. But I managed.

Now, it’s all I can think about.

“I wonder,” he whispers, catching his breath after a long, passionate kiss, “If we could have ever been like this. Just … normal. In a beautiful place together.”

“We are not cut from that fabric. And this place is far from normal. It is another extreme, just like the rest of our lives. So for tonight, be whoever you want to be. As long as you are mine.”

The next kiss drags out, even as we meander through the expansive chamber, caressing one another. Ciro explores my curves with undivided attention, his gently gripping hands sending jolts of excitement through me.

His hands run down, cupping my full ass and he squeezes insistently. I return the favor, pulling him toward me and gliding him between the gap in my thighs. I pin him there, tightening my muscles to make him squirm.

Heat floods through me as friction and proximity send my head spinning with arousal.

Straddling him on one of the massive ottomans, I press my clit against the base of his cock, pleasing myself and teasing him with every stroke. Soon, the slick of my sex slips along the bottom of his shaft, pinned to his stomach.

All he can do is watch me, watch my folds spread around him up and down his length. I push his head back, kissing his neck, nibbling at his ears.

“You kept me sane,” I moan. “Through the worst of the pain.”

“You kept me alive,” he responds. “Even if you have almost gotten me killed a dozen times. I’ll always live for you. You’re the only thing worth living for.”

My heart shatters.

It’s the sweetest agony.

Shakal is a part of who I am now. He is a part of my soul. And I can never go back from this.

If there were any walls left within me, the brutal torture and his healing hands blasted them from me. No more doubts. No more fear.

There is nothing between us.

I almost smile before I take him inside me, sliding slowly, deeper and deeper. Settling him within me, I sigh.

I am complete.

Ciro’s arms wrap around me as he grinds once, rotating his hips deliciously. He is more than a perfect fit. Just slightly more. His width is so snug, hugged within my walls so that all I can feel is him.

And as I adjust to him, becoming more and more lost in his eyes, he inches in deeper, seating me right against his lap. It is almost too much, these sensations.

The exquisite relaxing of my core around him. Every spiral of my hips soaks him, draws him right onto the spot I need him most.

Each rock of our rhythm takes me further into the dream, deeper into his love. I am fucking gone. And I could go on like this forever.

There is no one else, nothing else around us as I begin to buck along his shaft, using my hands against his rock-hard abs and the cushion beneath us to push back, pumping forward again.

All I can feel is the entirety of his column within me, his hands on my breasts, his finger playing along the apex of my sex firing off volcanic quakes of bliss in my center, spraying sparks and showers of magma through my limbs, my hands, my feet.

Rippling waves of heat and desire consume me as he grips tighter, my sawing shortening to tight, fast flicks of my hips. It feels like I am racing toward my first release. My muscles tense, my middle shudders.

But it is not quite fast enough, not powerful enough to drive me over the edge.

“I need you …”

“Tell me …”

There are no words. I grab at him, pulling him with me as I rise.

We continue to kiss, bite, lick, all the way to the bedroom. A lustful laugh escapes his lips as I leap to the bed, he follows, landing with his arms braced around me, then pinning me to the bed. Our fingers interlock, he holds me down.

And plunges into me again.

It’s the most pleasure I’ve ever felt in my life, the most intense, growing, immense pressure. Every thrust is devastating, all the way to the hilt, filling my core entirely. Each pounding stroke makes me gasp, makes me moan.

This is the line between pain and pleasure I have always known I wanted. That I have never been able to find.

Fully letting myself go, challenging my body and pushing both of us to the limit.

Soon I will come undone. Soon I will cascade over that cliff like a sparkling waterfall. I want to reach that peak for that sweet unwinding. But more so, so that he can make me come again and again and again.

“Like this … just like this,” I cry, twining my fists in the sheets.

I begin to quake. Tipping over the brink. The falling, falling.

Rushing, barreling toward the ground with an all-new ferocity as Ciro smiles his pleasure above me, worshiping me with his eyes. I know he will not go with me, not yet.

But having him admire me as I do sends another wave collapsing over the first, making my stomach tighten as my legs spasm around his waist.

He lets me come completely shuddering to a stop before lowering himself to kiss my neck, suck my nipples. Slowly building up again, starting with a new sensation.

His teeth nip at me, making me gasp and squirm.

“I need more of you, my love,” I sing.

“You can have everything, Vanya …” The way he purrs my name makes my skin pebble, shivers running up and down my legs. Curling my fucking toes.

“Fuck me. Fuck me as hard as you want. However you want. Do whatever you desire.”

I’ve never given myself to anyone like this.

I’ve always been in control, the one taking what I needed from my lovers. Never letting another person into my heart, keeping everything at arm’s length. This kind of abandon, this level of complete lack of control should be terrifying.

Instead, it’s scintillating. It’s mind-blowing.

All the more when he begins to explore the room, lifting me like I weigh nothing and laying me across the table, then the dresser. He bends me over the vanity, letting me watch him pound into me in the mirror.

The chair is next, but as I slam down on him over and over he leans back. The legs snap.

“Our host can afford it.”

Ciro scoops me up, sliding into me again, kissing me as I cling to him. Several steps take us out onto the balcony in the dim of dusk.

Setting me on the wide, smooth railing, he grips the outer lip of the barrier, using it to accentuate every hammering drive of his magnificent cock into my depths. And all I can do is throw my head back, bracing myself on my hands behind me.

Another climax roars toward me.

I clench, hoping to ward it off, make this last.

But I am no match for his barrage of bliss. Blood rushes in my ears, deafening me to my own screams, echoing out over the gardens for all to hear.

Cool evening air refreshes my glistening skin as he continues, his teeth at my collarbone, every muscle rippling. He is a wonder to behold.

In the wake of my latest finale, Ciro lets me down, just for a moment to catch my breath. Sweeping me off my feet, he carries me back inside, our lips never parting for long.

“Tell me what you want …” I hum between kisses.

“This. Forever.”

“How do you want me?”

“You tell me.”

“I want you to fill me with your love. I want you to come with me,” I demand as we return to the main room.

He aims straight for the center carpet in front of the hearth.

Right in the middle of the floor.

Laying me down, he stretches out beside me, caressing my skin. I almost purr as I raise my hands over my head, luxuriating in him. Basking in him.

Ciro shifts to his knees, sitting back on his heels as he continues to massage my thighs, dragging me closer to him. I feel his stiffness brush against my skin, still drenched in me.

When he plays at my entrance, I expect him to rush in, to resume his mind-altering orgasmic assault. But he waits, seating the throbbing head of his dick just inside my lips.

Then the bastard has the gall to slip it in, out. Just the head.

Over and again.

Soon, my thighs are trembling again. This is worse than the electroshock!

The edging does the unthinkable. It stacks up layer after layer of pleasure within me, building my arousal until I am writhing on the lushious carpet, my skin tingling from head to toe.

I will not last this way either, but it will take much, much longer.

Excruciatingly long.

“Fucking hell …”

“I love it when you growl at me,” Ciro rumbles, his own words gravel in his throat.

My mind is mush. Devastated by an overdose of ecstasy. All I can moan as I start to quiver is, “You can’t … I can’t …”

I beg him. I need him.

Every cell in my body wants another climax before he finishes. Because I am selfish. And he has spoiled me. And I cannot bear to wait any longer.

After this, there’s no going back. We are one, and I never want anything again. I never want food or drink or air if it’s not his, if it’s not him.

The old me would wonder who I am becoming.

Shakal has set me free from such thoughts.

He rolls to the floor, setting me on top again, guiding himself into my tender, drenched middle.

“Now, make yourself come again,” he orders me, and I smile sumptuously, bouncing down, slamming down onto his cock. His eyes flare, his shocked grin telling me exactly what he wants.

I will obey. But he will come with me.

He does not stand a chance.

Bumping up and down, I glide along every inch of him, all the way out, all the way in, giving it everything I have. He is as deep as he can possibly be, enveloped within me, his skin glistening with my thick, velvety lust.

My clit skims against his abdomen, adding to my ascent toward the highest summit. Leaning into it, I drop down over him, biting his ear and pumping along his length with tight, slick flexes of my ass. Soon, he is gasping.

Even more when I breathe into his ear, moaning my desire.

“I need you to come, my love. Deep inside me …”

“Fuuu—”

His hands clap down on my cheeks, gripping with pure longing. Desperation. His ass leaves the floor, lifting us both up. Tilting me forward, he drags himself out, spearing into me once. Then again. Faster. Faster.

Soon, the clapping of my ass against his thighs is a drumbeat, only drowned out by our nearly incessant cries. The keening storm in my head reaches a fever pitch, rapture only moments away.

I clutch the carpet, his arms, anything I can to hang on as he hits his stride, hammering into my cluster of nerves every single time with brain melting swiftness and pressure.

It’s fucking insane the way he makes me feel, physically, mentally. Emotionally.

My walls lock around him, gushing forth more of my need for him, dripping down my legs. We are both slick with our disastrous endeavor.

Every time he drives himself home, a rocket fires off in my head, tingling, surging through me like electricity.

My body is giving out.

My muscles exhausted. My ass vibrates with exertion.

This is it.

“Yes … Yes,” I bear down, bracing myself as I feel him begin to pulsate.

“Vanya!” He calls for me, warning me, singing to me.

And I am there with him, unleashing the last of my love, shattering. I explode into a million pieces, every nerve of my body glowing in the glory of my release.

To say that he filled me before was nothing compared to the searing magma that flows from him, spilling out around his final plunge, soaking us in our heavenly eruption. Deep inside, I feel myself flex, squeezing every drop from him.

We stay there like that for minutes, an hour.

I lose track of time.

Our bodies are slack, clinging to one another. All the while he remains within me, still rigid.

I savor it even as I doze, not wanting to miss that sensation of him for a second. To make it last as long as possible.

Unless he tries to start again …

I might die.

But my lover is breathing deeply, completely at peace and holding me close to his chest as it rises and falls. I watch him, tracing my finger down his face, and he smiles. Not the usual, wide grin. Just a gentle, warm smile as he rests.

And I am no more. I am only his.

Ciro Diamante. Shakal.

Mine.

There is no one like him. Together, we will burn this entire palace to the ground. We will escape. Make it home. Start a life together.

For the first time in my life, I do not have hope for a future. Not just aspirations. Ambitions.

I make a resolution. And I’ll be damned if we do not make it home. Together.

We have both been broken down, torn apart.

And he has put me back together, piece by piece. Healed my wounds. Patched the cracks in my soul. Now I will do the same for him.

I am home in his arms. In his heart.

And no one can stand against us.

21

CIRO

After a night of unrivaled pleasure in a situation that freed us from basically any and all inhibition, I could sleep for a fucking week. I feel like one of those floppy inflatable tube guys when the motor gets turned off.

Stretching, I luxuriate in the cool, endless sheets around us.

The bed is bigger than most of the rooms I had growing up.

I thought we were rich. Each of us Diamante brothers had our own apartment at the compound, and our own places in Manhattan. Italy. Paris. Not to mention the other properties I assume we still technically own all over the globe. Vacation homes, essentially what you might call luxury safe houses.

This level of wealth makes us look like wannabes.

And a part of me almost feels mad that we didn’t indulge more when we had it. Of course, not drawing that kind of attention was the whole point in New York.

At least I got to taste a little bit of that sweet life before I died.

Because I feel like today is going to be a big day.

A few minutes later, as if in confirmation, a knock at the door precedes staff bringing in our breakfast, another ridiculous spread. Vanya and I slip into robes behind a divider, freshening up and sitting down.

We eat as they clean up the room, all of them silent, oblivious to our presence, yet somehow highly attentive. I know if I so much as sneeze, one of them would be at my side with a tissue.

Glancing across the table at my partner in crime, a little smile plays at my lips. Then hers.

I hear them sweeping up the remains of the chair.

On the balcony, a maid is polishing the railing in a certain spot.

I almost feel bad.

But what can we do? It’s been life or death nonstop lately and we needed a little life yesterday. All day. And all night.

It’s like she can read my thoughts, wagging her eyebrows a couple of times at me.

Instantly, I’m at attention again.

Good thing I’m sitting down as a server sweeps right by me, refilling my coffee.

“Excuse me …” I venture, guessing none of them will answer any questions.

The flat, polite look I receive is sign enough. Either they are sworn to silence, or they don’t speak our language.

Or maybe they really don’t like us.

I try again a couple of times, giving up as the attendant from the day before steps up to my shoulder.

“Yes, sir?”

“Geez!” I almost slosh scalding coffee on my crotch. “Have you been there the whole time?’

“Perhaps.”

“Oh. Cute. What’s on the docket today, Mr. Turturo?”

“My name is Ahmed.” The bald man folds his hands and bows.

“My name is Indigo … you know what. Never mind. Any news for us, Ahmed?” I flick a glance at Vanya.

She’s stoic as usual, but I see the gleam in her eyes. At least she thinks I’m funny.

“The lord will see you today. You will be ready at 1:45 p.m. sharp.”

