That girl died six years ago.
I shake off the thought before it can take root. Maksim is dead. Has been dead for six years. Mourning him won't change what I have to do now.
My phone buzzes. A text from Roman's number.
Tick tock, princess. I need an answer by midnight.
Princess. He knows I hate that. Knows it reminds me of what I was before—a pawn in my father's failing empire. He thought he could control me. He thought he could move me around like a pawn on a chessboard.
Fool.
I pour myself three fingers of vodka—the good stuff, Ukrainian, imported at criminal expense—and move to stand at the windows. Moscow spreads out below me like a jeweled web. Danger lurks in every corner. Somewhere down there, my sister Anya is probably in her studio, painting something beautiful and useless while she dreams about the future.
A future that Roman Belsky wants to steal from her.
The vodka burns going down. I welcome it.
Roman's ultimatum plays on repeat in my head. Marry me, or I take your sister instead.
Three months ago, when he first proposed, I laughed in his face. Roman Belsky—forty-two years old, three dead wives, and a reputation for cruelty that makes even hardened bratva soldiers nervous. He's been circling me for the past year, making offers,applying pressure, systematically cutting off my options like a hunter backing prey into a corner.
I thought I could handle him. Thought I'd built enough power, forged enough alliances, created enough value that he wouldn't dare try to force my hand.
I was wrong.
The truth sits in my stomach like lead. Roman orchestrated all of it. Every setback over the past six months, every ally who suddenly became unavailable and every deal that fell through at the last moment could all be traced back to him. He's been playing a longer game than I realized, and now he's made his final move.
Marry me, or I take Anya.
And my fucking father agreed to let him have Anya.
My father knows better. But he did it anyway. Someone dangles a shiny object in front of him and he’ll roll over like a dog.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a photo. Anya, leaving her art class, completely unaware of the two men following her at a distance. The message is clear. He can reach her anytime he wants.
The glass in my hand cracks. I look down to find I've been gripping it hard enough to fracture the crystal. Blood wells upfrom a small cut on my palm, bright red against my pale skin. I smear the blood down my palm and over the black ink on my wrist.
I should have seen this coming. Should have known Roman would find the one leverage point I couldn't protect through strategy or violence. Because for all my reputation, all my carefully cultivated power, I have exactly one weakness.
Anya.
And he found it.
I would burn the world to ash before I let anyone hurt my baby sister. She is being targeted because I removed myself as an option. I refused to be a pawn on the chessboard I’m controlling.
No one has dared to make a move against me—until now.
The office door opens without a knock. Only three people would dare.
Alina.My best friend since childhood, one of the few people I trust completely. She's carrying two cups of coffee and takes one look at me—bloody hand and the rage probably still radiating off me in waves—and stops dead in her tracks.
"What happened?" She sets the coffees down carefully on my desk and crosses to me, reaching for my hand. I pull it away.
"My father sold Anya to Roman Belsky."
The color drains from Alina's face. "He didn't."
"He did." I move away from the windows. "Roman gave him an ultimatum. Me or Anya. The coward chose to sacrifice the daughter who can't fight back."
