Page 14 of Crown of Hate

I didn’t become the Pakhan by being careful. The only thing men in our world truly fear is a madman, and I’m becoming justthat. “Maybe not, but they’ll need me if they want to keep their heads.”

Semyon simply shrugs and rises to his feet. “I’ll dig up what I can.”

“Good.”

After he leaves, I call Alexei. He was my second-in-command back in Russia and followed me to Chicago after my hasty return.

It rings once before he answers. “Took you long enough. I’ve been waiting.”

“Dah.I’ve been busy,” I reply curtly.

He knows I wouldn’t call without good reason. So, he asks, “What do you need?”

“A priest. Tonight.”

“A priest,” he echoes, his tone filled with sarcasm. “Either you’re planning some serious bloodshed, or you’ve found yourself a bride.”

“Perceptive as ever. I’m getting married, Alexei… to Vladimir’s daughter.” A smile curves my lips at the mention of Alya. I wonder if she’s in her room right now, seething over the fact that she’ll be a bride in a matter of hours.

Silence stretches on the other end. I can practically taste Alexei’s disapproval, but he knows better than to voice it. Only Semyon dares to share his true thoughts with me. It’s what I respect most about him, even if it sometimes makes me want to rip his tongue out.

“I’ll get a priest ready,” Alexei finally says.

“You should be here too.”

“Of course, Pakhan. You’re getting married. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I end the call and toss my phone onto the table.

Running a hand through my hair, I decide it’s time to pay my bride-to-be a visit before our big night. Fill her in on what to expect from it.

A wicked smirk plays on my lips.

She’ll put up one hell of a fight.

And I’m more than ready for it.

5

ALYA

Holy crap. Despite all the evil that’s just been dropped on my head, one thing is undeniable:

My new room is a pink and white monstrosity that would make Barbie puke glitter.

It’s massive, insanely expensive, and so utterly ridiculous that I can’t decide whether to laugh hysterically or gag in disgust. Does Mikhail think I’m some twisted Disney princess or something? I’m twenty-three, for fucks sake, not a gushing twelve-year-old with unicorn dreams.

Still, I half-expected to be thrown in a cage or dungeon. So, this frilly, childish hellscape is almost a relief. Almost.

He really didn’t have to try so hard. I’m used to far less fancy digs.

Not that fancy digs change a damn thing about my situation.

Sighing, I collapse on the king-sized bed, which is so soft it threatens to swallow me whole. My eyes lock onto the ceiling, tracing the wallpaper’s ornate patterns as thoughts of Mama take over my mind. How will she react when she finds out about all of this?

As much as I love her and she loves me, she’s always been so mysterious and hard to read at times. She’s the epitome of classy and docile, but people used to say she was a wolf beneath that meek shell of hers.

But I’m not buying it. The only version of Mama I’ve ever seen is the tender and loving one. Nothing more, nothing less. Sure, she could be as tight-lipped as a clam about certain things, but it always felt like she was just trying to protect me, not like she was hiding some secret, badass alter ego.

---