“Gladly. Do you think he’ll like my robe? Or should I throw on a curtain … maybe my bath towel?”

“Everything in this palace belongs to Lord Adil.” He speaks blindly, without emotion. But I swear the guy is fucking with me.

“Fine. His towel. If he’s so picky, then I’ll wear what I’ve got on that’s mine. And he is not going to like what we did on his rug.”

“Such an outfit would not be worthy of a meeting with my lord.”

“It was good enough for my birthday.”

“Happy belated birthday, Mr. Diamante.”

“It’s … dammit.” I catch a glimmer in his eye. Smug little shit. “Your lord is about to have a meeting with the back of my hand …”

“That would be most inappropriate, sir.”

“So is your mustache, Cheech.”

“Ahmed,” Vanya interjects before I can pummel the tiny man, “will clothing be provided for us?”

“Clothes will be provided.” He nods, blinking slowly at me like I’m a dullard.

“Thank you. You are dismissed, unless you can answer any of my questions.”

“That would be …”

“Most inappropriate. Da. I get it.”

“I will return when the time comes. Until then, you are asked to remain here.”

“Asked, huh?”

“Consider it a strong suggestion.”

“I’ve got a few of those myself. Is there a comment card I can fill out?”

He bows again before leaving, his eyes meeting mine for a split second. A flicker of movement at his waist catches my eye. But he’s gone before it processed.

“He just … that motherf⁠—”

“Shakal.”

“He flipped me off!”

“I am sure you imagined it. He is an elite assistant to a … king.” Vanya waves her hand in a circle, gesturing to our surroundings.

“Ghandi is playing dirty.”

Vanya busies herself for a while stretching, warming up. Smart.

I join her for part of it, but I’m too restless. This whole situation has me on pins and needles. Pacing the balcony and snacking from our endless buffet of culinary wonders, I do a double take when I come back in to find Vanya dressed and bathed.

She looks stunning in the vibrant colors of the flowing gown.

It covers more than I would prefer on her, but I can’t look away. Apparently, they also provided makeup. Hair products.

“Go shower. It is almost time.”

I do, rushing through the motions.

Ten minutes later, I’m fidgeting by the door like a British kid waiting for daddy to come home. Only I look more like a high school performance of Jesus Christ Superstar.

I swear they gave her a real outfit and got mine from Wish.

When Ahmed comes for us, I keep my thoughts to myself in a rare show of self-restraint. Mostly because I need time to absorb. To plan.

We discussed what might happen, what we might bargain with to get out of this mess. Most of that was speculation. There’s no way to know until we meet this Adil Abas what he has planned for us.

The palace once again stretches on forever, taking a solid fifteen minutes to reach our destination: one of the many dining halls. This one is unique with an entirely glass ceiling.

I’ll admit, this guy has style.

“Make yourselves comfortable while you wait for his excellency.” Ahmed opens his palm to some plush chairs in a sort of antechamber to the main area the table sits in. Probably rude to go to the dinner table without our host.

But I’m starving again.

“Your stomach is making a scene,” Vanya whispers.

Another growl echoes through the hall. “He’s had a taste of the good life. I’m staying here, I thought I’d let you know.”

“I am sure Mr. Abas has the space.”

I’m about to make another comment when soft footsteps draw our attention to the main entrance.

“Miss Sokolov, Mr. Diamante. Welcome to my home.”

The man is dressed in a long coat over loose pants. Both look elegantly cut to fit him, but simple in color and style. With a tilt of his head, he strides confidently into the dining hall. Shrugging, I move to follow.

“Please, sit and be well. You are my guests.” His voice is deep, melodic. A real speaker’s voice. And on a man unusually tall for the region, it adds even more clout. Adil must be in his sixties, but he’s fit. Lean, but broad shouldered and light on his feet.

Vanya takes his left hand, signaling with her eyes that I should take the right. She’d know better in this case. The move seems to please our host.

I’m a second from opening my mouth to make a snarky comment about misogyny when food arrives, a plate for each of us. Apparently, this will not be a spread, but a served meal.

The plates are generous, but not overloaded. Another statement, a detail about Adil that I add to the profile in my head. He is practical in some ways. Not overeating, fit. Indulgent in some ways, but not a glutton. So he likely came from more humble roots.

“Do not wait on my account, begin.” He smiles, a tight, diplomatic expression.

At this invitation, I pause.

With a pleasant smile, I nod my head toward Adil, “Not before our host.”

“Ah. It is a pleasure to host such well-mannered guests. Sahtain,” he intones, taking a bite.

“Ala-albeck,” Vanya responds, and I mimic the phrase. A tiny thrill of shock zips up my spine. She’s as versatile as I am, and constantly surprising me with her knowledge.

“Our accommodations, for at least part of our stay, have been impressive,” I offer, diving into my meal.

“An unfortunate necessity, the first half of your visit. A simple misunderstanding.”

“Unfortunate. Right. Misunderstanding? On whose part?”

“Yours. As you are aware by now, I am sure, you came here in err. Searching for a man whose whereabouts I would also be very interested to ascertain.”

Vanya pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly. “So you do not have my uncle.”

“I always enjoyed dealing with you Bratva. Straight to the point. No. I do not have him.”

“So why keep us alive at all?” I follow suit, getting to the real questions I have.

“I was convinced by one of my assets to forgo your execution. Odd too, given his propensity for killing. One of the reasons I procured him.”

“The guy in the mask?”

“One of a select few. They are the fingers on my hand, stretched out where I would not reach.”

“Yet you reached for St. Petersburg. For our ports.” Vanya fails to mask the bitterness in her voice. “What does the Mocro want with Russia?”

“I will get to that. You’ve discovered much in your travels. More than most. I have spent the greater part of my life ensuring we became a legend. A mystery. This empire is my family’s legacy.”

“So why step into the open now?”

“I dealt in the shadows for so long, making quiet deals. Like with the Bratva. The other leaders were eager to open trade. Until things became unsettled in our world. They panicked. Thought they could outmaneuver me, stab me in the back and end our dealings. You of all people would understand that behavior, Mr. Diamante.”

“I do. And would I be way out of line for thinking that you were negotiating with Dom Vipera as well?”

“An ambitious man. A devious man. And ultimately out of his depth. Although his actions following his arrest certainly showed a lot of clever forethought. He at least understands the revenge game.”

“More like the ‘if I can’t have it no one will’ game,” I mutter.

“Indeed. Those were the very actions that sent ripples through the criminal underworld. It made the Bratva nervous. Thus, they made a fatal error.”

“Fatal?” Vanya grits out, looking dangerous.

“They dealt in poor faith, then tried to renege. I miss the old days. Your great-uncle Giancarlo and myself were acquainted, Mr. Diamante. Allies even, from time to time. It was a tenuous alliance. But honest. We held trade, we stayed on our sides of the water, and we minded our business. The same could be said of the Bratva back then, the Lyras, the rest of the old Italian families. The Triads meddled, but mostly returned to the East when they got caught. The Yakuza stayed on their island.”

“Sounds like the good old days. No communication, no accountability.” I sniff, seeing both sides of the argument.

“In many ways. Things were simpler. The digital era is a double-edged sword. Better tech means more efficient work, but it also means someone might always be watching.” Adil muses, tapping his trimmed bearded chin.

“You still have not told us why you invaded our territory.” Vanya leans back, clearly done with her meal. And this history lesson.

“Come, walk with me in the gardens. We will continue our business there.”

We leave the white and bright room for a terrace, down a flight of winding steps. Below, clay-red tiles line the walk, leading into a resplendent garden, fountains and blooming, vibrant blossoms.

Even Vanya wonders at the sight, her frustration put on hold.

“When your brother died, I realized that with such a vacuum of power, I might make a bold move. So I reached out to the Bratva heads. Most were open to trade. Pyotr Sokolov of the Volk Bratva was not.”

“He is wise.”

“Perhaps. Certainly stubborn. He advised the rest of the clans not to deal with me. Even his rivals.”

“The clans have always been at odds, but ultimately, they share a certain amount of patriotism, you could say,” Vanya admits dryly.

“Precisely. Pyotr also advised them not to betray me when they decided to end our negotiations. But they did not listen. They killed many of my people.”

“So you were forced to retaliate?” I state, knowing the way things always go. Blood for blood.

“Yes, but knowing the bonds of the Bratva, I knew they would seek aid from the Volk, the most powerful of the clans.”

“Are you saying that you only invaded St. Petersburg to keep us busy?”

“To drive Pyotr and the Volk council to ground, yes. It worked. I did not expect two of his most decorated soldiers to come knocking at my door, however. I suppose it was a silver lining of sorts. It kept anyone with the ability to stop my Fingers from eliminating the Bratva leadership.”

We walk on in stupified silence for a few minutes, no longer noticing the lush greenery on all sides. The temperature of the gloriously sunny day drops for us by several degrees.

“You … killed them? All of them?”

“The Krest put up quite a defense. The rest did not see my emissaries coming.”

To this, I have nothing to say. Vanya is seething. At a loss.

And I’ve got my fucking foot in my mouth. These situations, dealing with leadership and negotiations … I feel so out of place. That was always Alessandro’s boat. I was the muscle, the briber, the strong arm, or the killer.

Now, I’m being treated as an equal with an underworld sultan.

After another few minutes, Vanya grains her stoic composure, raising her head and asking the main question on my mind. I wait, letting her take the lead here.

“Where does this leave Pyotr? The Volk? Us?”

“First, it leaves him with a choice. He may preserve the Volk. Keep his little kingdom. If he will agree to relinquish the footholds I already have all over Russia. Give me the rest of the Bratva.”

“He will never⁠—”

“Please. Allow me to finish. I believe he is a wise man. And a reasonable one. As for the two of you, I would be interested to hear your take.”

“I would use us as leverage.”

“Ah, a classic move.” He nods.

“If we are talking classics, I would almost expect you to imprison Vanya and make her your bride to solidify your claim to the Bratva,” I offer, immediately regretting it as Van hammers me with a glare.

“I dare anyone to try.” Vanya growls. She is genuinely terrifying.

“Alas, I have no need for such theatrical gestures.” He smiles almost apologetically as I point to everything around us and give him a skeptical look. “Perhaps I do enjoy a bit of the drama. But it would be without honor. And I have wives. Money. What I seek, is to preserve the black market, so to speak.”

“And what does taking most of that market in the North do for you?”

“Access. Consolidation. You see, the key organizations of the criminal world have been diminishing over the decades. Waning. Fading into the background. But this is a way of life that is necessary to the way the world works. So someone must preserve the underworld. Who better than me?”

“I can think of a few governments that might disagree.”

“Which is the next step in my conquest. Once I hold the North, I can begin my maneuvers on the West.”

He means my family’s assets. With Dom in prison, with Alessandro missing, presumed dead. There’s no one to stand in his way.

“With that sort of powerbase, you could challenge the biggest fish in the sea …” Van huffs a sigh of disbelief.

“The Triad. Yes. Times are changing. The world is evolving. My lands, they are secure. But the enterprises in the East, they are growing bold. Careless. Violent.”

“And you’re not?” I scoff, risking his offense.

“They are like a blunt weapon. The Mocro are a blade in the dark. And I am a sound mind guiding that blade. Keeping the balance.”

“Forgive me if I do not trust your hand to remain steady.” Vanya doesn’t hold back, giving him one of her looks.

“Trust this, then. You are free to go. Return to Russia, find your uncle. Relay my wishes to him. I want peace. This does not have to be a long, bloody war.”

“As long as he joins you.”

“Very simple, you see? Given with a token of good faith that I did not harm his adopted daughter when given the chance and allowed her to return home.”

I snap my mouth shut at that one. He definitely harmed her. But I know what he means.

“And if he does not comply?”

“Then he will join the other leaders in the grave.” Adil stops, turning back toward us as we reach the exit to the gardens, a door leading back inside. It’s clear we are at the end of our meeting too. “It has been an enlightening experience meeting you, Miss Sokolov. Ahmed will see you both out.”

“What about me?” I blurt out.

“A nostalgic encounter. You are so much like them, Giancarlo and Aleesandro. Less refined, perhaps. But do not mistake your situation. You are here because of a favor asked, and because I know that Miss Sokolov would not have met with me had I killed you. Honorable, your loyalty to one another. As to why you are being allowed to leave? Call it goodwill toward old friends. Do not push your luck.”

And with that, he dismisses us, turning, pressing his hands together and bowing lightly with that faint sinister grin on his face.

Ahmed is already standing in his place, ready to lead us out.

A half mile later, we reach the vaulted palace doors, down the steps to a waiting SUV. Without any other alternative, we climb in.

The drive is long.

A few hours. Mostly spent in silence.

Finally, the driver pulls into what appears to be an abandoned village, a cluster of buildings at the side of the road. Again, we don’t have much choice but to get out.

“Seriously? You’re just going to monsoon us out here?” I shout after the car as it drives away.

“It’s marooned, you shithead.” A voice drolls behind us.

A voice I know way too well.

Vanya grabs my arm.

