Page 1 of Killer Love

Prologue

Sofia

This is my fault.

Four little words echo through the back of my mind, barely audible over the sharp ringing in my ears.

The explosion was small and controlled, immediately following three familiar beeps. The last time I heard them, they signified freedom from the inescapable walls of my former life, and I began anew with a man I would come to love more than I ever thought possible.

Now, they signify death.

The other girls lie nearby, their white dresses torn and spotted with dirt and blood. Dani struggles beneath the edge of a toppled casino table and my gut lurches with guilt as a man in black marches forward and threatens her with his rifle. Another does the same to Lucy, barking orders at her to stand down as she locks into a fighter’s stance. I marvel at her bravery as my eyes swell with tears. There’s no escaping this time.

This is my fault.

If I had only done as I was told. If I had submitted rather than defied. If I had been the good bride I was raised to be, we wouldn’t be here now.

I roll over onto my back, ignoring the pain firing up my side with each new breath I take. More men in black tactical gear pile in through the hole in the wall. I cringe beneath the sounds of screaming as they drag the girls away.

My tears flow. My heart breaks. Forgive me…

Luka.

I gaze into the chaos around me until I find his face. He lies on his back a meter away, his body heavy and unmoving. The edges of his suit are singed and torn. Blood drips down his closed eyes.

“Luka?” I cry out louder, my ears still ringing. “Luka!”

He doesn’t move. Two men approach, each grabbing one of his arms and hoisting him up off the floor.

“Wait!” I twist onto my knees. “Stop.”

They drag him away toward the front card table.

“Luka!”

Gloved hands descend on me, too. I kick and scream for mercy, but it doesn’t do any good.

I’m sorry, lyubov’ moya.

I’m sorry, Fox and Dante and all of you.

This is my fault.

Chapter 1

Luka

It’s autumn in Italy and the air has just begun to turn cold. Other children playing in the streets outside of our car wear long trousers and jackets but for me and my big brother, it feels like any other summer day.

We come from Russia.

My mother grips my shirt and straightens the collar once more. “Yuri, Luka — you are representing the Lutrova family here today,” she says, giving her voice a hard edge. “Be nice to the Zappia boys and Luka…” She points a thin, but stern, finger at my face. “For Heaven’s sake, boy, don’t start any fights.”

I open my mouth to argue but my brother talks over me. “I’ll watch him, Ma. He won’t start any trouble.”

“That goes for both of you,” our father says. “The truce created today will last for generations, meaning that someday, the two of you will inherit this from me and the Zappia boys will inherit it from their father. The sooner we all get along, the better off it’ll be. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” we say.

---