“There’s nothing to talk about, zhizn moya,” he says, his tone soft as he tends to my wounds.
I tilt my head, seeking his eyes. “What does it mean?”
I’ve learned Russian for him. To catch him in the lies he constantly feeds me.
He gulps, redirecting his gaze to my palms. “Little flower.”
Liar. He called me his life.
Determination fills my long exhale. “I think it’s time for this flower to grow.”
His brows furrow as if ruminating about what that could mean. I slip out, hoping one day I can outrun my feelings for him.
2
MIKAIL
Iam at my club, Debauchery. The name wasn’t picked randomly. Anything goes, crossing the lines of what’s morally acceptable. It’s my dark lair. I am here every night, needing the pounding music to drown out the thoughts ofher.
This woman’s presence in my life is deafening. Nothing could silence her. Not enough alcohol, violence, or time apart.
I am getting jittery, small doses of her sustain me while the distance causes the madness to own me. I could use my best friend’s absence to check on her more, but that would only invite trouble.
Controlling the uncontrollable. That’s what I have done for years. That’s what I need to continue doing. I am living a lie—deceiving not only my best friend but also myself.
It’s been just two days since Enzo and my sister went on their honeymoon, and I am teetering on the edge of insanity. I thought Calla died with my mother in a car explosion, but the assassin sent to kill my best friend turned out to be my sister, all grown up, fearless, and lethal. That was one heck of a revelation. At least I don’t have to worry about Calla. She is a deadlyweapon, and now the wife of a man who would stop at nothing to keep her safe.
My blood is tainted.
My heart is a bottomless abyss of regret.
My life is duty coated in loyalty.
I have built my empire on my father’s death. The man who died at my hands.
If the truth were ever revealed, everything would crumble before my eyes. My empire. My friendship and brotherhood. My status as Pakhan.
The only living person who knows the truth is Dahlia. The secrets we keep, the truths we can’t speak, and the lies we keep telling ourselves lie between us like a bomb ready to detonate any second.
I hunger for her with every famished fiber of my being. God knows I would stop at nothing to protect her. I committed the unthinkable to save her. My biggest sin will land me in hell, but I would kill anyone who poses a threat to her, a thousand times over if needed, with no fucking regret. Nothing matters more than her staying alive. I am sure that if Dahlia dies, my heart will stop immediately.
The guilt, the longing, tear me apart, threatening my sanity. The devil whispers to take what I am owed. The angel demands I stay away. She deserves better than her rapist.
Shooting up, I pace my office, clenching and unclenching my hands at my sides to keep from pummeling the tinted glass wall in front of me overlooking the club. Not even raiding the world in my rage could change what I did.
I drag a lungful of air not to lose my cool, preserving the sham of control.
My phone rings, and I pluck it out of my pocket, answering my brother.
“Calla’s asleep, huh?” That’s the only time he has called since he left for his honeymoon.
“You know she is, asshole. How are things going?”
“Stop being a fucking control freak.” I drag a hand down my face, grumbling, “I have everything under control.”
Except my urges. I ignore that pesky thought. I am not Enzo. I can’t take her because I want to, not caring about the consequences.
Taking Dahlia for myself would make her an even more desirable target. My enemies will try to get at her through me. The life I could give her, she experienced—it’s bloody, savage, hopeless.
