Page 6 of Crown of Hate

Akim Petrov.

A smile pulls on my lips. “Speaking of the devil.” The last time I heard from him, he was helping Boris Gusinksy steal my crown.

What is he up to this time…

My curiosity piqued, I devour the contents of the letter, and my smile fades.

“This piece of shit…”

He’s offering peace… By offering Alya to me. In exchange, I’m supposed to abandon my quest for revenge against him and Boris, the puppet Pakhan warming my seat.

Fucking bastards.

I crumple the letter, nostrils flaring at the blatant insult. They think they can manipulate me like this? Control me with a pretty face and a warm body? Someone’s about to choke on more than they can swallow.

Cracking my neck, I let my stare fall on Alya. She doesn’t seem to know what’s in the letter. If she did, I imagine she’d be running out of here by now. Or maybe she wouldn’t have come at all.

She frowns at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I raise the crumpled letter. “Know what’s in here, sweetheart?”

Her gaze darts to my hand, and then back to my face. “No. Akim wouldn’t tell me anything.”

So, an innocent lamb has waltzed into the wolf’s den. How deliciously naïve. “It says you’ll be my wife. In return, I’ll stop trying to kill your cousin and agree to live a peaceful life here in Chicago.”

A place I don’t belong. Not anymore.

Russia is my home. The Pakhan my rightful title. No one—not Akim, nor Boris—will keep me from reclaiming what’s mine.

Suddenly, Alya lunges forward and snatches the paper from my hand. Her jaw falls open as she reads. “I refuse. I won’t marry you.”

“Doesn’t look like you have much of a choice.” I push up from the couch and prowl towards her.

She stills in fear, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, she squares her shoulders and meets my eyes, despite the terror bleeding into hers.

The girl has the survival instincts of a lemming.

“Sit your pretty ass down and wait here,” I order, my voice harsher than I intend. “Try to leave, and you’ll be shot dead the second you walk out of that door.”

I don’t wait for her to incline or argue before I briskly walk to my study. Semyon is sitting on one of the mesh chairs across from mine. He whips his head to me when I enter.

“Where is the girl?” he asks.

I sink into my chair and, propping my elbows on the desk. “In the living room.”

He studies my expression like a hawk—not surprising given how on edge I’ve been lately. He and the other guys have been walking on eggshells around me. “Something’s wrong.”

Not a question, a statement. Smart man. He knows me too well.

“She brought a letter from Akim Petrov.” Semyon’s eyes flash red at the name. I’ve told him all about that bastard. “He wants me to marry the girl and stop any attempts at retaking what’s mine.”

There’s shock on Semyon’s face, followed by an explosive burst of laughter that reverberates through the room. Semyon is a striking blend of his half-Russian and half-Italian heritage. He takes after his mother the most with his Italian features: wavy black hair and smoldering deep brown eyes that seem to see right through you. He’s nearly as tall as I am, with a presence that’s both imposing and magnetic.

“That asshole thinks you’ll roll over just because he’s dangling some cunt in front of you?” he snorts in derision. “What an insult.”

Something about him calling Alya a cunt rubs me the wrong way. “Watch your mouth when you talk about her.”

Semyon narrows his eyes, clearly surprised. Then a deranged little smirk takes over his face. “Pussy-whipped already?”

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