1
ALISON
It didn’t startwith love. It started with hate.
I leaned hard into the corner, my knee an inch from the asphalt. The big motorcycle teetered on its wheels, a tenth of a degree from tipping and crushing me. At the very last second, I twisted the throttle and the bike roared like a bad-tempered bull and rocketed forward, trying to pull itself from between my legs. We swept around a delivery truck, so close I nearly cracked my head on its side mirror, and then we were speeding away up the street, slaloming between the slow-moving cars just for the hell of it.
It’s lucky that I don’t spend much on clothes or make-up or going out, because my bike drinks oil and demands a constant supply of eye-wateringly expensive spare parts. But it’s worth it. I have this...rageinside me, a toxic pressure that builds and builds. It powers me, non-stop: keep working, keep moving, keep pushing, and the only thing I’ve ever found that quiets it isthis.
I leaned into the next corner, sliding around an SUV like an ice skater. I straightened up, glanced ahead to plan my next move, and?—
An icy hand grabbed my heart and crushed it so hard it couldn’t beat.
Further down the street, an army of firefighters was sprayingwater into a bright orange glow. Clouds of steam and smoke cloaked the building, but I knew what was there.
I cranked the throttle and accelerated, praying.Please no. Please let it be the one next door. Please!But as I neared the police barricades, my stomach dropped. The flames were shooting out from between beautiful, white stone pillars.No!
I slowed and pulled up beside a police cruiser. As soon as the cooling rush of the slipstream fell away, the June heat wrapped around me. Even at nearly eleven at night, it was stifling. I quickly unzipped my leather jacket, then stashed my helmet on my bike and ran towards the policeDo Not Crossline. An officer raised his hand to stop me, then waved me through when I flashed him my FBI badge.
I found Mrs. McCullen by a fire truck, tear trails cutting lines through the soot on her face. A poster for this season’s play,Much Ado About Nothing,was on fire on one of the pillars, and the charred pieces were wafting down around her.
She turned to me and opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find any words. I threw my arms around her and hugged her close. Over the top of her snow-white hair, I watched the fire gut one of the most beautiful buildings in Chicago. The place was over a hundred years old, and everything, from the mosaic on the lobby floor to the amazing, vaulted ceilings, was original. But that wasn’t why my stomach was in a tight knot, seeing it on fire.
Mrs. McCullen runs the Chicago Community Theater, a non-profit that puts on plays with the help of volunteers, most of them from disadvantaged backgrounds. It’s a place where anyone can practice a talent or learn a skill, a supportive place where you can escape your problems a few nights a week. I’ve seen a former addict get and stay clean as she worked away sewing costumes. I’ve seen a broken, silent guy who lost his kid in a car crash finally come out of himself as he learned to dance for a part inWest Side Story.All of that was being turned to ash. But that wasn’t what hurt the most, either.
Before it became the Community Theater, the building had been the Chicago School of Dance, run by my mom, and I’d been practically raised there. The memories rushed in: sitting on the coolstone floor of my mom’s office, coloring in a coloring book while she finished work; my dad lifting me up to hang tinsel in the main hall; standing at the barre doing my stretches when I was old enough to start ballet myself.
Then, when I was twelve, my whole life changed in a heartbeat. My parents were ripped from me and this building became the only shred of my past I had left. That’s why I’d always supported the Community Theater. I wanted the place to stay open, stay alive...and now it was gone forever. It felt like someone had reached down inside me and torn out part of my soul. Tears pricked at my eyes, and my breathing went tight.
A firefighter emerged from the building, coughing, and stumbled over to the fire chief. “No one inside,” he told the chief. “But you better get the arson team in here, I could smell the chemicals. Definitely deliberate.”
I was still hugging Mrs. McCullen, and I felt my body tense against hers. The rage inside me woke and expanded, heating to a fierce scarlet.
The theater wasn’tgone.It had beentaken from us.
And I knew who had done it.
I lifted my head from Mrs. McCullen’s shoulder and looked along the street. There was a row of empty, derelict buildings, and then the entire rest of the block was taken up by a single massive structure, a flattened slab of polished granite with no windows. The casino. The man who owned it had been wanting to expand for years. He’d bought up all the other buildings in this street, but the Community Theater had held out. So he’d torched the place to force them to sell.
The anger flared brighter, hotter...and suddenly, I was letting go of Mrs. McCullen and stalking through the police and firefighters and onto the sidewalk. Sniffing back my tears, I marched down to the entrance of the casino at the end of the block.
I threw open the glass doors and waited while my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The owner kept it dark inside, and hot as the pits of hell. Heat meant people drank more, and the waitresses could wear less, and it was easier to separate drunk, ogling men from their money.The security guys at the door frowned suspiciously at my leather jacket and leather pants, but let me pass. I headed straight through the jungle of blaring, rattling slot machines, then crossed the rowdy main floor, past roulette wheels and craps tables. I scanned left and right as I walked, searching the mass of people, but I couldn’t see him anywhere...
And then suddenly, ahead of me, the crowd fell silent and started to split in two, people scuttling white-faced to clear a path. Someone was approaching, and there was only one person who’d scare everyone like that.
He appeared, marching straight towards me, scowling at everything and everyone. Blackjack dealers snapped to attention. Waitresses swallowed and held their trays a little straighter. Everyone knew about this man’s temper and the violence he could unleash. His gaze took in every detail, ensuring that his money-making machine was wringing every last dollar out of every single customer, and that no one was being stupid enough to try to cheat him.
I’d heard what he did to cheaters.
His suit was so dark it was almost black: it soaked up the light, and it was only when he moved that you could make out the sheen of the expensive fabric. His shirt was the deep red of spilled blood, and his collar was open, revealing the tattoos that wound their way like a lover up his chest and around his neck. By rights, he should have been ugly: the exterior should have matched his poisonous heart. But his Russian heritage had blessed him with a strong, square jaw glossy with stubble, and gorgeously sharp cheekbones. His eyes were like pale gray ice, beautiful but so cold it almost hurt to look at them. And the way his full lower lip jutted as he scowled was pure sex.
Terrifying, dangerous, and sinfully tempting. If the devil walked the earth, he’d look exactly like?—
“Gennadiy Aristov.” My voice was raw with anger, even as I fought to keep it level. IhatetheBratva,the Russian Mafia. They’re so much worse than the normal criminals. They’ve weaponized crime, turned it into a tool to amass power. And the Aristovs are the worst of all: they have judges and politicians in their pockets: even, supposedly,the mayor. As well as the casino, Gennadiy ran all of the family’s illegal operations: the guns and the drugs, the protection rackets… And over the last year or two, his brutality had spiraled out of control.
Gennadiy’s gaze raked over me, studying me like a bug. “Yes?” he asked, his voice disdainful and scalpel-sharp. The two Bratva guys who walked alongside him moved their hands to the guns under their jackets, but they didn’t draw them. I’m 5’4” and small-built: even in biker leathers, I’m not exactly intimidating.
We stopped, only a few feet apart. I could feel the rage straining to break free. “You burned down the theater,” I blurted.
