Page 1

Prologue –

Present day

Dimitri

I feel sick. My reflection stares back at me from the glass table, hollow-eyed and broken. What have I become? Weak. Lost. Protected my whole life by my father, my brother, even the women who pitied me. My one job was to protect my son, and I’ve failed.

I glance at Katya and quickly look away. I don’t deserve her, or her support. I’m disgusting. A failure.

Penny’s voice slices through my self-loathing. “The Olympians do not negotiate with terrorists.”

Next to me, Donny bolts upright, yanking his wallet from his pocket. “I do!” He slams it on the table, spilling a cascade of credit cards. “Max them all out. Hell, he can have my Costco card and buy all the potato salad he wants. I need my nephew back. My sister will kill me.” He groans, flopping back into his chair, which rolls and dumps him unceremoniously onto the floor. “My mom’ll revive me just to murder again. And don’t even get me started on what Nonna will do.”

An older man in the room scoffs. “You’re worried about your mama?”

“You don’t get it,” Donny shouts, panicking, his voice high-pitched and ragged. “There’s only one thing more terrifying than the women in my family?—”

Before he can enlighten us, the screen flashes white.

And the building explodes.

Chapter

One

Dimitri

“Katya, stop lighting my bar on fire!”

This is the third time this week she’s pulled this shit. Flames dance across the counter in one continuous line, licking the air like mischievous sprites. A nearby patron yanks his hand back, his yelp ringing louder than the bass pumping through the speakers. He’s more surprised by her audacity than injured. And he’s also not a regular. If he were, he’d know better.

At the far end of the counter, my cousin Uri laughs into his glass, the amber liquid rippling with his amusement. He has one of those infectious laughs that spreads faster than fire… and in this case, both are crawling across my bar.

The night’s spilled alcohol and the shot glass of vodka she poured prior to lighting the match burn hot but fast, and no major damage is done. Last time she did this, the tourist in her crosshairs demanded I toss her ass out. Instead, his face met my fist. Repeatedly. Katya is my best employee. We triple the night’s profits when she’s on the schedule, so letting her go isn’t an option.

And she knows it.

I should’ve dealt with this at the beginning of her shift, but I got distracted watching a video Nadia sent me of Ian riding his bike. He’s getting so good at it. Maybe he could go pro someday. But since he’s six, that might be pushing it.

With a sigh, I head to my office and return moments later with a white box in hand. Katya is already pouring water on the fire, a small hiss rising from the wet stone. It smells like scorched liquor and faint chemical fumes. She wipes the mess away with a gray towel, her movements quick but annoyed, yet still slower than usual. Her once-neat ponytail has unraveled into loose strands sticking to her damp neck. She picked up an extra shift this week and the exhaustion is getting to her.

“Open.” I push the box toward her, nudging it closer when she doesn’t reach for it.

She gives me her patented side-eye, her lips pursed in suspicion. Her hands hover over the box—fingers twitching as if it might explode—before she unwraps it slowly, like it’s a precious artifact from a ten-thousand-year-old dig.

She opens it and makes the best happy sound in the world. It’s like a little otter—part laugh, part squeak, part cry. Her glower vanishes and transforms as her joy spreads across her face and her whole body. She bounces a few times on her toes before throwing her arms around me.

“It’s perfect! Thank you,” she says, her voice muffled against my chest.

What should I do with my arms? I know exactly what they want to do, but instead, they hang stiffly by my sides. “Go hang it up,” I say, stepping back.

She bounces a little more, the same way she does when she gets good tips, and props up the plaque that says in three different languages:Don’t touch the bartender. She doesn’t like it.

I was going to addShe’s being nice. She doesn’t want to fuck you.But the guy at the shop said it wouldn’t fit.

When the customer who was giving her shit reads the sign, his eyes darting between Katya and me, his mouth opens and closes like a fish before he stammers, “Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t realize you two were… together.”

Katya waves her hands frantically. “Oh no. No. No. He’s just my boss.”