Chapter 1

“So,then I decided, fuck it. I chopped off his dick.”

I freeze, bring my gaze down at the heavily outlined brown eyes staring up at me.

Chantelle, my last client of the day, giggles up at me from the sink she’s hanging over while I wash out her hair.

“Oh! You are awake. Good.” She grins. Even upside down, she has a perfect smile. Since she’s heir to a multimillion-dollar company, I wouldn’t expect anything else from her.

“Sorry.” I frown. My mind hasn’t been on my work all day. I can’t wait to get out of here and head over to Izzy’s, my closest friend in the world. An evening of good food and a horrible movie of her choosing sounds like heaven after the last few weeks I’ve had.

I finish rinsing out her long blonde tresses and wind them up in a towel.

“Your mind was definitely somewhere else. What’s going on?” she asks on our journey to my workstation. Not many clients would notice how withdrawn I’ve been, but Chantelle is a regular. Every Friday for the last three months she’s in my chair at Luxe Strands, one of Chicago’s most high-end salons.

After two years, I’ve finally gotten my own chair in the salon. I won’t pretend I didn’t earn it; I climbed my way up from sweeping hair to get this chance.

“Just been a long week.” I smile at her through the mirror as I gather what I need for her weekend blowout. “Are we going hair up or down this weekend?”

She scrunches up her lips while thinking for a moment.

“Tonight, I have a fundraiser thing with my father.” She rolls her eyes. Her dad drags her all over the place showing her off like some prized pony waiting for her turn on the track. “But tomorrow I have a breakfast with the Degrees of Impact foundation.”

“Okay, how about down tonight, that way you can just do a quick refresh in the morning and head to the breakfast. If we put it up, there’s going to be pins to deal with.”

She nods. “Yes. Good idea. Down with big curls?”

I set up the curling iron, then grab the hair dryer and brush to get started.

While I work on getting her long hair dried and ready for the curling iron, she swipes on her phone. Social media and then email. I’m grateful for the moments of quiet.

In the back pocket of my black slacks, my phone vibrates, making my insides chill. It’s Friday and I’m two days late on delivery.

I try to push my mind away from the problem vibrating in my pocket, but another message comes through and then another.

I grit my teeth and switch over to the curling iron. Without the noise from the hair dryer, Chantelle starts up a conversation again.

At least I can concentrate on her story instead of desperately trying to figure out where I’m going to get the next payment from. I’ve already blown through what little savings I had, and borrowed as much cash from my credit card as is allowed. I’m trapped.

It’s not going to mean anything to Jimmy Agosti, though.

“Marlena? Marlena?” Chantelle snaps her fingers in front of my face. I guess losing myself in her life isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

“Sorry.” I finish the last curl and go about perfecting the look for her.

“You really need a vacation.” She tries to push levity into her smile, but I see the concern.

“I’m fine. Just really looking forward to this weekend.” Though having hours on Saturday would probably make me the money I desperately need. But my chair is only mine during the week unless someone with more seniority needs the time off.

“Doing something fun, I hope.” She glances back at her phone then swipes it closed.

“No. Just hanging with my friend tonight. Maybe a movie tomorrow night.” Maybe I can find some loose change beneath the recliners at the theater. “Ready for the spray?” I wiggle the hairspray in my hand.

She nods.

“Go for it.” She shuts her eyes, while I finish up her look. By the time I’m done, she looks ready to walk down the runway, or head into the most stylish club in Chicago.

“Perfect.” She grins when I step away from the mirror and let her inspect her final look. “You’re always so spot on with my hair. I love it.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder and pulls off the black robe the salon provides to protect the client’s clothes.

My phone goes off again as she gathers her purse, and I force myself to leave it alone.

“You sure there isn’t some guy just killing himself to get ahold of you?” She winks.

I laugh.

A guy?

Right.

No, thank you.

Life is complicated enough without adding that mess to the mix.

“No. Not a guy. Probably just my friend. It’s her turn to pick dinner, and I’m sure she wants me to try a new place.” I shake my head. Isolde has been diving into all sorts of new restaurants now that she’s married to Andrei Petrov. Apparently having the black credit card in her wallet has changed her palate.

“Ah. Well, she seems to really want to get a hold of you.” She hops off the chair and grabs her purse. “Have a good weekend, Marlena. I’ll see you next Friday.” She gives me a hug then heads to the front of the salon to pay her bill. I know the tip will be generous.

