Page 1

Chapter 1

Rowan Teller

(The past . . . )

Steam billows from a nearby vent while rain dampens the ground just enough to make the lights reflect off the blacktop.

It’s funny how a few drops can make everything look clean, but it’s just a facade. The grime is the glue that keeps everything from crumbling into a pile of shit.

At least, that’s what it feels like to me. I’ve lived in New York for around fifteen years, but the place has never felt like home.

No. That would be Chicago. I grew up on the streets of the Windy City before I came to this concrete jungle in the hopes of making a better life for myself.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

I didn’t even make it four days in New York before I was dragged into the underbelly of blood and violence that rules this city.

I’d give everything I have to go back in time to when I was seventeen. I’d never get on that fucking bus.

Overhead, the neon sign of Bastien Tarasov’s favorite club buzzes, then it flickers for a couple of seconds before the incessant electric buzzing continues.

I roll my neck, my shoulders tense from being summoned by the head of the Bratva.

Dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, I keep my head down as I cross the road. Viggo, the apelike bouncer, gives me a chin lift while he unhooks the thick red rope so I can enter.

I don’t acknowledge him, and walking down the short, dark corridor, a heavy beat vibrates in the air. The noise other people call music makes irritation creep over my body, and when I step into the bottom dance floor area, strobing lights cause a dull pain to throb behind my eyes.

I can’t keep an aggravated growl from rumbling in my chest.

I fucking hate this place.

As I stalk through the busy area near the bar, people hurry and stumble to get out of my way, some giving me curious looks, while others try to hide from my line of sight.

Taking two steps at a time up the staircase situated on the other side of the dance floor, the bass from downstairs fades a little, but not enough to give my ears a reprieve. When I reach the top, the air changes, growing thicker and heavier.

The VIP level opens before me, bathed in dim lights and expensive smoke. My eyes lock on Bastien, who’s lounging like a king with his legs spread and one arm draped over the backrest as if the entire city belongs to him.

Maybe it does. His enemies haven’t been able to overthrow him, and the cops can’t get shit on the head of the Bratva, because I’m always there to eliminate any threats and do all his dirty work.

His men are scattered around the room, their tailored suits giving them away. With sharp eyes, they track everyone’s movements, their hands never far from their weapons.

It’s the kind of security that’s only for show. No one would be stupid enough to attack the bastard in his kingdom.

My eyes land on Bastien again. The untouchable and arrogant aura he gives off makes my top lip curl.

I hate this man.

Then his arm curls around a girl’s shoulder, drawing my attention to her as her entire body jerks while terror tightens her features.

Fuck.

She’s too young and innocent to be in a place like this, dressed up in something that’s meant to make her look older. Her tiny hands are clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white and her nails bitten down to the quick. Her terrified eyes stare dead ahead at the table, while her teeth worry her bottom lip.

This is wrong. She doesn’t belong here. Not next to him and certainly not in this fucking club.

As I move closer, I swear I can smell the fear coming off her, and it makes something hot and vicious coil in my chest.

Again, the dress draws my attention. The neckline dips to nothing, and her skinny legs make the acid in my stomach roll. The expensive fabric glitters under the low light, but it does nothing to hide the fact that the girl is too fucking young.