Zoya was alone in the attached winter garden. It was a room built off her patio doors and made up of glass walls that were foggy from the heat inside and the chill outside. She stood in front of one window, staring into the nothingness of the outside world that I knew she’d probably never truly she’d experienced.
Her ivory gown clung to every curve she hadn’t yet learned to weaponize. I could see the diamond necklace around her neck. I knew Andrey spoiled her with jewelry, materialistic things that she probably hated.
Zoya didn’t hear me, not even when I stopped two feet behind her. I was close enough to smell her perfume and the distinct, natural smell that was only hers. And when she saw me in the reflection of the fogged-up glass, she only had a second to gasp and spin around before I had a hand clamped over her mouth and her back pressed to the glass.
“Shhh,” I whispered. “Ty ne dolzhna byt’ odna zdes’, printsessa.”You shouldn’t be out here alone, princess.
Blue eyes flared wide above my palm, but she stayed silent and still.
I loosened my grip just enough for her to breathe then removed it, daring her to speak. “Esli ty izdadesh khot’ odin zvuk, ya vyrezhu tebe yazyk.”If you make a sound, I’m going to cut your tongue out.
She narrowed those beautiful eyes as she clocked the blood on my cuff, the silver at my temples, and the way the uniform didn’t quite fit a man like me.
“You’re not security,” she whispered, voice steady even with my hand still hovering near her lips.
“No,” I said. “I’m the man who’s going to ruin your father’s night.” For a second, I thought she’d scream. Instead, she lifted her chin in defiance.
“Good. He deserves it.”
The words punched the air out of my lungs. Up close, I could see the bruises coming through under the makeup and finger marks on her upper arm shaped exactly like Ivanov’s grip, I assumed.
I didn’t know what came over me, but I reached out slowly and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched but didn’t pull away.
“What’s your name?” Her voice was still soft and almost breathless.
“They call me The Death Dealer.” I didn’t know why I answered, let alone told her the truth. “You can call me Dmitry.”
Fear flickered across her face, and I knew she recognized my name, had probably heard it spoken about when she was a child. I could imagine what was said to her and murmured the words,
“Tikho, malyshka... a to Diler Smerti pridet.”Quiet, malyshka... or The Death Dealer will come.I traced her jawwith a thumb that had ended more lives than she had years on this earth.
She swallowed. “Are you going to kill me?”
I should. It would be cleaner. Easier. Instead, I leaned in until my lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Not tonight, malyshka. I’m stealing you from this gilded cage and putting you in another… one where only I hold the key.”
Her breath caught, sharp and startled, her body tensing. I pressed the chloroform rag over her mouth a second later, and she fought hard for someone so small, nails raking my wrist, heel slamming my shin. But I was stronger, and the drug was merciless.
Her body softened against my chest, weighing nothing in arms. It was a far cry from the corpses I carried that were three times her size.
I lifted her like a kidnapped bride, and ivory silk spilled over my black sleeves stained with blood. The diamonds on her necklace caught the moonlight and glittered. I left her room, stepping over the dead guard in the corridor, his blood already cooling on the marble.
I carried her to the service alcove, one that every luxury wing had, and found a laundry hamper on wheels half-full of soiled table linens from the gala, heavy cream damask still smelling of caviar and champagne.
I zip-tied her wrists and ankles loose enough not to cut off circulation and taped her mouth as insurance.
I laid her inside gently, curled her limbs so she fit, and tucked the silk gown around her like I was wrapping something breakable. I pulled a thick tablecloth over her, hiding her long white-blonde hair, the diamonds, and, especially, the bruises.
Acting like I was just doing my job, I pushed the cart through corridors that were dim and half-deserted. Staff were drunk on stolen vodka or hiding from the bosses. Anyone who glancedsaw only another faceless worker pushing laundry toward the loading dock. No one looked twice at dirty linen.
The job was fucked, but I didn’t give a single damn.
Outside, snow fell in thick sheets. I rolled the cart straight to the catering van, lifted the hamper into the back, and secured it. Snow fell harder as I pulled through the gates. In the rearview mirror, I saw the dacha lights blurring into smears of gold.
“Sleep, Zoya Ivanova,” I said, voice rougher than I meant. “When you wake up, the world you know will burn. And I’ll be the one holding the match and using you to make your father watch every flame.”
For the first time in decades, I had something alive that belonged only to me. It was a living blade to carve deeper into Ivanov than any bomb ever could.
Chapter 3