I also know it won’t be enough.

Once my station is cleaned and stocked for Carolina’s shift in the morning, I allow myself to check my phone.

Two messages from Izzy about what restaurant she wants to order from—a Cantonese place I’ve never heard of.

One text from my landlord who has just realized the locks on my apartment have been swapped out with some industrial locks that are impossible to break through.

How am I supposed to explain that a large, overprotective, Russian mafia man who works with my best friend’s husband made the change and refuses to take them off? I doubt Mr. Whitkeep will care.

So great, I’ll probably lose my deposit now.

My teeth grind just remembering Viktor’s overbearing attitude when I tried to explain that just because Izzy needed safekeeping didn’t mean that my apartment needed a security overhaul. He had felt differently, and while I was at work, he’d helped himself to my apartment to change the locks not only on the door, but the windows too.

Arrogant ass.

The last text message sends a chill through me.

Tomorrow or you can say goodbye to your pretty life.

My breath catchesand I sink into the chair, still warm from Chantelle’s appointment.

“Hey, Marlena.” Sara, one of the receptionists, comes around the corner with a weird look on her face. “There’s some guy up front asking for you.”

My heart stops.

“He’s here?”

She raises her pierced eyebrow an inch. “You’re expecting him? That guy?”

No. Jimmy wouldn’t be here.

“What does he look like?” My phone vibrates in my hand.

Should I come back there?

I groan inwardly. I don’t need the description anymore; I can picture exactly what the overgrown security guard looks like.

“Tall. Huge. I mean the man looks like he could rip the door off the place if he wanted.”

I wave my hand. “I know who he is.”

Viktor.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I assure her and text the same message to him.

He won’t leave if I tell her to send him away, and I’m too tired to have an argument with him. This is my job. I can’t have him coming in here scaring people. I’ll make it clear to him.

The next time I see him.

Which is not right now.

I grab my purse and coat and head to the back exit.

I’m not sitting in a car for the next twenty minutes with that man. I have to figure out where I’m going to get another two hundred dollars by tomorrow. There has to be something I can sell.

I used to keep an emergency fund in the bottom of my closet in a shoebox. Maybe I still have something in there.

I check the time on my phone. No time to swing by the apartment now. I’ll check first thing when I get home tonight.

The cool air hits me as I step into the back alley. Thankfully, it’s too chilly for the stench of the garbage cans to fill the air.

Just as I walk to the end of the alley, a black car whips around the corner and comes straight at me. It’s coming too fast for me to see the driver, and I scramble to the side of the alley, pressing myself flat against the building.

The car comes to an abrupt stop right in front of me. The side windows are tinted, hiding the driver.

My heart jackhammers my ribs as fear clings to my lungs.

Jimmy said I had until tomorrow.

But since when did criminals have morals?

The door to the car opens and one black boot touches the ground as the mammoth of a man climbs out, slamming the door shut behind him.

If the building wasn’t behind me, I’d run.

His jaw sets.

His fingers flex at his sides, and he takes careful steps toward me until the toes of his boots touch the toes of my black flats.

“Viktor.” I say his name, forcing steel into my voice.

His black eyebrow arches to a perfect peak over his left eye.

“Marlena.” My name slides off his tongue like silk running over itself.

“You didn’t need to come get me.” I clear my throat, trying to make myself stand up straight. It’s nearly impossible with those eyes boring into me.

“We’re going to the same place.” He lifts a hand, presses it to the building on the right side of my head. “Why wouldn’t I drive you?” His palm pushes against the brick on my left side. I’m caged in.

“I…” I have no answer. Other than when he looks at me like this, my insides shiver, and I don’t have time or patience for this mess right now.

“Are you going to get in the car, or are you going to make this harder than it needs to be?” His accent makes the little threat feel so much darker.

Damn Isolde for getting involved with the Petrov family. And damn her husband for having such an overbearing, stubborn, and stomach-droppingly handsome cousin.

“What does the hard way look like?” Why am I asking? Of course it’s going to be something outrageous. Everything this man does and says is insane.

He moves one hand from the wall to his waist, where a thick black leather belt loops through his jeans. I swallow back a moan.

“So, which way, Marlena?” He levels his eyes with mine.

He’s serious.

“The easy way or the hard way?”