When I turn around, surprise, surprise. It’s the man in the mask, leaning in the doorway.

“Hello brother.”

22

CIRO

“You should see the look on your face right now,” he snickers.

Ero never snickered before. To be fair, I’ve never stood in the middle of an African nation with my mouth hanging open like a dolt either. Not my best comparison.

But as he pulls down the mask, he’s not smiling. Some things never change.

Unless you hear that your twin brother is dead, and then he turns out to be alive and also the guy who probably killed your girlfriend’s brother and a ton of your new crew.

I’m standing outside my body, staring at myself, at Vanya, at the man in black, jet-black hair with eyes dark as sin.

He’s from another life. A different world.

“Fiero,” the guy who looks like me says. I blink and I’m back in my body. Hm. Tastes like cognitive dissonance.

“I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

“What do they call you now? Finger One?”

“Just Ghost.”

I snort loudly, not bothering to cover my lip flapping spit take. “Wow.”

“It’s a long story.”

“It’s a lame nickname. And I didn’t ask for the story.”

“Ciro …” Vanya stands next to me, stiff as a rod. “This is your brother. The one who is dead.”

“Twin brother. Dead. Yeah.”

“Legally dead, sure.” Ero shrugs. “You must be Vanya.”

She stares wide eyed at him. Something terrible tries to connect in my brain, but I’m so frazzled. My brain is shaking like a jello cup at a rave.

And Ero just watches us, a smug look in his eyes.

“This is impossible. How did you find us?” I finally stutter out.

“Well, it actually is a funny story. You found me.” He steps from the shade of the overhang, spinning his mask on one finger.

“You bastard. You killed my family!” Vanya growls, taking a step forward. It’s then that it all clicks back into place. That my brother is responsible for …

Shit.

And we don’t have any weapons. Ero on the other hand has two pistols, knives, and who knows what else.

“Take it easy, Ivanka,” Ero frowns, holding up his hands placatingly. “I was just⁠—”

“Her name is Vanya, and everyone just … wait.” I snap, blocking her path, hammering my brother with a vicious glare.

“Huh. A girl finally got you good. Never thought it was possible.”

“A lot has changed.” I need to get a handle on this. Now.

“Clearly. I barely recognize you. I certainly didn’t in Russia. But I heard rumors about an American. Even shot at you without realizing it. Then you showed up here, looking for the Mocro … looking for me, or this mask anyway.”

“That is why you wanted his name. To know for certain.” Vanya shakes her head. “All of that torture. And then you convinced Adil to let us live.”

“It was you?” I ask, feeling two steps behind.

“No shit. We also tortured you to see if you knew where Pyotr was. You were a little delirious, though.”

“Fucking murderer!” Vanya shouts, her eyes wild. I share her anger, her outrage, but I can’t reconcile it with my brother being the one in the mask, the one who killed Matvey.

“That’s my job. Now can we get going? Lotta ground to cover.”

“I will go nowhere with you, I will bury you—” Her words are cut off as Fiero flips out a gun and pops off a shot at her.

No! I rush for Vanya as she falls. It hits me how quiet the gun was as I lift her body.

“Relax. She’s just unconscious. I figured she wouldn’t be keen on me.”

“Neither am I.”

“We need to talk. Get in the car.”

I hesitate for a moment, anger and frustration warring in my head and heart like a wheel of fortune but with emotions. Only the pie slices on the wheel are almost all titled “strangle your twin brother.” The wheel slows, stopping halfway between “dissociate” and “freeze up.” So I head toward the car.

After sitting Vanya in the back, gently propping her head on a blanket, I slide into the passenger seat, my heart pounding. Ero eases into the driver’s seat, giving me a side-eye.

“What?” he chirps, starting the car.

“This is fucking weird.”

“You’re fucking weird.”

I start to argue, to snap back. Instead, I close my mouth as he pulls out along the deserted road. For a split second, I have a flashback, severe déjà vu. The two of us in a sports car, road-tripping and totally wasted across the Mojave Desert. We were barely eighteen.

Then I’m back in the present.

And Ero looks like a stranger sitting next to me.

“Where are we going?”

“My place. You really are different, aren’t you? You’re so fucking serious. Where’s the laugh? Where are the wisecracks?”

“Oh, I smile plenty, and I laugh when I find something funny. This ain’t it.”

“You’re right. This is fucking weird.”

“Like you speaking in complete sentences and more than one in a stretch? Yeah.” I leave the obvious chasm between us that has to do with the fact that he tortured me and my girlfriend just twenty-four hours ago and slaughtered a bunch of Volk before that.

He drives us out to the coast, then up along the Atlantic. A few hours slip by. Unless my geography is way off, we’re heading toward Casablanca.

We drive in silence for a while before I can’t stand it any longer.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Me? You look like you’ve lived ten years in six months.” Ero huffs.

“Are you going to insult my looks, or tell me a freaking story?”

“Fine. You sure you want to go there?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“It’s not a happy tale.”

“What’s new?”

“I just don’t want you to feel bad. Worse.”

“Are you serious?” I level a flat stare at him.

“Call it my conscience. You’ve been through a lot.”

“When have you ever had one of those? I swear, there’s always been something wrong with your brain. Quit stalling.”

“Careful, Ciro. You might end up calling the kettle black.”

“If anything, I’m not the pot. You are. Crackpot.” I cross my arms.

“Not your best work, Teacup.”

“I’m not gonna waste my good material on you.” Dammit. He’s sucking me back into our old dynamic.

Sighing, he lets me pout for a few moments before continuing, “I take it by now, you know that Adriano’s AWOL.”

“Yep.”

“And we all lost Alessandro’s number.”

“On purpose. They were supposed to move too. No way to reach them.” I rattle off the details like I just read the file. Adriano’s orders were specific.

“Right. When Adriano sent us away before he went back to get married, he gave us each orders …”

“No shit. I was there. Mine were intercepted,” I cock my head, looking out the window.

“Mine were too. So instead of meeting with a contact to get a new identity and disappearing, I almost got nicked by the authorities in Spain. Got shot. Ran. Wound up across the Strait of Gibraltar in Morocco.”

“Dom burned everyone he could. Told the Bratva I was coming. I wound up in the Gulag for three months.”

“That explains a lot. Mine was an underground ring of slave fighters. I killed a guy in Northern Morocco trying to get enough money to see a doctor. Turned out to be Mocro. They came at me with everything they had for revenge. I fought back. Hard enough that they decided to keep me alive. Put me to use in the ring. Then doing hits. Got Adil’s attention because of my skill.”

“Geezus, Ero. And no one knew who you were?”

“Most people never knew who the four of us were. Just that we existed. The benefit of being the ‘silent one’ was that no one knew anything about me. And there was the whole, I got killed in Spain. Cops recovered a body. Claimed it was me to save face.”

“Explains why the Bratva told me you died.”

“I did. A couple of times. Defib is a bitch. Gives you a reputation when you survive, though.”

“Ugh. The last thing you need is more of an attitude. Pfft. Ghost.”

“Anyway, I’ve been part of Adil’s Hand for a few months. In that time I’ve killed three hundred people.”

The statement slaps me across the face. I stare at him for a moment, stunned. Not just because of the number, but because of the neutral, impassive look on his face.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve killed. A lot.

But always for a reason, for survival, or self-defense.

“And you just … agreed to this?”

“Don’t judge me. I didn’t know what else to do. Aless and Adri always gave the orders. I just …”

For the first time, I see it.

The sense of uncertainty. Ero always seemed like the one who just got it. Who knew what we were and accepted it. But he was just …

A kid. Given a gun, told what to point it at.

It never occurred to me that he couldn’t survive without someone to report to. That his silence and brooding nature might have been more than sociopathic tendencies. Or maybe something really is wrong with his brain. Maybe he really believes that his actions don’t count, that it was Adil’s choice and not his.

“You killed the Bratva leaders?” I jump ahead, summarizing.

“Yes. Some. My counterparts took care of the rest.”

“And the Volk? How many did you kill?”

“I do not know. When things got out of hand in St. Petersburg I was ordered to go in and clean up the mess, take out any stragglers. That’s when I ran into you. And the insane guy with the flattop.”

“Fyodor.”

We’re approaching a small building on a low cliff, overlooking the sea. It’s simple. Fairly well hidden from the main road. Just the kind of place someone like Ero would keep as a crash pad.

“I finally got my own place.” And he fucking smiles. Or as close as Ero ever gets to it.

“You just have to leave it every time your master blows his dog whistle,” I mutter, unsettled by the expression on his face.

We stand on the grassy cliff for a moment before heading in, carrying Vanya and placing her on the bed. The place is spartan, minimalist. Fiero’s always been tidy. Never owned many things.

When I get back into the living area, he cracks open a couple of beers from the fridge, passes one to me. “Now your turn.”

I sit down, unsure of what else to do. This isn’t right. None of it.

But I dive into a version of my story, leaving out key details. Stuff that my oaths to the Bratva and Vanya will not allow me to share.

And it dawns on me what’s really bothering me.

That I can’t trust this man. My brother. He is as much a Mocro as I am a Bratva now.

We both broke out oaths to our family, the Diamantes. Even if we are scattered to winds, something about it eats at me. Shames me for the first time.

I catch him up to the present, leaving off with our adventure at the casino.

“Wow. So that’s why you look a thousand years older than me now.”

“Fuck you, dumbass. I look good.” For the first time since he picked us up, I actually smile. “Nice place, by the way.”

The view of the ocean is unreal through the living room window. It’s quiet. Peaceful.

“The only good thing to come out of all of this,” he remarks tonelessly.

“How long will she be out for?” I change the subject, uncomfortable with the unfamiliarity between us.

“A while. Long enough.”

“For what?” I sit up, seeing the change in his demeanor. His gaze sharpens. He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees.

“For us to leave. Together. I have passports, money, weapons. It’s all set up. It’ll be you and me again.”

“And Abas will just let you go?”

“Ero Diamante is dead. So is Ciro, for all the governments of the world know. The people we are now can die too. We can start over.”

“Do you really believe that?”

He inhales, watching me. “You really have changed.”

“So have you. But the one thing we have in common is that neither of us can get out. Adil Abas would never suffer you to live as long as he owns you. And there is nowhere he couldn’t find you. You know that as well as I do.” Why do I feel like I really am talking to a younger sibling, like I am the mature one?

Ero grimaces, then nods reluctantly.

“But you aren’t running for a different reason,” he mutters, glancing to the bedroom.

“You’re not wrong. It’s more than that. The Bratva is my family now. They don’t just own me, I am one of them.” And I realize deep down that it’s true. I care about the people, the organization. Maybe it is all tied to Vanya and Matty. Or maybe I feel like I belong there.

The look of despair, of disappointment, on Ero’s face crushes my heart.

Like full-on tearjerker.

Stupid emotions.

“So that’s it. You turn your back on the Diamantes. On me.”

“That’s not fair. Or true.”

Still, he believes it. I see it in his eyes. Never mind that he’s in the same boat. Sworn to another crime family.

“Then I guess I’ll be following my orders after all. Get cleaned up. Get some rest.” Ero orders, his tone vacant and distant. I can only assume he’s meant to escort us to the nearest port or travel station.

But right now, I don’t care. My brother is alive.

As relieving as it is, our reunion is anything but joyful.

I just sit there, feeling miserable as he gets up and stalks out of the house.

23

VANYA

Static fuzz hisses in my head.

Where am I? A bed. In a room I do not know.

Unfamiliar scents. The ocean.

The last thing I remember was …

I sit up suddenly, hearing Ciro’s voice, agitated, low, coming from the other room. Like he is trying to argue quietly.

I slip from the bed, wobbling a bit. The door is pushed to, leaving a crack wide enough for me to see out of.

Creeping to the wall beside the door, I waver, still dizzy from the tranquilizer.

Bastard shot me. Ciro’s brother shot me.

Among other things.

“You haven’t told me what you intend to do with us.” Ciro sounds put out. Tired.

“I haven’t decided. Abas wants you to go back. You want to go back.”

“So what’s the problem?” Ciro sniffs, probably making that face he makes when he knows he is right. I hate that face. But now, I love it.

Ero stays silent, but I can almost feel his anger, his hopelessness from here. I noticed it in the way he fights too. Without any regard for his life. It gives him an edge of sorts.

But so can fighting with a purpose. The way Ciro and I do.

Leaning to the side, I get them both in my line of sight, facing each other across from the hallway to the bedroom. Ciro is sitting, Ero leans on the counter.

They are much alike, in gesture, in tone. But Ciro has passion. Purpose. Ero is hollow.

Both of them have scars from many battles, but the one that stands out to me is the brand on Ero’s neck. The same symbol on his mask. The symbol my brother drew in blood.

The same blood that now boils in my veins.

Rage has a way of blinding people.

It also can help you focus. Give you clarity in a moment of adrenaline-fueled necessity.

Thinking back to the wounds on Matvey’s body, I check off the bullet wounds. But those are not what killed him. It was a stab. From a very specific blade.

