Page 3

London.

Perfect. My cousin Semyon has orchestrated aproposal, a coalition of the most powerful crime syndicates in the world, seeking asylum. They all assemble in London. Keenan McCarthy’s Clan from Ireland, now headed by his son. The Rossis from Boston’s Italian mob. The Yakuza and the Cartel. We sought the most dangerous, the most powerful.

Our family represents the Bratva.

The Irish would be there, of course. The McCarthy clan didn’t miss an opportunity like this. But it wasn’t Keenan who bothered me but his fucking rabid dog, O’Rourke. Rumor had it he kept Anissa close. And I don’t fucking like that.

“And from London, you’re heading to Dublin?” Rafail asks in my ear.

I nod.

Now I know why Rafail chose today for my branding. Word will be released that I’ve taken the ultimate step of allegiance. My tats tell a story, but the brand means absolute loyalty, proof that I’ve bled and suffered. Penitence for the crimes my brother committed. A chance to be reborn into Bratva leadership.

Breaking theVorovskoy Miris a death sentence. Brutal, slow, and inescapable.

Anissa thought she was clever, sneaking under the radar and flitting from one place to another, changing her identity. But it doesn’t matter if she took an oath or not—she was promised to my Bratva. She ran, and now I’m going to teach her exactly what happens to runaway brides.

She’s not just a target or distraction, a pretty little plaything to take the family name.No.She’s a fucking craving under my skin. I’ll chase her to the ends of the earth if I have to.

She never swore an oath, but she ran from a promise. From my family.

That makes her my responsibility, my obsession. My fucking craving. She’s not just a runaway bride—she’s the girl who made me invisible, and I’m going to burn my name into her skin like this brand is seared into mine.

She doesn’t get to run from us twice.

Everyone but Rafail leaves while I catch my breath. I try to play a mental game to move beyond the pain, but I can’t. So I sit with it and let it consume me.

He holds my gaze. Sometimes, I see my cousin. The guy I grew up with, older, who practically raised me when my parents weren’t around. Other times, I see mypakhan.The ruthless king of the Russian underworld.

Mypakhanstands in front of me now.

“I want to give her to you, Matvei,” he says calmly, but the chill in his tone is unmistakable. “You’ve earned her. But make no mistake. If you can’t bring her in alive and under your control… shewillbe eliminated. If not from us, she’s one of Interpol’s biggest targets.”

Someone whistles behind us. I turn to see Rodion.

“You really think you can tame that one? She’ll slit your throat before she spreads her legs.”

And just like that, my obsession becomes personal. It’s not just about revenge.

I willownher.

AfterI beat the shit out of Rodion.

* * *

Chapter2

ANISSA

I slickmy long brown hair, the colordu jour, over my shoulder and give myself a small chin lift.

It’s hard to find a decent mirror in these tiny Irish pubs. I miss Moscow. My family in Russia takes their appearances a lot more seriously, and full-length mirrors are everywhere. At least in my apartment here in Dublin—the tiny flat I’m renting because they asked no questions and I could pay in cash—I have my makeup. Here, I’ll make do with what I have.

I swipe on some pink gloss and run my fingers through my long hair. Blonde is my natural color, but disguises are my specialty.

Today, I’m in sleek, comfortable clothes—nothing too restrictive. I always need to be ready to run. The black spandex fabric stretches tight across my ample ass, the tiny tank clinging, an oversized white sweater falling off one shoulder. I have on tiny black flats, the expensive kind that fold into your luggage and let you run if you need to. Gold jewelry finishes the ensemble.

I glance at the time on today’s burner phone.