Page 1 of Crown of Hate

1

ALYA

The man sitting across from me has an empty eye socket and a smile that makes my skin crawl.

I wedge my sweaty hands between my thighs, willing them to stop trembling. My shoulders ache as I force them back, a pathetic attempt at bravery.

Don’t show fear. Don’t let him see you’re terrified.

But I am. I’m terrified because I know men like him. I know how they feast on fear, how they twist it into a weapon. I know because I was raised by one.

This man isn’t my papa, though. No, this is Akim Petrov. My papa’s best friend.

Well,formerbest friend.

I’m still not sure if he had anything to do with my papa’s death, but it doesn’t matter. It’s betrayal enough knowing that he works for his replacement. The new Pakhan, king of the Russian underworld, Boris Gusinsky.

Akim’s single eye dissects me as if I’m a prized cow up for auction. “My, how you’ve blossomed,” he purrs, leaning back in his seat and taking a drag of his cigar. A plume of smoke gushesfrom his mouth, choking the air around us. “Ripe for the picking, I’d say. The perfect age to become a wife…”

My stomach flips, but I resist the urge to cringe visibly at the wordwife.I can almost sense the predator in him sizing me up for a potential seventh wife. I’ve heard the rumors—his latest ex-wife, discarded like yesterday’s trash for the capital sins of being too old and boring. And now here I am, fresh meat for the beast.

Fuck that. I would rather die than be married to someone like him—or anyone else, for that matter.

“Cut the crap, Akim. Why are you here?” I try not to croak.

If Akim dragged himself all the way from Russia to Chicago, then it’s definitely not for idle chit-chat over coffee. He has something up his sleeve. I can feel it.

He looks me up and down, as if no one has ever dared to use that tone with him. Then he chuckles sardonically, huffing a cloud of smoke in the air. “Feisty. Just like your mother in her younger days.”

Mama.

The mention of her name slices through me. Feisty doesn’t even begin to describe her. She was a force of nature, unstoppable and full of life, until stage three cervical cancer waged war on her body a year ago. It’s been a waking nightmare ever since, living with the thought that I could lose the only family I have left.

I’d do anything to see her healthy again.

Anything.

“Is that why you’re here?” I lift a brow. “To talk about my mother?”

“No.” He straightens up, snuffing out his cigar before getting down to business. “I’m here for something more important. I need you to deliver a message for me.”

An icy shiver prickles my skin. This is it. Whatever game he’s playing, I’m about to be thrown into the middle of it.

“What message?” I ask. “And to who?”

“The message is confidential. Your eyes aren’t meant for it.”

I hold my tongue, waiting for an answer to my second question.

He clears his throat. “It’s for Mikhail Zhirkov.”

The name hits me like a punch to the gut. Mikhail Zhirkov. My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. A roaring fills my ears as memories flood back.

I laugh, but it’s harsh and mirthless. “You want me to deliver a message totheMikhail Zhirkov?”

The most terrifying man in Chicago. A king who stole his throne… then lost it all.

My papa’s murderer.

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