A blade very much like the one sitting on the dresser across from me. It is a specific shape. Meant for eviscerating. Making a wound that cannot be staunched.

“Ero …” I hear my lover’s voice again, unsure. He is torn. I can tell. And I do not blame him. I wish every day to see Matvey again. Even if I know this is a fantasy.

But Ciro is in dangerous waters.

This is where I must step in.

To make sure he does not let Ero manipulate him. Ciro is clearly still having trouble putting the two together, reconciling the idea that the masked man is his late brother.

I have no qualms.

He is the enemy.

Grabbing the dagger, I slip from the room, flying low. My head spins only slightly as I rush for Ero’s leg, slashing, not aiming to cut him, but his holster.

The gun drops into my other hand and I roll to my feet, taking aim at his head.

“You killed my brother, you son of a bitch.”

“Vanya, just … wait.” Ciro half stands, his hands out to the sides in warning.

Ero barely responds, his hands raised, a bland expression on his face.

I cock the hammer on the gun.

“I will wait to kill him. Sure. As long as it takes for us to leave Morocco.”

Ero’s upper lip curls at me. He is cocky like Ciro.

“Tell him,” I order, twitching the barrel of the gun, “Tell your brother how you stabbed Matvey, the young man in the office of the compound. With this knife.”

Ciro shakes his head, trying to deny it. “It could have been anyone …”

“I’ve killed hundreds of people with that knife.” Ero shrugs. “And I am often required to make a pass after an attack. Finish off the wounded. Kid sounds familiar.”

And I see Ciro’s face fall.

“I am sorry, Ciro,” I intone, reaching for his arm.

I did not want to force this on him. But it is necessary. For us to escape.

Because I know Ero brought us here to kill me and kidnap Ciro. To convince him to join the Mocro or run.

“Ero, do not follow us—” Ciro starts, stepping back.

But the other twin blurs forward suddenly, shoving Ciro to the side, knocking the gun from my grasp. How is he so unbelievably fast?

My vision swirls as he whips around behind me, pinning my arms and pressing a dagger to my neck. Fucking tranquilizers.

I growl, struggling, but he holds me fast.

Ciro recovers, breathing heavily at the other end of the room, his eyes wide with panic. Fury.

“Ler her go. Let us go.”

“You will not abandon me again, Ciro.”

“I never abandoned you. None of this was my choice. Just like you. But you have a choice now.”

“No. I don’t,” Ero sighs, his voice devoid of any conviction.

“I said, let her go.”

“Or what?”

“Or I will fuck your world up.”

“You’d kill me? Your own brother?”

“You are not my brother. Not anymore,” Ciro’s voice rings more dark and horrible than anything I have ever heard from him. Even as a tear trickles down his cheek.

And I feel the gut punch of Ciro’s words in the man holding the blade to my throat. He did not expect this. He is lost.

And distracted enough for me to slam my knuckles into his wrist, knocking the knife from his grasp and dipping into a somersault, out of his grip and toward the door.

Ciro flanks his brother as I rise behind him and we circle him, trying to make our escape.

“Don’t do this, Ciro.”

“Don’t do what? You said it yourself, we need to go back. Let us.”

“I … I can’t!” He lunges at Ciro, swinging a bit wildly. “I can’t let you go!”

Ciro bats the strike away, shoving Ero into the wall and shuffling back to me. The darker twin pushes off the wall, stumbling, dropping to his knees.

“Come with us, Ero. Maybe we can figure out how to get you away from Abas, you can⁠—”

“I don’t want to join the Bratva. I don’t want to be a Mocro. I just …”

“Just what?”

“I just want my brother. I need my brother back.” His words are filled with despair. But they are poisoned. Diluted.

“You are misguided. Lost. You do not want Ciro. You want absolution. To be taken away from your decisions and your failures.”

Ciro blinks, his shoulders dropping as Ero’s eyes widen, looking at me in horror. In anger.

“She’s poisoned you against me.”

“She’s right, though. You’re a mess, Ero.”

“You sound just like Adriano. You sound just like our condescending, patronizing, sanctimonious⁠—”

“Shut up, Fiero. I’ve had enough.”

“Don’t you get it, Ciro? We were played. From the minute we were born! We were manipulated, used, thrown away. The only way out of this is for us to stick together. The only way out of this is for you to listen to me, Ciro, but you won’t!” He tears at his hair with his fists, his face contorting in furious confusion.

Ciro and I back toward the door as Ero rises, slicking his hair back and cracking his neck. He takes a deep breath and straightens his clothes before looking up.

When he does, his eyes are flat. Black. Empty.

“If you won’t listen to me, I’ll have to take things into my own hands and save you myself, or kill you trying.”

24

CIRO

True to my statement, my brother is gone.

The man that attacks us now is a ghost. A phantom.

Even with two against one, Ero has always been an unbelievable fighter. The past few months have only made him faster, stronger. Less hesitant.

The same could be said of me, but my training was different.

More survivalist.

More brutal. His was purely martial. Honed to be the most efficient weapon for killing.

He slides over the table, kicking at my head, forcing me back, flipping sideways to reverse the strike and knock Vanya back through the door, splintering it off the frame. Fists meet me as I recover, a rapid barrage of blows that have me ducking and weaving.

I take a few hits to find an opening, booting him in the chest and rushing to follow Vanya.

On the way out, I slip my hand under the entryway table, snatching the gun I just knew he would hide there. Outside, I blink in the bright sun, strafing out of the doorway and spotting Vanya backing to one of the cars in the driveway.

We both dive as a patter of bullets erupts from the house.

Great. He took the time to get out the big gun.

Then he’s standing on the stoop, wide-eyed and deadly.

Popping off a few shots, I drive him off along the side of the house, taking cover behind the woodpile. It buys me precious seconds to reach Vanya.

“Keys?” I eyeball the convertible BMW Z4. Clearly my brother gets a paycheck.

“Still in the ignition.” Of course he has no reason to do otherwise out in the middle of nowhere.

I peek over the hood, looking for a sign of Ero. A few moments drag by and I rise up farther, expecting another volley.

Nothing.

“Shit.” Ero always did have absurd backup plans in place. No way he’s just letting us go.

“What?”

“Get in the car!” The sound of a horn in the distance sends a thrill up my spine. I crawl over the seat, and Vanya keys the engine.

“I am still drunk on tranq!” she shouts, pissed as a wet cat in a cucumber patch.

“Too bad! I gotta disable the computer on this car or he’ll be able to track us even if we lose him.”

Vanya grunts as she peels out, down the cliffside road at a breakneck pace.

And sure enough, right as we reach the main road, two trucks come flying over the hill, Ero hanging on the back of one. He must have called in support while we were talking.

That or he keeps a squad of Mocro in his backyard.

At least he has friends to play with.

Warm wind blasts through the window tussling my hair as I fiddle with the wiring under the dash. I’m about to just yank them all out when Vanya slaps my hand.

“Wait! Look up directions to Casablanca!”

“Just go north!”

“You are such a man! Do it!”

With a frustrated snarl, I tap the screen on his fancy dash, punching in the city name on the map app. It blips and shows the path, straight along the road we’re hauling ass down.

“What did⁠—”

“Finish that sentence. Please,” Vanya snaps, smiling menacingly. Why does that smile make my testicles shrivel up so tight?

I’m about to make another unwelcome comment when bullets whiz through the car past us from either side. So much for the computer. We’re not losing these guys any time soon.

“Fuck!” Vanya slams on the breaks, dropping back.

I duck, pulling her across me.

We get tangled, no one watching the road.

Poking my head up, I watch the trucks veer around in front, trying to block us. Even worse, the men in the back of the trucks, including my brother, aim automatic rifles at us as they swerve past. “Switch!” her voice is muffled, her face pressed into my crotch while she keeps her foot on the gas and I steer.

I manage to get my foot onto the gas, squirming under her.

She’s still on top of me, trying to move over when I see our opportunity.

Momentum carries the trucks at breakneck speed past one another in a zigzag, making it extremely difficult for the gunmen to take aim. And leaving a car-sized gap between them for a split second.

I floor it.

Vanya yelps, shifting on top of me, her legs straddling my lap.

I swear I feel the corners of the trucks pinch the tail end of the Beamer as she clears them, roaring to a seat-mashing 120 mph in just a couple of seconds. Maybe someday my butthole will unpucker.

“That was awesome!” I whoop, checking the road behind us.

Vanya sits up, blowing her hair out of her mouth, glaring nose to nose with me, her chest heaving.

“H-hi,” I chirp, glancing around her head to see the road. In the rearview, I watch them fall behind.

There’s no way they’ll catch us on this straight away. Even if we are a bit limited to staying on a paved road in a sports car, mostly so we can rely on speed to put distance between us.

Until I see them veer off the road.

Just as the path turns slowly.

Dammit. I didn’t even say anything and we still get jinxed.

I spot the city just before they intercept us again. Checking her gun, Vanya puts down some cover fire, but I know it won’t do shit compared to their assault rifles and numbers. And it turns out their windshields are bulletproof.

“Um …”

“Faster?” Vanya suggests.

“No. But yeah.” I stomp the pedal and the magnificent engine roars. That’s the kind of sound that can make a man hard.

And apparently, it works on women too.

Vanya fumbles with my button, reaching into my pants and dragging out my rock-hard cock. All I can do is keep my eyes on the road as it twists and turns, taking us closer to the city.

Rucking up her gown, she starts to jerk me off, pumping me in her fist.

The adrenaline, the heart pounding speed.

“What are you doing?!” Why am I asking that?!

“We might die. It’s fucking hot. And I want you one last time!”

I’m grinning like a fiend as she slams down on me, taking me to the hilt inside her.

“Sweet fuck!” I shout, taking the first hard turn.

We rocket into the outskirts of town, the scenery a rush around us. Our only hope is to reach somewhere in town far enough ahead to make a stand. Or maybe we can make it to the airfield, blow through the fence and drive straight into a cargo jet taking off.

And then I’ll pour myself a martini from the glove compartment.

More like piss my pants.

Or come all over them.

A wave of pleasure shoots up my spine as Vanya rocks back and forth, her slick velvet suctioning me deep and tight. I clench my ass, resisting the urge.

Despite the growing distraction, I take the corners like a pro, leading us through the center of town.

And every time I do, Vanya moans, pounding down on my stick shift like it owes her money. The back wheels slide as I make a one-eighty onto another street.

The effect is dizzying. Almost too much.

“You drive me crazy,” Vanya screams, gripping the back of the seat, grinding down on my shaft, drenching me in her arousal.

“Crazy! So crazy!” I squeak.

Her speed increases as ours ebbs, the narrow streets making it much more dangerous. Which means that I am that much closer to the edge, and our pursuers have a chance to catch us.

These guys know the lay of the land.

Before long, one of them appears behind us, the other bursting through a wooden stall of chickens and paper, nearly taking the roof off the car.

I skid, turn, recover, and stomp the pedal as another car nearly T-bones us, guns pointing out the windows.

Makes sense they would have more men here.

We careen on through the city, cars hot on my tail, my throbbing cock buried in Vanya. The other side of town is coming way too quick without a plan or a way out.

So am I.

I just know it’s a matter of time before Ero calls in an airstrike or just the dealership. Asses to aces says this car is equipped with a kill switch.

But then a beam of heavenly light breaks through the clouds.

Or rather, though a bullet hole in the convertible roof.

Just as I spot our salvation through a break in the buildings.

“Vanya! Let’s take a vacation! On a boat!” I moan, my hips sliding back and forth across the leather seat in rhythmic time with her.

“Yes! Yes!” she screams, oblivious to my meaning. Her legs are tightening around me.

Her walls are tightening around me.

I take a deep breath, taking the route out toward the water, reaching for the roof controls. I accelerate as it hums open, wind rushing and buffeting us.

The whole damn thing catches a gust, ripping free and flying off into the windshield of one of our pursuers.

“Do. Not. Stop!” Vanya shouts over the blasting wind.

I wouldn’t dare.

I’ve got to time this just right. And she feels so fucking good.

Vanya and I both start yelling incoherently as we hit the dock going over 100.

Planks buckle behind us, but it’s almost like we’re flying. People dive out of the way, clearing the path on the wharf, far behind us in a flash. And I don’t give a shit.

My legs are locking up, bracing for what is about to happen. Both things.

“I’m gonna⁠—”

“I’m gonna go fast!” I agree, coming undone, my head spinning. “Ready?!”

I scream, laughing like a hyena at the dentist’s office.

“YES!” she wails as I unload inside of her and the car hits the boat ramp at the end of the dock. We launch into the air, soaring in slow motion.

“Ciro!” She wails, clenching her legs, gushing out around me.

Right as she shudders, I push up against the floorboard, stepping on the seat, the top of the windshield. Vanya’s legs wrap around my middle.

And I leap from the flying car, soaring over the glittering waters of the Atlantic, leaving a sparkling trail of our lust. Our lips meet in a passionate kiss right before we hit the water and tumble apart.

