1. Kristof

Remember to play nice. You're no use to anyone if you're dead.

My sister's voice drones out from the phone attached to the dashboard, her warning as clear as day. Don't act out. Keep it together.

"I always play nice."

Nastja's laugh rings through the car as I pull off the freeway, and for a second, it brings the ghost of a smile to my own lips.

Kristof, you're as nice as a hornet's nest on a hot summer day.She sighs deeply and clicks her tongue. Call me after?

"Sure."

She hangs up, and the car plunges into complete darkness, leaving me to my thoughts as I weave toward the Orlova mansion.

The Orlovas are the top family in the Russian Mafia, headed by my boss and friend, Aleksander. The term friend hangs by a thread now, though. For the past year, I've been holding this family together with the blood, sweat, and tears of my own people, and my patience is running thin.

Killing the Petrov family last year was meant to send a message. A message that any betrayal with the Orlova family would result in deadly punishment, but Aleksander waited too long to issue that command, and the Irish have grown bold. At a glance, the Petrov family were simply greedy, but losing them without a replacement lined up weakened our control of the docks. The territory war between us and the Irish has been increasingly bloody.

So far, we're winning.

A fact I'd be prouder of if Aleksander actually had my back. I've poured my soul into countless plans to push the Irish back for good, plans for one big act that would fully secure us on top and make the Irish far too scared to even think about pressing us for the territory.

Aleksander, for whatever reason, refuses to commit. Instead, when I'm not here fighting to keep our thinning family alive, I'm in Russia, sweet-talking the Nikolaev family to persuade them to come over here and rule the docks for us. A prospect that sours by the day with the amount of bloodshed spilling into the water.

The car pulls slightly to the left as my mind wanders, anger dripping through me like molten metal. Each month spent in Russia putting the Nikolaevs through their loyalty testing has worn my own loyalty thin. A closely-guarded secret I've shared only with my brother and sister. I'm tired. I'm strained and worn thin fighting for a family that continues to stall for reasons I'm not privy to.

When I'm not fighting or traveling, Aleksander calls me to his manor for discussions I don't have time for, but I don't dig my heels for these. Visiting the Orlova Estate has one quiet benefit that I can't get anywhere else.

Alena Orlova, my goddaughter.

A rose among dying thorns.

A beautiful, sheltered girl who continues to blossom, who has consumed my thoughts like an addiction ever since I stole her first kiss on her eighteenth birthday nearly a year ago. A kiss I cling to, a kiss that will never repeat since her father, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to marry her off to the sadistic Kuznetsovs. Just the thought of Mikhail churns my stomach.

The silver lining to the territorial disputes and the war with the Irish has been the constant delays to the Wedding. Each night, I entertain the fantasy of gaining enough power to earn the respect I deserve from Aleksander, and Alena's hand.

Aleksander would surely kill me before that happens, but the thought of her warms my cold soul as I drive through the teetering wrought-iron gates of the Orlova estate.

The Orlova manor looms before me, a straight-cut stone building stretching into the night sky like a marble hand clawing skyward. Rows upon rows of tall windows light up gold and flicker past my eyes as I drive, the stream of light broken by tall cypress trees that line the driveway. Guards patrol the outskirts of the property, from the gate all the way out to the vast garden that is swallowed by the darkness.

Somewhere beyond that shadow is the Gazebo where I stole Alena's kiss.

Gravel crunches under the tires as I pull to a stop and force a deep, calming breath. I have to focus.

Such words are useless because as soon as I step over the threshold and brush off the greeting from the guard, my thoughts instantly turn to Alena. I haven't been here in months, and they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. In my case, it's smothering. Each call from home brought the risk that the wedding was rushed and I'd lost Alena to the Kuznetsovs. Each visit brought the chance that it was my last time to see her.

She's not even mine to lose, and yet I crave her presence more than air. She should be mine. For the blood I spill for this family, I deserve her.

"Kristof!" Aleksander's booming voice floats down the hallway, and he emerges from behind a carved bronze statue with a cigar in hand. His portly figure has grown since the last time we saw each other, and his smile is as tight as always. Years ago, we had our differences, but he earned my loyalty over time.

