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Prologue
Xiomara
Seventeen-year-old Mara
My heart slams against my ribcage as bullets slice through the air, each crack echoing louder than the last.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
Hands dig into my arms as the masked men shove me into the back seat of the car, the door slamming shut behind me with a sickening finality. My scream rips free, raw and panicked, myheels kicking out wildly as I claw at the window, my fingernails scraping against the glass.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
This was supposed to be a party.
Camila’s voice floats back in my mind, teasing and persuasive. “Come on, Mara, just this once. We’ll sneak past your security, no one will know. Don’t you want to feel like a normal girl for once?”
And I truly did. With all of my heart, I did.
The thrill of slipping past the guards, of stepping into the club’s smoky haze, and taking that first illicit sip of vodka while the bass thumped against the walls — it was dizzying. I felt bold, electrified, as if I were finally living.
Now, I feel like I’m dying.
Suddenly, the door flies open with a wrenching metallic screech, and the man closest to me jerks, surprise registering in his eyes, the only visible part of his masked face. He doesn’t get the chance to say a word before a large, gloved hand grips his collar and yanks him clean out of the car. His body hits the ground with a thud, followed by a brutal crunch as a fist pummels him into the dirt.
I peer through the glass to see my rescuer, and that is when I see him.
Zasha.
I’ve seen him a total of two times before now, always from a distance—just a shadow that interacts with my father only when necessary. He has always seemed silent, dangerous, and off-limits.
Now, he’s here, his dark hair soaked by rain, his shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, a Glock in his hand as he moves like a predator among prey. His eyes, cold and calculating, snap to me for just a second — and then the world explodes into chaos.
Bullets rip through the air.
I scream, my hands flying to my head, ducking instinctively, but I’m yanked again, this time from the car, and shoved hard onto the cold, wet ground. My knees scrape against the pavement, the shock jarring up my spine.
Zasha’s body slams down over mine, heavy, unyielding, his arm curling around my waist, pulling me flush to his chest. His breath is hot and fast at my ear, and all I can hear is the sharp, mechanical bark of his gun as he fires shot after shot.
I can feel the thump of his heart against my back — steady, controlled — a stark contrast to the frantic pounding of mine.
Another volley of bullets. Another grunt. Another body hits the ground somewhere to the left.
My hands tremble as I press them flat against the pavement, tears mingling with the rain on my face. I don’t dare lift my head. I don’t dare breathe too loudly. Then, suddenly, there is silence.
Not the kind of silence that feels safe—but rather the kind that feels as if the air has been sucked out of the world.
Slowly, I turn my head, my cheek scraping against the damp asphalt.
Zasha is crouched beside me, one knee on the ground, his Glock still raised, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths. His eyes flicker over the scene — three bodies, sprawled and unmoving, blood pooling beneath them.
And then, those cold, steel-gray eyes drop to me.
His hand extends.
“Up.” His voice is low, sharp, cutting through the haze in my mind.