Sputtering and splashing, I find my bearings, trying to hold up my pants. Vanya surfaces, grinning ear to ear.

Even more so when we look up to find several faces looking down on us over the side of the boat, eyes wide, jaws dropped. One man, presumably the captain, rushes to the railing, shouting in another language.

Raining her gun out of the water, Vanya waves at him. “Do you speak English?”

“A bit …”

“If you will take us to the nearest foreign port, I will wire you ten thousand American dollars. Or I can kill you and take boat, da?” Holy shit this woman is amazing.

The man nods, throwing us a life preserver.

“Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”

25

VANYA

The flight back to St. Petersburg feels like an eternity.

All of the adrenaline of the chase is long gone. The reality of our folly in going to Morocco eating at me every step of the way. The reality that my lover’s brother killed mine.

I am a dog with her tail between her legs.

My soul shattered in pieces.

Going home to a city I left in shambles. Occupied by an enemy force. I failed my people.

And I am so angry. At Pyotr, at Adil Abas, at Ero Diamante. At Matvey.

Most of all, myself.

The boat dropped us at a random port in Spain where we purchased passage through Europe by train, bus. Any way we could to avoid being traced by Fiero.

I know Ciro feels the same as I do.

But he keeps it hidden behind jokes, smiles. He is strong for me. He knows the demons I battle with and that there is no way to help. Not anytime soon.

Defeat grows inside me. I must not let it poison me, because we have work to do when we get home.

Yet I feel so hopeless.

We have not had contact since we left. And we dare not risk it until we know the situation back home. Which makes my fears and anxieties worse.

What will we find in St. Petersburg?

Where did Pyotr go?

But the closer we get to home, the more determined I become.

We must rebuild. We must find the survivors. We must figure out how to drive the Mocro out.

Most of all, we must find my uncle. I pray he will know what must be done.

Yet I cannot fathom how he did not prepare for or prevent the attack.

“Van. Look.” Ciro shakes me gently.

We are still driving, and I recognize the streets of my home as he crosses over the Western High-Speed Diameter. The bridge provides an impressive view of the entire city.

My city.

I recognize the shift immediately as he exits the highway several minutes later. They are gone. The Mocro have pulled out.

I know it in my bones even before I see a discrete patrol of Volk walking down a nearby street.

When we reach our neighborhood, my heart thunders, hope rising.

The compound is bustling.

Guards at the gate wave us through, men I know saluting me with surprised expressions. A runner takes off up the hill ahead of us.

By the time we reach the house, already under repair, Pyotr is standing on the drive, his shoulders bobbing up and down with deep breaths. It is the closest I have ever seen him to crying.

“Doch!” he shouts as I rush from the car, throwing myself into his embrace.

“Papa!” All of my anger, my shame, evaporates. At least for now, relief envelopes me like the embrace of this colossal man.

“Where have you been?!”

“I was about to ask you the same, Pakhan. You vanished.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

“Not of my own free will.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come. I will explain. You look tired. Hungry. Is that⁠—”

“Shakal,” I finish, waving my companion over.

Ciro salutes, barely able to hide his smile. Or his apprehension.

“Pakhan.”

“You kept her safe. Alive. Spasibo, Shakal. Brat.” Brother. Nothing in this world makes me happier than to hear him accept Ciro.

I cannot hide my smile as Pyotr grabs the nervous oaf into a tight hug, clapping him on the back. A small grunt of either surprise or an inability to breathe chuffs out of Ciro’s stunned, open mouth.

“She kept me alive just as often.”

“I have no doubt. Come. We must catch up quickly. There is much to be done.”

He leads toward another building, the offices that received the least amount of damage in the attack. Inside, staff members are hustling about, on the phone, cleaning.

In the conference room, Pyotr waves everyone else out, closing the door.

“I did not recognize half of the men outside, are they from other provinces?” I ask immediately, not waiting for him to settle. All the while, analyzing the notes on the walls, the maps, troop movements. They are planning something huge.

“Da. Even more from other clans.”

I spin, nailing him with a concerned glare. “What? But the other clans, their leaders⁠—”

“We know. The attack took us off guard, the council was planning our strategy in the event that the Mocro attacked us. At the time, we still did not know precisely who we were dealing with. Other leaders were in talks with a foreign power. I warned them not to hold court with an unknown entity.”

“We … met that unknown entity. His name is Adil Abas.”

Pyotr chokes on his drink. “What?!”

“He told us what has happened. What he did. And why.”

Pyotr rubs his face, his eyes never leaving my face. “I need to hear this tale.”

“We will tell it. But first, I must know where you were.” There is a wedge between us, and he sees it. He sees my uncertainty. “Where were you? We traveled halfway around the world, thinking they took you. And you were where? In hiding? Where were you when they killed my brother?”

Pyotr’s face crumples, his head hanging. In shame, grief.

“I should have been here. I would have been. Fyodor reached us with the news. He is still recovering from his injuries. I sent a driver for him earlier.”

“He said someone took you.”

“Someone did. I was returning from a meeting with the head of the port authority, discussing the strange activity, how we might increase security. I was at the back gate. Matvey was standing at the back door on the hill, shouting for me to run. I did not see the men rushing me. They overpowered me.”

“Who?”

“A contingent sent by the other five houses. All kapitans.”

“Bratva?”

“Da.”

“And the rest of the council?” Ciro interjects before I can ask the million questions on my mind.

“Most of the council were away when they hit the compound. At home. Only Boris was here. He did not survive.”

“I hope he gave them hell,” I mutter. I never got along with the old man. No one did. But he was one of us.

“Who do you think blew up the main hall? They stormed it to ransack our intelligence, our cash on-site. Fifty Mocro he took with him, the old bastard.”

“Vashe zdorov’ye,” Ciro barks, nodding, raising his glass. Where did he get … ?

Never mind. At least he is starting to like vodka.

“Da,” I agree.

“I am so sorry, my Vanya. They will pay for what they did.”

“That is the other reason we went to Morocco, Papa. But there is so much more …”

“We must be quick. The council of the other clans will arrive shortly.”

Feeling rushed and a bit out of sorts, I fumble for words. What could be more important than hearing out his daughter?

“The short version is that Abas retaliated, killed the other leaders. He let us live to come tell you that he is keeping their territory as long as you stay in yours.”

“Ha!” Pyotr bellows, slapping his palms on the table. “Let him try.”

Shaking my head, I implore my uncle, the man who is like my father, to listen to reason. Quickly I fill him in on an abbreviated version of our journey, our brush with death. Worry and anger flash in my papa’s eyes throughout, not to mention shock and more than a little awe. And a bit of pride.

Ciro fills in details where he can, leaving out the meeting with his brother. That is a discussion for another time.

“He has an army, Papa. And assassins who eliminated every Bratva pakhan!”

“But not me. I refused to meet with him. I warned the others. Now, all the Bratva across the country want to join. As one. Behind me. So we have an army as well.”

The breath is knocked from my chest.

There has never been such a union. Under one leader. With that many men, organized … we might just stand a chance. But I know Abas will not give up so easily.

“This will start a war, Pyotr,” Ciro leans over the table, matching my uncle’s stance. “A war on your soil.”

“Net. It is already a war. So I will stop it.”

“How?”

“With a show of unity and strength. Your arrival could not be better timed. I assume you have a means of contacting this Adil Abas?”

“Da,” I answer hesitantly, hoping he will negotiate with the man.

“Then I shall invite him to the event.”

“What event?” Ciro asks.

“A gala, celebrating our success, our future. Thrown in my honor, and the honor of the fallen. For Matvey. And to crown me as the head of the clans.”

My mind reels at the news, the audacious statement.

“Abas will never stand for this. And we will suffer the consequences.”

“Watch your tone, daughter. I know the consequences better than anyone. And I have the best strategists in the brotherhood designing security for the event, and our force placement moving forward. Remember your place.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“As for Abas … he will beg to negotiate with us once he sees our power. He will beg for forgiveness that we do not wipe him from the face of the Earth. He will see reason when he sees the unified opposition he faces, and he will suffer the consequences if he does not.”

“What’s to say he even comes?” Ciro scoffs, crossing his arms.

I agree, though I know better than to mouth off to Pyotr again. This whole situation is out of control over-the-top.

“Because we captured one of his sons.”

26

CIRO

If you look hard enough, you really can see paint dry.

Especially when you’ve got nothing to do but sit on your hands waiting. Pyotr gave us a very important assignment in the wake of our return.

Rest.

A criminal mastermind king is plotting to take over most of our territories, the entire organization is planning a party to very loudly announce that they are not going to let him, and we are supposed to … relax.

Normally, I’d be all for time alone.

And don’t get me wrong, we took advantage of it. Repeatedly.

Until neither of us could walk.

But Vanya is going stir-crazy now.

Nothing normal seems worth doing. Even though I needed new clothes and the apartment we’re holed up in needed food. Fortunately, we have people for that.

Except for the clothes.

I can’t trust someone else to buy my threads.

“Beats sitting on the couch, right?”

“Only because I cannot sit still any longer.”

“You’ve got your very own Ken doll right here and you’re not the least bit excited?”

“Only to get you undressed later,” she hums, slipping her hand into my pocket.

“I’ll shop quick.”

Vanya keeps looking over her shoulder as we pick a store to go into in the shopping center. I feel it too. The itching sensation that we are being watched.

Not just by Bratva. They’re all over the place.

Openly.

There’s this shadowy movement around every corner.

And it’s probably our imagination. Or it’s my evil twin brother, come to replace me! Being identical would have been kind of cool. Especially if one of us had a goatee.

No such luck.

I’m trying stuff on when a buzzing sound catches my attention. Glancing around the stall door, I wait, listening for it again.

“Van!” I call.

“What?”

“Listen.”

The buzzing goes off one last time. Frowning, Vanya snatches my ratty old jacket off the bench I left it on. Fishing into the pocket, she whips out a phone.

“I thought you lost your phone in Marrakesh.”

“My phone is smashed in a dumpster that roof dived off in Marrakesh,” I correct, stepping out.

“What the fuck …” Vanya stares at me for a second, “Oh, never mind. Whose phone is this?”

“Gimme!’ I snatch it away, shuffling around her.

“Cut it out!” She slaps my hand.

I bob and weave, bouncing on my toes. Ducking a wayward smack of her hand, I lash out, snatching the phone. “Ha!”

Her fist connects with my face a second later.

“Yow!”

“That’s what you get for grabbing. And for that fucking stupid outfit. Quit bobbing and weaving!” Vanya scolds, giving me the stare.

“It’s the red jumpsuit from Rock⁠—”

“I know exactly what it’s from. You look ridiculous.”

“I was gonna get one for Fyodor.”

“He will kill you like Creed if you do.”

“Woooorth it.”

Vanya flicks open the screen. “Needs a fingerprint.”

Hers doesn’t work. She grabs my hand, pressing my thumb to the bottom. We both freeze as the home screen pops up.

There are four unread messages.

I click them open before Vanya can argue for caution. She’s looking around the store as I read the first message.

Zero. Meat Lovers. Special Delivery.

“What the hell does this mean?”

“Tell you in a minute …”

North Pole. Eye. Sack.

Double. Nove.

Can’t figure out how to say this: Bring your girlfriend.

Vanya scowls at the screen for a few moments before thrusting it into my hands, shaking her head. She watches me, waiting for an explanation.

“It’s not what it looks like, babe. I only have eyes for you. But this might be a solicitation for a three-way, just FYI.”

“I am not worried about this. I am annoyed with nonsense.” She’s impatient. On edge.

“What nonsense?” I ask, pausing my flex-fest in the mirror. “Wait. What time is it?”

“Shit. Lemme change. We gotta go.”

We rush out, grabbing a cab. I tell him a rough area of town in my excellent Russian. He is impressed.

“Any other moment you never shut up, now you leave me in dark?” Her accent gets thicker when she’s pissed. So fucking hot.

“It’s a code. I didn’t want to say anything at the store just in case.”

“Whoever left you that phone is good. I did not spot a tail on us, other than Pyotr’s assigned goons.”

“Good use of ‘goons’!”

Vanya smacks my arm.

“Sorry. Zero is my nickname. Really, only one person ever used it. Same as this code. It’s really shit, but we always had fun with it.”

“Then it could be Ero? He would know this.”

“Nah. It’s the specifics that tell it’s not him. Particularly the North Pole thing.”

“You are infuriating.”

“I used to always joke when we were kids that Santa Claus must live in a church if he’s really a saint. Meat Lovers means meet. Special Delivery means secret.”

“And North Pole means church?”

“Exactly! Eye and Sack had me for a minute. Then I remembered you pointing out St. Isaac’s when I first got here.”

“You are right. This code is shit.”

We step out of the cab, trotting along in the foggy cold. The days are getting straight up frigid. Slipping into the sanctuary, I maneuver to the side of the building along the wall. When I reach a hallway, I turn left.

“Time?”

“Five till.”

“Perfect. Double means two. Nove means nine, so left.”

“How did you ever run a global syndicate?” Vanya snorts derisively.

