PROLOGUE
NINA
The door clicks shut behind me as I step into the hushed and dim room. A huge mahogany desk in the center. Plush burgundy carpet on the floor. Thick books lining every wall. A brass globe reflecting golden light.
Everything in this room feels much older and more powerful than me.
Especially the man behind the desk.
Artyom Petrov.
His golden hair is swept back from his forehead, and when he raises his eyes from the papers on his desk, I see that they’re two different colors.
Hazel and blue. One warm, autumnal, while the otheris icy, desolate.
Heterochromia. The word flashes through my brain, straight out of a textbook.
He looks like he’s busy, judging by the papers in disarray on his desk. But he smiles and leans back when he takes me in, his gaze lingering on my face.
“The freckles on your left cheek look like Cassiopeia. The constellation. I haven’t noticed that before.”
His voice is clear and smooth as liquid honey, but his comment catches me off guard. I don’t know how to respond. I bring my hand to my left cheek, on instinct, as though I can somehow feel the freckles.
Unsure what else to do and feeling flustered under his steady gaze, I take a deep breath and launch into the speech I’d prepared.
I stole from the Bratva, and I know it will not go unpunished. My manager caught me taking extra cash from the register.
“It won’t happen again?—”
“Don’t lie to me, Nina. You’re not very good at it.”
He speaks softly but with such confidence that it’s like he knows me already.
“I’m not lying.”
I need this job so goddamn much. I will plead. I will beg this man to keep it. I will resort to sexual favors — hell, I don’t even think I’d mind — if it means I can stay working at The Demon. If I lose this job, I lose everything.
He reaches out one huge hand to the globe on his desk and spins it, his eyes fixed onthe orb.
“I swear, it was a one-off. I needed the money to pay for car repairs.”
He gives a frustrated sigh at my words, and rakes a hand through his golden hair. There’s something mesmerizing and deep about his anger, like staring into a fire.
“Let me explain how I know otherwise. Six months ago, our usual accountant was decapitated. An unfortunate casualty of a turf war with the Irish, but,” he shrugs, “that’s to be expected in our line of work. We all know the risks and are compensated accordingly.”
He leans towards me. “The new accountant is more hands-on with the books. He noticed something interesting.”
No.
I school my expression to remain the same.
There’s no paper trail. They can’t have...
“I thought this was about the other night?” I blink at him.
He doesn’t reply, nor does he take those mismatched eyes off me. I have the uncanny feeling that he knows everything, that he knows me, already.
Just as my heart starts to pound, he unfolds himself from the chair and stretches out, as though he’s been sitting still for too long. At his full height, he’s a giant, all power and muscle and immense stature. As he stretches, I notice the edge of a tattoo under his collar. It’s the only reminder that this civilized, well-dressed man is part of one of the most powerful organized crime families in the city.
