A stocky man with a thick, dark mustache is standing over me, gently shaking my shoulder. Could it be…?
“Miguel?” I say sleepily, hopefully.
Maybe last night was just a horrible nightmare.
Maybe it never happened at all.
Then I blink and my vision clears.
It’s not Miguel.
Instead, I’m looking up at a stone-faced man I’ve never seen before. He has a shaved head and several serrated scars along his jaw. His eyes are cold as marble.
The hope vanishes as quickly as it came.
“Who are you?” I ask in alarm.
“Your new guard, señorita,” he replies. “Your father sent me to wake you. You need to get up and pack your things.”
I scramble upright in alarm. “Pack my things? Why?”
The man’s expression doesn’t change. “Your father has a meeting in Los Angeles. You will be accompanying him.”
My frown deepens and my heart beats faster. “What’s in Los Angeles?”
But the man is turning away from me. He doesn’t answer. He already has one of my bags out and opened up on the luggage stand. A Louis Vuitton duffle I’ve used only once—the time Cesar and I flew to Paris, when we took the picture I was looking at last night. Just the sight of it makes my heart throb painfully.
My brother swore he would protect me from Papa.
But he lied.
He died and left me here alone.
No one can protect me now.
3
Artem A Penthouse In Los Angeles, California
Grebanyye koshmary.
Fucking nightmares.
I haven’t dreamed of her in months. And now, out of nowhere, comes that old fucking nightmare.
Marisha in her white dress.
The silent, black O of her mouth as her screams fade to silence.
And the blood.
So much blood.
Red and thick, staining the white of her dress…
I swing my legs off the bed and drop my head into my hands, trying to shake away the black whirlpool that threatens to pull me apart from the inside.
When that doesn’t work, I do what I always do—reach for the whiskey.
I keep a bottle by my bedside for moments like this. I take a swig straight from the bottle and relish the welcome burn that surges down my throat.
“Sukin syn,” I mutter gratefully under my breath in Russian. “I fucking needed that.”
The images fade at once.
I’m good again.
Until I feel a hand graze my bare back.
I whip around, seizing the arm and twisting it back, ready to snap the elbow if need be. It’s an automatic reflex from years of training—break first, ask questions later.
I hear the girl’s panicked cry before I see her face. Her blue eyes stare back at me, wide with terror and confusion.
She is lying naked and tangled in my sheets. Her short blonde hair no longer holds the glossy sheen that caught my attention last night.
“You’re hurting me,” she whimpers shakily.
I look down and realize that I’m still pinning her arm.
Sighing, I release her. She lets out a pained little gasp before scurrying away to the opposite corner of the king-sized bed in terror.
I turn from her and rise to my feet. “Get dressed and get out.”
I try to remember what we did last night, but I can recall only a few vague grey flashes. I do remember that she screamed so loudly that she had given me a headache. I’d finally shut her up by putting my cock in her mouth.
But even that left me feeling unsatisfied.
Then again, it’s been a long time since any woman has come close to making me feel satisfaction.
I expect her to high tail it out of here. But when I hear no movement, I pivot again and catch her staring at me.
“Do I need to pay you or something?”
“Pay me?” she sounds confused. “For what?”
“For last night.”
Her blue eyes go wide as she realizes what I’m asking. The fear gets flushed out by indignation.
“I’m not a fucking hooker, asshole!” she spits.
I shrug. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Furious color floods her face as she leaps out of bed and starts stumbling around in search of her clothes, huffing in anger. She has to step over several empty bottles of whiskey to get to the sequined silver dress lying on the ground next to my bar cart.
She bends over to snatch up her dress and wiggle it on. I remember now why I picked her from the crowd last night: those tits are the work of a very talented plastic surgeon.
Once she’s grabbed her fuck-me Manolo Blahnik stilettos and neon-red Bottega Veneta clutch, she turns to me.
Her bloodshot eyes are rimmed with smudged mascara and eyeliner. “Do you even remember my name?”
I laugh out loud. “What do you think, princess?”
She glowers at me for a moment, too pissed for words, before storming past me and out of my bedroom.
I stand still, head pounding from last night’s booze, until I hear the front door of my penthouse slam shut.
Good fucking riddance.
When the apparently-not-a-hooker is gone, I head to the bathroom to survey the toll last night took on me.
I look like shit. I probably shouldn’t have gone so hard with the drugs and the drinking. It was a stupid thing to do the day before a big meeting.
My reflection stares back at me. Out of habit, I reach up and touch the scar next to my left eye. My body stiffens, and I force the hand back down to my side.
Not today. I won’t go there today.
The dream of Marisha had stirred old memories, ones I’ve spent several years drowning. But it only takes the smallest of reminders to make them resurface.
I don’t have time for distractions today, though. Father will be watching at the meeting. He has been watching me closely for the last few months. Testing me.
Tonight will be the culmination of everything.
I step into the shower and turn it on. The water is so cold that it stings, but that’s what I’m after—a little pain to keep my mind sharp,