“Mostly by keeping Ciro from getting involved in any of the operations.” My heart stops as I hear that voice. Deep. A hint gravelly from smoking cigarettes.

“Aless,” I spin, tackling my brother in a hug. “I knew it!”

Turning back with the unrestrained child on Christmas excitement, I look at Vanya, wanting to share in the surprise. Finally, I can be totally open with her.

She just gives me a flat look.

“I knew he was alive. You are terrible liar. Nice to meet you. I am Vanya, his obruchennyy.”

“My what now?”

“I like her.”

“You would.” I like her too. Something in the back of my brain is scrambling with that word, shouting that she just dropped a bomb. Whatever. Alessandro is here!

“Lets get some coffee. We need to talk,” he announces.

* * *

“So then Adriano reaches up, feeling the top of his head. He actually cried. Right there in the middle of a gunfight.” I bust out laughing, Aless joining in, slapping the table.

Vanya covers her nose as she snort laughs.

Holy shit. Just when I didn’t think she could get any cuter.

Not that she’s ever cute.

“My incendiary round set a patch of his hair on fire,” Alessandro admits, trying in vain to take a sip of coffee. “Now quit interrupting me and let me ‘inform’ you.”

“Oh, right. I mean, you didn’t just come all the way to Russia to hang out.” I wave Mama Banu away as she tries to fill my cup again. She swats my hand and fills it anyway.

I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go to meet and have coffee. Until I remembered a certain hole-in-the-wall café in a shit neighborhood.

“I wish it were so. I can’t stay much longer. Too risky.”

“I understand. If anyone recognized you … The beard looks good, by the way. A lot darker than your hair. I don’t know about the dye job. Weren’t you going gray?”

“I was going to kick your ass.”

“He needs this. Often,” Vanya adds, keeping quiet for the most part to let us catch up.

“It’s true. Sometimes I even kick my own ass to get us out of dangerous situations in underground casinos.”

“As much as I would love to hear every single wild story …”

“Sorry. I get carried away. Just … tell me you’re safe. Isa, the baby?”

“She’s incredible. She’s due soon. Carla is through the roof. She’ll be delivering the first ‘next generation’ of Diamantes.”

“Fuck, man. That’s awesome. Tell her I miss her and Vincenzo. Ava too. Gah. How’re Angelica and Gigi?”

“Spoiled. Tomas is smitten.”

“Son of a … I always thought he had a thing for her.”

“They’re in … well. Better if you don’t know. For now. Same with Adriano and Gloria. They’ve assumed new identities, found a nice place to lay low. Someday, we’ll all⁠—”

“No. I can’t. Ever. I can’t know where any of you are ever, Aless.”

His face falls, but I see him really look at me for the first time since he got here. His shoulders bob in a little huff of disbelief.

“You’re …”

“Not as pretty as I used to be.”

“I was gonna say, different. In a good way. Not that getting this way was easy, I’m sure.”

“No. It’s not easy to get into the Bratva.”

Aless’s whole demeanor changes. For a split second the old don is back, a flare of indignant rage flashing in his eyes. What I just said is tantamount to treason. The ultimate betrayal.

“I see,” he mutters, taking a beat. That looming presence of his wrath, the powerful man I grew up with, fades. Honestly, I’m kinda shocked he didn’t spray my brains all over the tiles right here and now.

“I’m just glad you’re alive. Even if you do look like⁠—”

“Heh, Ero said I look—” I interrupt him, then cut off, biting my tongue. “He’s why you’re here isn’t he?”

“Yes. Ciro,” Aless looks at me for a long time, holding my gaze, “Ero is damaged.”

“We know,” Vanya snaps, locking eyes with Aless. This would be such a fun family reunion to watch. These two butting heads, me and Gloria relentlessly teasing Adri and Isabella for being the nerds they are.

In another life …

“The last mission the two of you were supposed to go on was …”

“Didn’t go as planned,” I finish for him. “He’s not always there. When we talked, I noticed …”

“Gaps?”

“Yeah.”

“I met with him months ago. I’m not sure if he even remembers. Fiero has gone off the deep end from all the intel I’ve managed to gather, from having him watched. I was trying to find the two of you, to make sure you were still alive. You vanished for three months. Ero …”

“Went on a killing spree.”

“Like we always feared.”

“Just not the way we always feared it would happen. It’s worse.”

“Much worse. I think someone messed with his mind. Tampered with his memories. Or he’s just unstable. I wish I could take it back. All of it.” Alessandro sighs, looking into his cup, the weight of the whole goddamn world on his shoulders.

“But you can’t bro. And you’re not the don any more. This isn’t your responsibility. We’re thirty for fuck’s sake. He stuck his head up his own ass. Made his choices.”

“He will always be my responsibility. I made him into⁠—”

“We all did. Which is why I will deal with him when the time comes. I can get through to him.”

“I hope you can, Ciro. Because if the tip I got from my informant in Syria is true, he’s planning something. He was spotted there just two days ago. Looking to buy some highly illegal explosives.”

27

VANYA

Everyone is in high spirits, walking like big cocks in the yard.

I wish I had this confidence.

The day of the gala dawns and I am helpless. For days, Pyotr has been inundated with meetings, special visitors. Not even bothering to return a single text.

And we have been given orders not to come to the compound. To remain on our break until after he is crowned “king.”

But at least we can go put on airs at the event center.

Ciro looks incredible in his tux, a dark blue number with a black shirt, black bow tie. With his hair finally trimmed and styled, he is honest to goodness like a supermodel.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” he replies to my compliment, undressing me with his eyes as we enter the limo.

“Keep looking at me like this and we will take the long way …”

“I’ve always been fashionably late.”

We sip champagne, continuing our taunts on the drive. For a moment, I forget that we are on the verge of a war. That we are heading into a veritable invitation to anyone who would challenge my uncle and the brotherhood.

It’s almost enough to steal my desire for Ciro.

Almost.

“Right there …” he mumbles as I ghost my lips over the rim of his ear. His fingertips trace goosebumps over my sternum, deep into the revealing neckline of my dress.

Then his phone buzzes.

And again.

Then mine.

We pause, staring into one another’s eyes for a second. Before scrambling for our devices. With Alessandro’s visit and the imminent danger of Ero looming over us, we are both a little frayed around the edges.

“Oh, thank goodness. It is Fyodor. He says security is flawless. No signs of infiltration or threat.” Because I have bugged Fyodor for days about this. He is back on his feet, against all odds. And against the doctor’s judgment. With Pyotr safe, at least for the time being, I cannot blame him for wanting to be present and on duty.

I just wish my Papa would extend the same courtesy to me and Ciro.

Ciro. Who is still sitting next to me, not moving, staring at his phone. With stuttered breath, he turns the screen for me to read.

Last chance, mio fratello. Run. Clock is TICKING.

I practically roll over the bench seats to the window, banging until the driver rolls it down. After a vicious command and a threat in our language, I return to my seat and the car accelerates. We must reach the event quickly. Warn them and search for Ero.

And hope that his text does not mean what I think it means.

“We must change. This will not do for fighting.” I drag my go bag out from under the seat, filled with gear and clothing.

“You rocked that shit in Marrakesh.” Ciro wags his eyebrows, wiggling out of his jacket.

“Then you can wear skintight dress and I will change.” I snip, throwing my dress in his face.

“You aren’t wearing anything under there.”

“What would fit?” I flirt, slipping on underwear. I watch his disappointment as I cover myself.

“Me.”

Soon, my love.

* * *

“What are we looking for?” Fyodor marches along, barely limping. How he is on his feet is beyond me. The man is machine.

“A car that shouldn’t be here, a man in a black mask. He will likely not wear it though, to blend in.”

“Great. So needle in haystack.”

“Yep. Can’t you use your thermal vision to just locate the … um, you know, bomb,” Ciro mouths the last word, eyeing passing guests as we rush into the building.

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Fyodor growls, watching the crowd.

“How was it working with JCVD?”

“Who?”

“Jean-Claude!”

“This is another Dolph Lundgren reference.”

“A … Universal reference.”

“I hope bomb only kills you.”

“I hope your barber goes to hell for his crimes.”

Somehow, I do not even roll my eyes. This is just the way they are. The way Ciro is. We are running headlong into danger, so he must focus the way he does best. By pissing off Fyodor. It works in both ways. Fyodor is even more ruthless and precise when he is mad.

“You do not have a photo?” Fyo grimaces, scanning along the balcony level over the main gathering. “My men do not know what to look for.”

“He has hair as black as your soul, eyes to match. Maybe recently dyed. Could be wearing contacts.”

“Fucking useless.”

“Either of us will know him when we see him.” Ciro is becoming frustrated. Tapping his foot. We need a clue.

“He has a scar on his neck, here, in this shape,” I point, drawing the icon on the back of Fyo’s hand.

“At least one of you knows how to gather intel.”

“I’ll gather your ass up off the floor after I kick it.”

We roam, drifting apart a bit in our search. Yet in a crowd this size, it’s no use. The majority of the Bratva and their guests are oblivious. Enjoying drinks, chatting. Everyone mingles, trying to work their way toward where I know Pyotr is posted up.

He is the center of all attention tonight.

Surrounded by guards.

But those guards will not matter if the building gets blown sky high.

I am debating heading down into the garages to begin a search when a commotion near the entrance draws my attention. More guests.

However, the crowd is agitated.

Pointing.

Ciro catches my eye from across the ballroom, shaking his head in question. I meet his eyes before looking back at the doors. Right at Adil Abas and a contingent of soldiers. And right over his shoulder, jet black eyes.

Ero’s lips twitch in a hint of a smile.

And he vanishes into the crowd.

28

CIRO

The first tell that my night is about to waterslide straight into the toilet is Vanya looking at me. Looking at the door. Then bolting.

That can only mean one thing.

Diarrhea.

A moment later, I spot it, walking through the door.

Adil Abas.

Music resumes in earnest.

Honestly, I’m just shocked that he showed up. The entire place is fixated on him, and in that stillness, I manage to locate Vanya, sprinting up the stairs to the next level.

Which means she saw someone worth chasing.

The rest of the party catches its breath, the murmur of gossip and congratulatory drinking kicking back off as if nothing happened. As if a blood enemy didn’t just walk into the midst our ranks.

Fyo grabs my arm.

“He is here?”

“I think so. Vanya is chasing something. I hope it’s her dreams.”

“Find your sibling. And perhaps trade places with him.”

“I—”

My phone buzzes.

No more playing. You had your chance.

“Oh balls. Fyo. Get your team working double time.” I show him the text.

“Fucking Diamantes make my life hell. Go! I will find Pyotr.”

I start to follow Vanya on her chase.

That would be the natural thing to do. Try to hunt down my brother, search this massive, million-square foot maze.

But I’ve always been impulsive.

Striding in the opposite direction, I make a wide crescent through the crowd, sidling right alongside Abas and his troupe. Years of drawing attention to myself and watching Ero slip around unnoticed has had an added benefit. I know what people look for.

What they miss.

I’m standing inside the circle of guards and walking shoulder to shoulder for a few steps before anyone notices. To his credit he doesn’t jump or start.

“Ciro.”

“Adil. Mind if I call you Adil?”

“Not at all. I mind that you stepped on my toe.”

“Did I steal your thunder?”

“No, you actually stepped on it.” He stops, turning to face me. Immediately his guards stand to attention, all of them reaching for weapons in their coats. Adil raises one hand and they return to their impassive, stiff stances. “Why are you here?”

“To celebrate the birth of our lord and savior, Jesus Jones.”

“Your candor would be far more refreshing than your humor.”

“Why did you bring my brother with you?”

“Ah, so he told you. I did not bring him. Ghost is away on a mission.”

“Well, that answers my question.” I turn suddenly, sucking in my stomach to dodge between two of his men. They let me leave, the cadre moving on toward Pyotr’s entourage.

My mind is racing.

Adil doesn’t know he’s here.

No senses alerting them to the fact that it probably means my rogue twinsie is planning to eliminate all of his problems in one fell swoop. I’m off down a hallway, checking doors, bathrooms. There’s no good way to do this. The place is too big.

In the movies, the bomb would be in a van in the garage, or in the elevator shaft. Fyo already cleared those.

I’m gasping after fifteen minutes and three floors of hallways. No sign of Vanya. No sign of Ero.

“Think, scatterbrain! I need a hint, a freaking miracle!”

I’m leaning against the wall when I see a cart go by, stacked high with boxes, note cards. A cart. A dolly. I don’t even know how big the damn thing might be.

But he had to have brought it in somehow. Maybe he’s the bomb.

Nah.

If I know my brother …

I’m walking across a bridge across the party below when it hits me.

I stop dead in the middle of a group of older rich Russians, interrupting their conversation. Reaching to my right, I snatch a glass of bubbly right out of someone’s hand. Pound it back.

“Loshad’ mochi perkhoti! Horse. Peehole. Dandruff.” Every one of them looks at me like I just slapped them. That’s what they get for having the worst curse words in Russia.

