They call me The Death Dealer.
Fifty-five years old. Silver in my hair, violence in my eyes, and thirty-eight years of vengeance carved into every scar.
I was paid five million to erase Andrey Ivanov, the man who filmed my mother dying when I was seventeen.
I walked into his palace ready to paint the walls with his blood.
Then I saw her.
Zoya.
His twenty-three-year-old daughter.
Icy blue eyes, ivory skin, and a pulse that beat faster the closer I got.
One look and the death in my veins froze.
I took her instead.
Zoya was meant to be my revenge. Now, she’s my captive. She’s becoming the only thing I’ve ever been afraid to lose. But I’d never let her know. I’d never let her see that weakness.
I’d hunt her if she runs. I’d burn Moscow to ash if anyone tries to take her from me.
Because the monster hired to kill a king just stole his princess, and a man like me doesn’t let go of the one thing that finally made him feel human.
Chapter 1
Dmitry
Iwalked through the side door of the gutted cathedral at three in the morning and felt the Moscow wind slice straight through my coat.
Fifty-five winters in this frigid city had taught me the cold wasn’t an enemy anymore. It was the only thing that still felt honest.
Snow hissed against the broken rose window, against the saints whose faces had been shot out by drunks or soldiers or both. One candle burned on the cracked marble altar, throwing weak gold designs that didn’t reach the corners.
That was where Viktor Lebedev waited. He didn’t turn when my boots crunched over shattered glass. He wore a black cashmere coat, collar turned up, and had his gloved hands clasped behind his back like a saint who’d traded salvation for sin.
He finally turned and faced me. The scar that split his face from his right ear to the corner of his mouth caught the candlelight and looked even more distorted.
“Ty opozdal,” he said without looking.You’re late.
“Ya nikogda ne opazdyvayu,” I answered.I’m never late.
He laughed, low and harsh. Viktor was sixty-two years old and still hungry enough to kill for a bigger throne. He took two steps toward me and held out a photograph.
I looked at the man staring at the lens, face stoic, bloodlust in his eyes.
Andrey Ivanov.
Fifty-eight. Fat jowls, beady black eyes, and the same shark smile I’d memorized the year this man’s daughter was still in diapers.
“Pyat' millionov amerikanskikh. Polovina segodnya perevodom. Polovina kogda on perestanet dyshat',” Viktor said.Five million American. Half today by transfer. Half when he stops breathing.
I didn’t touch the picture. I’d carried that face behind my eyes for thirty-eight years. I knew every pore, every wrinkle. I knew the stench of rot that clung to him like cheap cologne. It was the same rot that had filled that basement all those years ago.
“Ya ne delayu tselyye tela,” I told him. “Ya delayu chasti. Vyberi chast’, kotoruyu khochesh’ v podarochnoy upakovke.”I don’t do whole bodies. I do pieces. Pick the part you want gift-wrapped.
Viktor’s scar twitched, but other than that, his expression remained still as stone. “Khorosho. Yazyk, togda. On lzhet slishkom mnogo.”Fine. The tongue, then. He lies too much.
