Prologue
Kholod
The bullet grazed the brick wall inches from my cheek, spraying grit and razor-sharp snowflakes across my face like goddamn shrapnel. My gut wound burned like somebody'd jammed a red-hot poker right through me—every breath ripping fresh hell. Warm blood was leaking out fast, dragging the last scraps of heat from my body.
This filthy, cramped back alley in South District had turned into my personal slaughterhouse. The stench of rotting trash, gunsmoke, and fresh blood hung thick in the air, turning my stomach.
"Kieran... that son of a bitch..." I slumped against the slick, frozen wall, sucking in ragged breaths. My Beretta 92F was scorching hot in my grip, and three of those Irish pricks were already sprawled at my feet, leaking out their last. But there were more shadows out there. Dmitri was off handling that seized shipment at the docks—I'd sent him ahead. Right now, I was flying solo.
I'd fucked up bad. Never figured Kieran would have the balls to hit me on Christmas Eve, this close to my turf. Ballsy. Reckless. Suicidal.
Boots crunched on the snow at the alley mouth—slow, deliberate, like they were savoring the kill. Low Irish drawls cut through the night, mocking, cat-and-mouse bullshit. They were closing in,drawing out the fun of watching me, boss of the Morozov family, bleed out in this shithole gutter.
"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way..." Church bells and carols drifted from somewhere distant, crisp and cheerful. To me, it sounded like a fucking dirge.
My vision was going fuzzy, ears ringing like a busted fire alarm. My trigger finger was numb from blood loss and the biting cold—dead weight.
I was saving my last round for myself.
Scuff—crunch—
A soft shuffle from deep in the alley. No copper tang of blood. Just a faint whiff of something sweet. No killer vibe.
Instinct kicked in. I wheeled around on pure adrenaline, gun leveled into the dark, voice a gravelly bark. "Who's there? Show yourself!" It didn't even sound like me—raw and wrecked.
A slim shadow flinched in the gloom.
"Out! Or I shoot!" I snarled it louder, though each word yanked at my gut like a knife twist.
The figure froze, then edged into the dim light, slow as hell.
Blood blurred my eyes; couldn't make out details. But the outline? Girl. Young.
"You need help?"
"No."
"But you're—"
"Beat it!" No time for some lost civilian stumbling into this mess. My focus had to stay on the real wolves at the mouth.
She didn't budge. Stepped closer instead.
"Hey! Over there! I heard something!"
"Morozov ain't getting far! The bastard's hit!"
My growl had drawn 'em. Footsteps pounded now, closing fast.
Game over. I yanked her into my chest, clamping a hand over her mouth.
We were mashed tight. Orange blossom—clean, sharp—cut through the alley's rot like a lifeline.
"Over there!"
"Sorry..." she whispered, hot against my palm. Then she shoved me back against the wall. Before I could blink, her arms hooked around my neck.
"Oh, baby, I hate to let you go!" she hollered, voice bright and loud as hell.