Loyalty that teeters as the blood of my men spills across the docks while he sits in his manor, growing his waistline.

"Aleksander." My true feelings remain behind a mask as I stride across Persian rugs and greet him with a smile and a strong hug.

"It has been too long."

"Indeed it has."

"Come. Tell me, how was your visit with the Nikolaevs?" Aleksander has lost all hint of his accent, and how he pronounces their name grates on me slightly. Following him into one of the various studies littered on the lower floor of the mansion, I force the lid down on my distaste.

"Good. They have passed all the tests we have given them so far," I say.

Aleksander moves to the glass drinks cabinet near the window, nodding as I talk.

"But there is some… doubt."

"Doubt?" Aleksander casts an eye over his shoulder.

"The docks are not safe. Any family that moves in to protect that territory is taking on a great risk, and the Nikolaevs have some concerns that they will just become cannon fodder." A concern I share.

Aleksander, however, scoffs as if I have just told a ridiculous joke. Acid curls in my gut, but I remain impassive as he presses a crystal glass into my hand and draws on his cigar.

"They should swiftly learn not to question me," Aleksander mutters.

"It's not a case of questioning. They see what's happening as clearly as you or I do. They have their own people to protect. Asking them to give up what they have in Russia, to come to the front lines against the Irish, is a big ask."

"Are they not loyal?" Aleksander gathers his own drink and his thick, bushy brows collide.

"They are." I take a slow drink. "But they need reassurances. If we're not careful, they will take that territory and just become another puddle in the bloodbath."

Aleksander snorts into his glass. "They do not see the bigger picture."

Neither do I, apparently. "Enlighten me."

"The wedding between Alena and Mikhail is a month away. As soon as she turns nineteen, she will be his." Aleksander tips his glass toward me. "That is all the reassurance anyone should need."

My gut twists sharply, and the ridges of the crystal glass press painfully into my fingers.

"The wedding?"

I know what he means, but I still need to hear him say it.

"Of course! Once we have the Kuznetsovs in the family, their new weapons shipments will be ours. That kind of firepower will send the Irish back to their fucking green hills, and the Nikolaevs will have access to all the weapons they need."

It really was all riding on this wedding.

In the dark of night, I'd looked into the Kuznetsovs, hoping to find enough dirt to get them cast out, but I'd found nothing.

"It feels like only yesterday that you organized that," I say, draining my glass in one strong gulp. The year has gone too fast.

"We have waited too long," Aleksander says, seemingly thinking I'm impatient for the betrothal. "But worry not. Soon, everything we have worked for will be secure."

"Indeed. And Alena, is she elated?" The question sours my tongue. I already know the answer, but still, I hold hope that Aleksander has learned.

"It doesn't matter how she feels." He waves me off. "She knows her duty, and she will perform it for the good of our family. Besides…" Aleksander snorts and draws on his cigar once more. His face hides behind puffs of smoke as he laughs. "She will be happy to leave here, I'm sure. She's been grounded since last year."

"Grounded?" My brow lifts. Alena paints such a good, innocent picture. It's difficult to imagine her doing anything worth punishment.

"She tossed around some accusations last year."

My heart jumps, my mind darting back to the kiss. Did she tell all? "About?"

"Mikhail." He shakes his head, taking a drink as if the very thought disgusts him. "She accused that boy of forcing himself on her."

I force myself toward the drinks trolley, getting another drink to distract myself. Mikhail forcing himself on her wasn't a lie. I'd pulled the bastard off her myself, and part of me wishes I'd made good on my threat to kill him. Instead, I'd sent him scurrying back to the manor with my threat ringing in his big ears.

Whiskey in hand, I turn back to Aleksander who has moved to the large oak desk. "You think she was lying?"

"I know she was." Aleksander scoffs. "Girls like that will do anything to get out of something they don't like. Mara saw right through her."

Ah. Mara Orlova.

