Page 51 of Crown of Hate

“You’re crossing my territory,” Luca spews. “What the hell is this about?”

I walk to his desk and yank away his gun from under it. “Playing dumb now, are you? Let’s talk about my warehouse. And the twelve men you murdered.”

I pull up a chair and make myself comfortable across from him. “What did Akim offer you?” He forces a smile, but fear now bleeds through the cracks. “Everything you and your weak friend own. Ilya does not deserve to be Pakhan or to run a territory as big as the one he does.”

I bark a sardonic laugh. If Ilya were here, he would feed this bastard his own tongue for having the nerves to pull bullshit like that out of his ass.

“And you think you’re better suited to take over the territory?” I lean forward, voice dripping with mockery. “A sniveling coward like you, who’s pissing himself in front of me? I don’t fucking think so.”

“I don’t care what you think, Mikhail. If you’re here to shoot me, then just do it.”

For a moment, I’m tempted. One squeeze of the trigger and it’s over. But no. I got bigger fish to fry. And the last thing I want is to create more enemies for myself.

“I’m not here to shoot you. Not yet,” I stand up, looming over him. “But cross me again, and you won’t get another warning. That’s a fucking promise.”

“Or what?” he fires back, but his bravado is paper-thin.

I smirk. “You’ve seen what happens when I’m pissed off. Don’t make me show you again.” I straighten up. “Oh, and one more thing. You should start hiring a truck and preparing for a mass funeral. Every last one of your men are dead.”

As I start to back away, a delicious idea hits me. When he’s least suspecting, I point my gun to his toe and pull the trigger.

He screams, clutching at his foot, blood oozing between his fingers. “Mikhail, you fucking bastard!”

I kiss the tip of my gun. “Consider it a souvenir from my visit. Never forget who really runs this city.”

As I walk away, leaving Luca writhing in pain, satisfaction settles in my chest. Message delivered.

Now, it’s time to go home to my wife. Maybe I’ll even pick up that rose on the way. After all, nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like coming home victorious.

Hell, maybe she’s even ready to see a darker side of me.

I’m sure as fuck ready to let it out.

16

ALYA

Mikhail bursts into the room like a force of nature. His hair is a tangled mess, his shirt shredded and drenched in blood, and yet, there’s that damn cocky grin on his face, like he just won the lottery. In one hand, he clutches a slightly battered red rose.

The book I’m reading—a study on caring for stray animals—drops from my hands, my eyes widening to saucers. Holy shit. He wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow. And definitely not looking like he just walked off a battlefield.

A dangerous smile stretches out on his face as he presents the rose with a flourish. “Missed me, malyshka? I brought you a little something.”

I stumble over to him, my eyes instinctively scanning him for injuries, then flicking to the rose. The petals are slightly crushed and a few droplets of blood cling to the deep red surface. Is that his blood or… someone else’s? It’s beautiful and terrifying all at once, just like the man holding it. “What happened to you, Mikhail? And where did you get a rose looking like... that?”

I reach out and take the rose from him. It’s such a small thing, but it speaks volumes. Did he really think of me in the midst of whatever chaos he just emerged from? The gesture isoddly touching, even as part of me recoils at the thought of what might have happened before he picked up the flower.

“Nothing to worry about,” he purrs while unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness.

My mouth goes dry as the piece of blood-soaked fabric slides off his shoulders. Fuck me.

He’s even sexier like this, all primal and covered in… I swallow hard, my gaze tracing his torso, but finding not even a single bruise. It’s not his blood. Just pure, lethal perfection.

Next, he shucks off his shorts and heads straight for the bathroom. The water starts running, and I’m struck by an insane urge to follow him, my nightgown suddenly feeling far too constricting.

What the hell is wrong with me? He’s drenched in blood, probably killed God knows how many people, and all I can think about is joining him in that shower.

But my feet move before my brain can catch up. There’s this pull—curiosity, lust, maybe even madness—that’s dragging me right into the bathroom with him. The rose slips from my fingers, forgotten, as I follow Mikhail’s bloody trail.

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