I suppose I could have said “eureka.”

But that’s not the point. The point is, I know my brother.

We shared a womb, a room, bunk beds. No one knows how he thinks better than me. And if there is one thing I know about Ero that has not changed, ever, it’s that he is vindictive.

Not in the “I’ll get you back for that in some passive aggressive sort of way” vindictive. It was always overkill. I throw red dye in his laundry, he runs me off the road into a vat of red paint on the back of a barge in the Hudson.

I take off at a run, heading for the nearest elevator.

The stitch in my side is still aching as I hit the button and wait. On the second floor, recovered for the moment, I grab the nearest server, gripping his jacket.

“Where are the fancy cars?” I demand, looking sweaty and disheveled and not at all like a lunatic.

“In the expo hall,” he stutters, pointing vaguely to my left, his right.

“Spasibo!” I shout, bolting down the corridor.

It’s the next hall over, but many of the gala-goers are scattered throughout the room, admiring the collection of supercars, the gleaming collection on display to showcase the wealth of the Bratva. Vanya mentioned the council elders from different territories all contributed a unique prized vehicle for the occasion.

Including a bright red BMW.

An awful lot like the one currently sitting on the bottom of the ocean off the coast of Casablanca.

“Fyo,” I gasp, releasing the button on my radio. “Get to the car show. I think there’s junk in my trunk.”

Moments later, Fyodor and a group of his best clear the room. Using some excuse of protocol.

“Someone needs to move one of the cars.”

Props to guy for a believable reason. We really do need to move one of the cars.

Lying under the back of the Beamer together several tense minutes later, we stare up at the mess of wires, linked through the rear engine of the legendary, one-of-a-kind car. Apparently, the i16 never made it to production. But someone got one.

And my brother put a bomb in it.

“What are the chances you know how to disarm this thing?”

“Higher than yours.” Fyodor mumbles, pinching a cluster of wires. “If I cannot, I could try to drive it out, but he may have it wired to blow.”

“Not to mention that you’d have to drive it toward the party to get to the entrance.”

“Da.”

“From the second floor.”

“It’s a problem.”

“You’re not colorblind are you? Cause that would be⁠—”

“I can see fine. We will need to evacuate soon.” Not that we’ve found a timer yet. “You should go.”

“And just leave you here like you’re …” I can’t find the right word.

“Expendable?” He turns his head, giving me a dry look.

My mouth drops open. “You do love me.”

“That was a good movie. Now get the fuck out of here and let me try and save the day. You go save Vanya.”

“She hardly needs saving.”

“If your brother is half the killer you say …”

I nod, locking Fyo with a stare. Right before I slide out from under the car, dropping down the levels of the display stage.

She doesn’t respond to radio. So I rush back toward the ball, cutting through the front hallway to avoid foot traffic. I think I catch a glimpse of her running on the level above, the glass-walled rails glaring and obscuring my vision.

I stumble to a halt overlooking the ballroom, scanning the crowd, looking for any sign of movement. So many people. There’s no way we get them out in time if Ero blows the car or we run out of time.

Then the entire world quakes.

A shockwave takes most of the guests from their feet as the deafening sound rattles through the building, bursting the floor to ceiling windows, dimming the lights, cracking the floor.

I’m tossed to the ground, debris cascading down around me.

In the haze, I hear screams, shouts.

But as some of it clears, it appears that the damage was minimal. Which means Fyodor must have gotten the bomb out. Or minimized the blast.

I’m just dragging myself to my feet when I hear her.

“Ciro!” Vanya’s scream echoes down, I glance up through the atrium, see her pointing. To a lone, dark figure standing on the upper balcony. Light glows from the ballroom, illuminating his face.

Ero looks frazzled. A little bloody.

But his hand works just fine as he raises his gun, aiming down at Pyotr.

29

VANYA

Keeping track of Ero is like chasing smoke.

The name Ghost does him justice.

On the second level he takes a corner, seeming to vanish for a moment, until I take a step into the hallway. He lashes out, his blade aiming for my face.

It is good he chose knives. Guns would draw too much attention. And it is good for me too.

I am an expert with knives.

Pinch. Twist.

His hand spasms, dropping the blade into my hand. Not that I don’t have several of my own hidden all over my outfit.

The numbness in his fingers barely fazes him. With razor-like precision, he chops two fingers through my guard, tapping my shoulder at the joint.

My arm goes limp and I lunge back out of reach.

“I see why he loves you.”

And then he’s gone, taking a turn I couldn’t see, up another flight of steps.

The chase continues as feeling returns to my arm. He’s always just out of view, I catch his foot, his hand, his hair. Just before he vanishes again.

I should not let it get to me.

He wants me to get angry. Wants me to pursue him. To what end, I do not know. Our cat and mouse continues to the top level.

The fifth floor is vacant. A large stretch of open halls, the dividing walls pulled back and pillars dotting the room every dozen or so steps.

He could be waiting behind any one of them.

Tension rises as I creep through the silent expanse. Only faint noise echoes from the gathering below, far off toward the front of the building where all the floors overlook the atrium and ballroom.

Taking a few loud steps, I reverse course, slipping behind a pillar. I dart to another.

A flicker of movement. I shift.

“Huntress,” his voice reverberates around the chamber. He does not give away his position, but it tells me so much more.

Now we are even. Neither of us knows where the other is. And he is nervous.

“Prey …” I reply, moving again.

“Hardly. I led you here.”

“You lead nothing. Not even your own life.”

Something like a grunt of frustration echoes out, followed by a scuffle of feet. He thought he found me. Or I am getting under his skin.

“You love him. Your brother.”

“You loved yours. How did it feel to lose him?” Hollow jabs, meant to rile me. He does not know his opponent.

I do.

“Losing him truly to death is better than having him turn on me. Abandon me.”

This time his growl is immediate. A reaction.

He moves carelessly.

And I know where he is.

Launching a dagger ahead of my silent rush, the blade sinks into the flesh of his arm right before I swipe his foot out from under him. He bends with the movement, taking the gash on his arm to flow with the fall.

Ero is nimble, even when wounded.

And he is resilient to pain, like his brother.

Metal flashes. Our blades sing as they impact again and again. Soon we both wield two, dancing out in the open, moving across the space. Back and forth.

His skill is clinical. Perfect.

But now I notice something different. An uncertainty in his movements that was not there.

“When we fought before, you fought to die. What changed?” I jab, parry, stab, slash, duck, side flip, block.

Ero’s lip curls as he returns every slash blow for blow, his actions growing more rash, exaggerated. Block, lunge, dodge, stab, slash, evade.

“You tell me? Why have you only gotten more fierce since the first time we clashed?!”

“You would not understand.” I smirk, flinging myself forward, down on my knees, my back arching under a wild slice. Both of my blades fly straight toward his gut.

Two blades cross over mine, Ero launches himself over me in a headlong flip.

Fucking Diamantes and their acrobatics.

Not that I don’t have a few moves of my own. My palm plants on the ground in fluid motion, my feet slide out from under me, arching back into a single handstand that would make a breakdancer cry.

Ero’s forearm takes the brunt of my two footed kick, his other hand missing my spinning slash and taking another slice across the knuckles.

We’re both nicked, stinging and bloody.

But he is panting, holding his side where the tip of my knife connected.

“I do understand. He replaced me. He replaced his whole family.” His cold words and tone are contrasted in his gaze, those shark eyes showing pain, doubt.

“Who did you replace them with?” I shift tactics, having no desire to belittle him.

Ero’s glare falters. He backs away.

“What?”

“When you made the choice to keep them hidden, to let them escape. Because you did, didn’t you? Or have you lied to yourself for so long that you cannot remember?”

The front of the hall grows louder, the gap in the floor only a dozen yards behind him. One of the chandelier chains trails down through the opening, railed all the way around on this floor. Beyond, waist-high windows line the wall.

“Adriano is probably in prison. Alessandro is …”

“He is what, Fiero?” I stalk in, keeping my hands visible.

‘H-he’s dead. I killed him.” he blinks, his eyes darting from side to side, like he is reliving a memory.

“No, Ero. he’s not.”

“Yes. And Adriano too. They shanked him in jail. Dom … it was Dom. Ciro is the only one … I have to save him.” His face grows distant, slack.

Right before he bursts into a run, smashing out through the window.

I make it to the shattered opening just in time to see him swing down on a rope, repelling down to the upper balcony.

The nearest stairs take me precious seconds to reach, leaping down three at a time. I’m rounding the corner and running full out along the upper causeway. Down below, I catch sight of Ciro.

Rounding the bend at the edge of the upper-level railing, I frantically look for a way down. Nothing.

Then the bomb goes off.

The floor bucks under me, tossing me up, dropping me hard. Sitting up, I feel the section of floor near the edge buckle, sag. Ahead of me, the railing is gone, the glass shattered, the thin metal dangling on both sides. And across the way, Ero raises his gun.

“Ciro!” I point.

Masonry crumbles, the floor drops out beneath me, tipping down to the next level. I scramble against the slide, but it drags me down, pitching me over backward and into a rolling fall. The impact knocks the wind from me, but I am aware enough to realize I am on stable ground. At least for the moment.

Shoving off the rubble, I stumble to my feet, spinning, trying to find Ciro.

Shouts from below tell me all I need to know.

Looking down, I see Ciro soaring over the crowd, hanging from the chandelier, swinging in a long arc. He lets go, flips …

I see him disappear behind the lip of the floor, I lose sight of him.

Just as a gunshot rings out. My head whips back up.

Ero is gone.

The people below me scream, panicking. Any remaining guards guide them out to safety. I’m leaping across fissures, sliding down another floor on a collapsed ramp of cement. Down a hanging lamp, tearing the wire from the wall in my haphazard descent.

I land hard, my feet barking in pain, my hands clapping down on shattered glass.

All around, dust settles, wide-eyed guests rush toward safety.

My only thought is for him, my Shakal.

Across the room near where I last saw Pyotr, a cluster of Bratva heavies are under attack. Another group of what appear to be Mocro are locked in a vicious battle with Pyotr’s guards. I pray he is not in the pile of bodies peppering that section of the ballroom.

I am skirting the mayhem, trying to spot any sign of Ciro. There is blood where he should have landed, but no sign of him. Panic coils in my stomach, replaced by blinding rage when I catch a hint of black in my periphery. Wading through debris, I make my way toward the steps to the balcony.

“Ero. Ghost.” I announce his name, like a death sentence. Like his eulogy.

He’s right there, leaning on a column.

Our eyes meet and he bares his teeth. There is almost no recognition in his eyes. Just wild hatred.

In my heart, I know there is only one choice. I must end this.

Shouts and screams of battle are punctuated by rattling pebbles, rumbles of the building settling, breaking apart. I block it out, focused on my opponent.

Stepping toward him, I place my foot down.

A colossal snap shakes the structure.

And the floor caves in.

30

CIRO

Everything fucking sucks.

Mostly the bullet in my back. I can’t really figure out where it is. It just makes me wanna roll around like a dog in shit. Or someone on fire.

Gasping for breath from the impact of the fall and the bullet as much as the pain, I stay hidden, shoved under the remains of a couch. All around me I hear sounds of fighting.

Who the fuck is fighting in a natural disaster?

Oh. Right.

That would be the Mocro. Guess Pyotr told Adil where he could shove his negotiations.

I am debating taking a really long nap or maybe puking my guts up when I hear her voice. The angel of my dreams. My she wolf.

“Ero. Ghost.”

And I know that tone.

It promises pain and retribution.

I scoot out, trying to get an angle on them, to stop her from going up against my insane brother. Because as much as I trust her, he’s a natural born killer.

And I cannot bear the thought of losing her.

Which must be why I find myself miraculously on my feet when the crack splits the floor, dropping out under her. Two steps. A flying leap.

“Gotcha!” I feel her hand in mine, lying flat on my stomach over the edge. The floor slopes down at a steep slant, dropping off into the garages below, another hole gaping just beneath us. If she slips, she falls three floors.

But I can’t get up.

Agony lances through me, shooting down my arm, weakening my grip.

“Ciro!”

“Hang on!” I wrench out through clenched teeth.

“Are you sure? I was considering joining the circus, like you. Learn how to fly.”

“That. Was. Awesome. And. You. Know. It.”

“Not as awesome as pulling me up …”

A gunshot pings off the marble tiling next to my hand, making me flinch and lose the tiny bit of progress I made.

“Or as stupid as taking that bullet for a fucking Bratva,” Ero’s wavering voice reaches me across the hole. The gun clicks again as he cocks it.

“I would take a bullet for any of my brothers.”

“Then take one for me. From me.” He fires again, grazing my shoulder, spraying blood into my face.

“Why are you doing this Ero?!”

“Because I have to. You won’t let me save you. So you have to go. Be with our brothers.” He’s delirious. Delusional.

And I can’t shout that our brothers are alive and well and in hiding.

Ero levels the gun at me again.

“I’m sorry, Ciro.”