Aleksander's wife and Alena's mother, although I'm certain Mara doesn't have a single motherly bone in her body. The urge to jump to Alena's defense rises, but I can't. Doing so would reveal that I was there, and if Alena hasn't told anyone that detail, I won't either. Still, it surprises me that Aleksander doesn't believe his daughter. If Mara said such a thing, he would burn down families to get his revenge, but that mercy seemingly doesn't extend to his daughter.

"Maybe it's a hint to how badly she doesn't want to get married."

"I don't care what she wants." Aleksander's gaze hardens when he glances up at me, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the old, hardened Aleksander. The one who would have crushed the Irish long before they could approach the Petrovs for any kind of deal. "We are at war, and while I am eternally grateful for your work, Kristof, you can't do it forever. This arrangement with the Kuznetsovs, we need it."

He's half right. We need something, but lifting a sadistic family like them to a higher rank is not the answer.

Our discussion comes to an end when the sleek black phone on the desk bursts into life. Aleksander answers immediately and waves his hand at me—my cue to leave. Abandoning the glass, I leave the study in search of a real drink.

Suddenly, out in the hall, something small and solid crashes into my side as I move. It's not enough to knock me, but the impact draws a noise of surprise from my throat and I reach out to catch whoever was running.

My worn fingers find soft, warm skin, and when I glance down, a pair of large, warm brown eyes blink up at me, framed by pale skin and long, platinum-blonde hair.

Alena Orlova.

My heart punches to a stop in my chest, and a jolt of tension snaps through my body. Everything with Aleksander is instantly forgotten as my world narrows to a point. Nothing exists but Alena. Her cheeks are flushed rosy, and she clutches a worn-looking book in her hands. Her rosy, full lips part in shock.

"Kristof! I'm so sorry, I didn't even see you!"

Before I can respond, she pulls away from me and pushes some loose strands of hair away from her face.

"Sorry!" she calls, and then she resumes her run down the hall, vanishing around the corner to the left. My chest relaxes only when she's gone from sight and I can breathe again.

Fuck.

I need a drink.

One interaction, and every single rule I have vanishes from my mind. One touch, and all sense leaves me. If I were a stronger man, I would never come here. I would keep my distance and let time turn my obsession into dust.

I head in the opposite direction, away from the study and toward one of the ballrooms where a large, sleek black bar greets me, filled to the brim with alcohol. Making a beeline for the Vodka, my thoughts linger on Alena's beautiful eyes. As stunning and warm as they were, they were a little duller than the last time I saw her, like a flame has been snuffed out. Given her predicament, I can't blame her.

Nastja's words ring in my ears as I drink. Keep it together.

"Kristof? I thought I saw your gaudy car in the driveway."

"Fuck you." Glancing up, a warm curl of distaste moves through my chest as Mara Orlova approaches. She's wrapped in a figure-hugging black dress that pushes her small tits up to her chin, where her poker-straight black hair pours over her shoulder like liquid.

"Is that any way to treat the lady of the house?" Mara settles on a stool next to me, draping one leg over the other and angling herself toward me.

"You insulted my car," I state flatly. "My response is deserved."

"Perhaps." She brushes my arm, walking two fingers up to my shoulder before I shrug her off. She laughs then, a tinkling sound that grates right through me. "Ooh, touchy?"

"Can I help you with something?" Turning to face her, I drink slowly and focus on the sharp burn of the Vodka as Mara shakes her head softly.

"It's all business with you, isn't it? It would do you good to loosen up, Kristof. The health benefits are… wild." The tip of her tongue touches her upper lip when she smirks. "After all, with everything you have done for us, I think you deserve some downtime."

Her flirting is never this obvious, this obnoxious, but I know better than to rise to it. Whatever she's looking for, she won't find it here with me, and I'm not foolish enough to fall for her games.

"I'm sure there's a guard who can satisfy you," I remark coldly, pushing up from the bar. "Or your own husband."

Mara's face darkens immediately as I turn away, but I don't care.

"You're just a guest here," she calls suddenly. "Remember that."

"So are you," I call back. "Until he finds someone younger."

She's a snake, thinking she can use her good looks and status to get exactly what she wants at a flutter of her lashes, but I know better. I know her, and her flirting is nothing but sandpaper to me.

She's not the Orlova I want.