Chapter One
Kira
Present Day
The crystal paperweight shatters against the mahogany paneling with a satisfying crack, exploding into a thousand glittering shards that rain down on my father's expensive Persian rug. I'm already reaching for the next thing—a heavy marble bookend—before the last piece of glass settles.
"You had no right!" My voice comes out raw, shredded by the fury clawing up my throat. "No. Fucking. Right."
My father doesn't even flinch. He stands behind his desk like a monument to cowardice, his face pale but set in that infuriating mask of resigned determination I've come to hate over the past six years. The same expression he wore when he let me pushhim from power. When he watched me rebuild our family's reputation from the ashes of his failures.
Now he has the nerve to stand there and look like he has power.
I hate the man. I have no respect for him. He’s a coward. The worst kind of man in my opinion.
"Kira, please—"
"Don't." I hurl the bookend. It flies past his head, thrown intentionally wide, though he doesn't know that—and punches a hole in the wall behind him. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down. Don't you dare tell me this is for the best. You sold her! You sold Anya like she's nothing more than—"
"I sold nothing." His voice rises to match mine. For a moment I see a flash of the man he used to be. Before the gambling. Before the debts that nearly destroyed us. "I made a business arrangement. One that will secure both my daughters' futures."
"Your daughters." My laugh is bitter enough to corrode steel. "Is that what we are? Because last I checked, I've been running this organization for six years while you sat in this office pretending you still matter. I built everything we have now.Me. Not you. I made it possible for you to have all these nice things. Your expensive suit. The rug. The—" I look around for something else to throw. “This vase!”
“Kira, stop.”
I stalk toward his desk, my Louboutins crunching over broken glass. The sound is vicious and satisfying. Everything in me wants to reach across that polished wood and wrap my hands around his throat. Watch his face turn purple. Make him understand exactly what he's done.
But I don't. Because I'm the Ice Queen. Because I've spent six years learning that rage is useless unless it's cold and controlled and sharp enough to cut. I sacrificed everything to rebuild our lives. I gave up on everything I loved to pull our family name from the gutter where he so carelessly left it.
I plant my palms on his desk and lean forward, letting him see the full weight of my fury in my eyes. "Tell me you didn't agree to this. Tell me Roman is lying."
My father's gaze slides away. That's all the answer I need.
"Get out." The words come out quiet. "Get the fuck out of my sight before I do something we'll both regret."
He hesitates, opens his mouth like he wants to argue, then apparently thinks better of it. Smart man. For once.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone with the wreckage of my control.
It’s his desk. His office.
But that’s all for show.
This is all mine.
Two hours later, I'm in my office on the top floor of the building I purchased three years ago—the one with views of the Moscow skyline that remind me every day how far I've climbed—and the rage has crystallized into something colder. Sharper.
My reflection stares back at me from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Kira Markov. Twenty-four years old. The Ice Queen of Moscow's underworld, they call me. Beautiful, untouchable, absolutely deadly when crossed.
My enemies fear me. I’m ruthless. Some say I have a death wish.
They’re wrong. I don’t want to die. I want all ofthemto die.
Beyond the ice is the young woman I used to be.
I barely recognize her anymore.
The girl who used to laugh, who used to dream about lazy Sunday mornings with the man she loved and holding their children in her arms.
