"Let him go!" I scream.
I raise the poker like a sword. "Get off my property!"
The men stop. They turn to look at me.
The scene before me is a nightmare. My father is on his knees in the gravel, weeping into his hands. He looks small. Broken.
And standing over him is a giant.
The man in the center turns toward me.
He’s enormous — easily six-foot-four, built like a war machine rather than a businessman. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his dress shirt, the dark cloth molded to muscle.
His hair is black and cut brutally short, military neat. A jagged scar slices from his jaw down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
And his eyes…
Ice-blue.
The kind that look through people instead of at them.
The air leaves my lungs.
He’s massive, towering well over six feet, with shoulders that strain the fabric of his tuxedo. He isn’t wearing a coat, despite the freezing wind.
He stands completely still, his hands in his pockets, watching me with eyes that feel like dead voids.
He doesn't look like a loan shark. He looks like a king fresh off a battlefield.
His attention lands on the fire poker in my hands before shifting to my face. His expression doesn't change. No fear. He isn’t amused. He’s... assessing me.
"Miss Blackwood," he says.
His voice is deep, wrapped in a heavy accent. It isn't Italian. It's harsher. Russian?
"Put the toy away," he says. "You might hurt yourself."
"Who are you?" I demand, gripping the handle tighter. "What did you do to him?"
"I didn't do anything," the stranger says, stepping forward. He moves smoothly. "He did this to himself."
He gestures to his men. "Bring him inside."
"No!" I step into the doorway, blocking the entrance. "You are not coming in here! I'll call the police! I have the commissioner on speed dial!"
The stranger stops at the bottom of the steps, meeting my threat with a smirk.
"The police?" he asks. "The commissioner works for the people your father borrows from. If you call him, he will ask me if I need help burying the bodies."
My blood runs cold. He isn’t lying.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"My name is Konstantin Morozov," he says. "And we have business."
He walks up the steps.
I can't move. He looms over me, radiating a terrifying heat. He smells of expensive scotch and cigar smoke. Up close, I can make out a scar running down the side of his neck, disappearing into his collar—a jagged, ugly line.