“I am too. You brought this on yourself.” I sob, the pain in my body compounding with the pain in my heart. Because I see Bratva, here and there, soldiers returning for survivors, to eliminate the Mocro, even some pulling themselves out of the rubble. They’re all armed. Taking aim at my twin brother.

“Yes. he brought down the entire organization too.” A melodic, rich voice joins the symphony of chaos. “Because they took from me what they should not have.”

Adil Abas.

“Where is my son?” he asks no one in particular.

He rests his hand on Ero’s shoulder, sliding his fingers over his arm, guiding the gun lower. Aiming it right at Vanya. “Lower your weapons, or my assassin will kill her. One child of a leader for another, eh, Vanya Sokolov?”

Ero nods in agreement, dazed.

But I have no doubt he could still hit her before anyone could shoot him. They’re all at a distance, behind cover. He’s fifteen feet away, framed by rubble.

“We will retreat once you have put down your weapons and vacated the ballroom. Then you will lay down your weapons for good. I have the city surrounded.”

“Fuck you, Abas,” Vanya shouts. “Do not obey him. Pyotr would not concede! Neither shall I!”

“Girl, you hang by a thread. I could simply walk away and do nothing and he will eventually drop you.” Adil shifts as he spots more of our guys taking aim. Several to the side, he’s guarded by a fallen pillar.

“I would rather fall to my death than surrender to you.”

“Funny. Pyotr did surrender, right before he died.” The man’s eyes flare, savoring her helplessness, her impotent fury.

“Liar!” Vanya screams.

And I want to scream it too. I want our guys to fucking shred these Mocro bastards. But I can’t move. No one can, really.

The scene sort of freezes in a stalemate. Our guys hesitate, unsure of whose orders to follow. None of them lower their weapons either.

It’s only a matter of time before somebody shoots.

And me? My grip is slipping. My body is giving out.

I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that I’ll be the death of the love of my life, or that I will have to watch her, watch me drop her.

Selfish, I know.

I’ll probably slide off too and just faceplant in the basement. Why do pancakes sound so good all of a sudden?

Probably the blood loss.

Which also would explain the strange sight I see across from me. A goddamn zombie, blood soaked and huge, rising up behind Adil Abas standing several feet behind my brother, under an overhang.

“If you will not stand down, then all of you will die.” Adil smiles, that smug, sinister grin I hate so much. He reaches for his phone, swiping the call button.

“You first.” That mighty growl sends a chill through my body.

Everything happens at once.

“Papa!” Vanya cries, tears in her eyes at the state of him.

The gore-soaked grizzly bear that is Pyotr takes one powerful limping step forward, wrapping Adil in a bear hug. Bones snap in that grip, Adil screaming as Pyotr throws his impressive weight forward.

Ero’s eyes widen, watching his master, his tormentor spray blood from his mouth.

We all watch as they fall, Vanya screaming, other Bratva shouting.

Fiero’s face contorts, his grip tightening, the gun raising.

But no one notices Pyotr’s hand, reaching out.

No one but me.

I see his eyes for a fraction of a second.

Right before I catch the gun he throws me.

I look my little brother right in the eye when I shoot him. Two times. In the chest. The pain of both shots burst through my ribcage simultaneously, my heart shattering.

He falls.

And I know I will follow.

Vanya looks up at me, her arms shaking, her feet trying to gain purchase, her ankle is broken.

“I love you,” I mumble.

“I love you, Shakal.”

Our fingers slip.

And a powerful hand clamps around her wrist, an arm around my waist to keep me from falling. A soot and dust coated mound of muscle heaves back, dragging us both to safety.

“I said save her, you fuckbrain.” Fyodor slumps down, his back to a pile of rocks.

“You came back for me. I just wish I had one last Dolph movie reference for you …” I’m sprawled out, still holding Vanya’s hand. She scoots closer, propping herself up next to me.

“I think we have been Punished enough for one day, no?”

“Oh! Oh! She didn’t!” I holler.

Right about the time I black out.

EPILOGUE: VANYA

“They’re waiting for us out there.”

“Let them wait,” I whisper, shifting against him.

“Right … oh. There …” Ciro hums, his eyes fluttering.

My nails drift lower, scratching …

“Wow …” he breathes, his body going slack. “I thought that itch was going to kill me.”

“I told you to bring back scratcher.”

“It doesn’t get into all the hard-to-reach spots.”

“Not like me, da?”

“Da. Speaking of hard-to-reach spots,” he murmurs, working his hips. His bulge presses against me, making me tighten my thighs. A throb of desire clenches within me.

Without another thought, I grind his thigh between my legs, cupping him through his trousers.

“Fuuuck, Van.”

Stepping back, I straighten my dress. Ciro tightens his tie.

In the weeks that followed the attack by an “unknown Mocro assassin,” the brotherhood has experienced an evolution. The clans came together to raise Pyotr as their leader. He sacrificed himself to defeat Adil Abas, the invader.

We drove his people from our shores. Avenged our fallen brethren. Returned their prisoners with accords to remain in their lands. Including Abas’s son.

And in the wake of that catastrophe …

The city came together. The alliance held together. And for some strange reason, they thrust the mantle of leadership onto me.

And Ciro.

An outsider turned one of the blood. No one addressed his origins. Only his mettle.

Only the bullet he took for Pyotr. His risking death to save me.

And his killing the very assassin who blew up the summit, the celebration of Bratva unity.

Of course, Ciro then had to spend several weeks in the hospital. But they removed the bullet. Performed surgery on his shoulder, the tendons tearing from holding me so long.

He is indomitable, my lover. My Shakal.

Unless his scar itches underneath the bandages. Then, he is little bitch.

All of this, and somehow, we are here. Through war and torture.

Nodding at one another, we open the door to the dressing room, shuffle back around the stairs to the entry. Deep breath.

“You got this.” Ciro smiles. I could look at his face forever.

“We got this,” I corrected, taking his offered hand.

Pushing the doors open, I brace for the onslaught.

“I present to you, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Diamante-Sokolov!”

The cheers deafen us. I have never heard such a sound.

Or seen such a crowd gathered in one place. For us.

Music explodes over the cheering, whistling, applause. And we circle down the steps, right into the embrace of our comrades, our friends. Our family.

“Vanya! To health, to the Volk!”

“To the Bratva!” I shout, grinning and quickly tossing the shot offered to me over my shoulder.

“What the fuck, Van!” Ciro growls, so only I can hear.

“Shush.” I snap, waving my hand. This is my night. I will not let anything⁠—

“No, you just⁠—”

“Wasted perfectly good vodka. He is right. This is unforgivable,” Fyodor crosses his arms, scowling down at me. “What is giving?”

“It’s ‘what gives,’” Ciro corrects.

“Santa Clause,” Fyodor retorts, shoving Ciro aside. “Explain.”

“Ugh. All of the eligible women in Russia here in one place and you have to loom menacingly over me?” I square off with him, staring him down.

“Oh. Oh no.” Fyo’s eyes pop out of his head.

“Oh no, what?” Ciro returns, looking between us.

“Not another one!” Fyodor storms off, cursing in Russian.

Ciro raises one eyebrow at me, tapping his foot. “Vanya.”

“Yes, Papa?” I sing, rubbing my belly and giving him my sweetest smile.

Now I watch his eyes pop out of his head. A sight I will savor forever. And try to replicate later tonight.

“Y-you’re … uh …”

“Wearing crotchless panties …”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“No, but the other thing, you’re⁠—”

“Soaking wet for you?”

“I, pffft. Shit. Nope. Stop it. You are⁠—”

“Ready for you to pull this butt plug out and⁠—”

Ciro grabs me, kissing me and sweeping me off my feet. Right across the dance floor and into the nearest closet he can find.

“Oh, you drive me fucking insane.”

“And you love every fucking second of it, Shakal.”

EPILOGUE 2

Fiero

“Honey, wake up.”

Her voice is honey. It reminds me of dating, flirting.

Remembering that her face is oval, smooth, supple. Like her curves. Her hair is wavy, dark brown, hints of highlights. When she smiles, it takes your breath away.

I wince as my eyes crack open. The room is strange.

Home, a simple two bedroom, two bath. You moved in after you got married. First place. Honeymoon years.

The white walls are foreign, yet I feel like I should recognize it.

Lovemaking, her curvaceous hips spread wide around me, her thighs splayed out. She’s flexible. It’s captivating. Enchanting. Like her laugh.

Circe. My love. Where are you?

I try to rise, but pain lances through my head, down my spine. As it does, flashes of faces, places, assault my mind.

People I know. Or knew.

A man in a robe, shaking his head in disapproval. My father? My …

Another man, tall, too tall, towering over me. Sandy hair. So much like my other …

I vomit, the fever wracking my body with aches, searing heat. The cold of the filth around me drive me on. Just another hand forward, another foot. Blood, so much blood.

“Time to get up, Ernie.”

Who? Me? Oh. Yeah. From before the …

More flashes. Faces of people I hurt. SO many. Too many. I block it all out, clamp my eyes shut. They’re nightmares.

Or are they memories from another lifetime?

“Oh good, you’re up. The children will be so happy to see you.” Circe leans on the bed, resting her warm, soft hand on my chest.

“The children?” I croak, my voice dry and broken.

“Darling, you’ve been … asleep for a while,” she explains, turning my face to look into her eyes. Those eyes. So green. Like the ocean.

“How long?” I mutter.

“It’s not important. You were in an accident, sweetheart.” She speaks the truth. I remember trauma. Pain. “You’re still recovering. Give it time.”

A loud noise, I’m falling. Panic spirals through my head.

I sit up, gasping.

She’s gone.

My feet hit cold floor. The room is dark. I am alone. The paint peels off the walls. The windows are dark with grime. I remember someone dragging me out of the ditch. Taking me away.

I dreamt that I died.

I wish I would have. The splitting fissure in my brain makes me nauseous.

Anger wells up. Someone did this. Someone needs to pay.

Staggering from the dirty mattress, I reach the bathroom door. The mirror is smudged, but there I am. Unshaven. Black hair.

“Is this me?”

“The one and only.” She giggles. “I made breakfast. Get it while it’s hot.”

Delicious smells fill my nostrils, distracting me from the man in the mirror. I’m starving.

I know my way down the hall, past the boys’ rooms. Empty. Why are they empty?

Who are the boys?

Shaking my head, I nearly double over. But I have nothing in my stomach to puke.

Food. Breakfast. Right. Circe has breakfast waiting. Don’t want to leave her hanging.

“When you’re done, we’re going to the pier. They have the most beautiful new boards. I know, I know. I don’t use the one I have enough.”

“You surf.”

“Of course, silly. We surf. You always have.”

“Right.” I sit down at the kitchen bar, tapping my plate with my fork.

I blink. The bar is smeared in dirt.

No plate in sight. Stumbling back, I feel the walls close in.

They’re gone. My family. They’re all gone.

Ciro, Aless, Adri …

Names without faces. Faces without names.

Rushing to the front door, I step out. Daylight. No cars.

Nothing for miles. Just windy hills. White shores far below. Trees. Overgrown bushes along the walk.

My heart aches for the time when this place was a paradise. But I can’t seem to remember where it is, or who lived here. Someone else. Someone with my face, with another name?

Choking back a sob, I charge through the house, toward the back terrace. The sliding glass door is open, remnants of the glass that paned the window scattered around.

Fingerpaints.

Christmases.

Brunch on the patio.

Stabbing a man who owes us money over and over and⁠—

“There you are.” Her voice is less sweet. Harsher. But it’s her.

“Circe.”

“I’m glad you remember.”

The woman stands at the once-white stone railing, overlooking another bend in the coast sweeping down below our house. Her house. Some of the disordered memories settle.

Our house.

Our family.

“You’re my wife.” And I know it. Feel it. Remember it.

“I see some of the past is returning to you, Ero.”

“Ero.” A name that makes me think of New York. Italy. Fast cars. Guns.

“Yes. That is your name. Your real name.”

“What do you mean, real?”

“Hm. More will come in time. Sit with me.” Circe pats the seat next to her.

“Where is everyone? What happened?” I lower myself onto the broken old lawn chair.

“You were in an accident. And we lost everything.” A tear trails down her perfect cheek. Her olive skin begs me to reach out.

But I barely know this woman. Yet I know her intimately.

“Your brothers, your father. All taken from us.”

“The boys?” Our … children. Whose names I cannot recall.

Her eyes harden, her fists clench. “They took our children too. He took everything.”

“Who?” I feel my wrath rise, filling every muscle and cell in my body with power. With a need to act. I’ve never felt such conviction, such hate.

“Dom Vipera. He betrayed us. He killed my family. He made you … he is the reason you are this way. Broken.”

“Why can’t I remember?”

“You don’t want to. The things he made you do …”

My brothers. What have I done.

A sneering visage appears in my mind, and I know it is him. My enemy.

Who took everything away. And he must pay.

“Come, darling. Sit with me while I sing. Then we will go and never come back to this place. Not until we have gotten our revenge on the world.”

To be continued.

Read Circe and Ero’s story here.