Page 1 of Dark Promise

1

Nikolai

I’m not reallya Halloween kind of guy. My childhood didn’t lend itself to fond memories of costumes and candy. More like nightmares, bruises, broken bones, and blood. But appearances matter, so tonight I’m here, ready to play the game.

The mansion in Las Vegas’s Summerlin community is dressed to kill—the towering wrought iron gates adorned with cobwebs, artificial fog curling along the stone drive, jack-o’-lanterns grinning with eerie malice, and women in costumes as tight as their smiles.

I blend in with my custom-made Batman costume. The matte-black armor gleams. The cape is heavy and dramatic. And the cowl hides everything but my mouth and eyes. A mask within a mask.

I’m not here for the party. I’m here to keep an eye on a lowlife whose loyalty sells to the lowest bidder. My father, Mikhail Ivanov, met with him recently—alone, without his usual entourage. That’s not like him. And anything outside my father’s usual pattern piques my interest.

Something about it doesn’t sit right, and tonight, I intend to satisfy my curiosity. Batman may have idolized his father,but mine? I learned early that some men don’t deserve to be admired, let alone emulated.

Once inside, I cross the crowded foyer, then make my way through the connecting rooms of partygoers, the music thumping its bass beat while the overhead chandeliers drip crystals like icicles over a sea of masks and glittering costumes. Uniformed waitstaff weave through the bodies, carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks.

A short, wide marble staircase leads up to an area with lavishly spread tables piled with food that offers a nod to the macabre. Charred octopus tentacles served on black platters, drizzled with dark red pomegranate reduction. Black truffle tarts garnished with edible gold flakes. Pumpkin and sage risotto served in hollowed out miniature pumpkins. Macaron towers of black and gray and crimson decorated with tiny sugar pumpkins or bats. All set artfully atop glittering silver tablecloths with black velvet spiderweb overlays.

I head to the far wall and lean against it.

And then a woman catches my eye, standing at the top of the stairs.

Sabina Russo.

Mafia princess. Sister of Leo Russo, head of the Russo crime syndicate.

Even in a sea of elaborate costumes and beautiful women, she stands out like a spark against the gloom. She turns her head, sending the sleek curtain of her dark brown hair fanning across her shoulders.

She’s chosen not to wear a mask tonight, instead wearing exaggerated makeup and dusting her face with gold. Her chin is delicate and a little pointed. Stubborn. She has full lips, glossy red. Her eyes are a pale, cool blue. Her costume—a Roman goddess with a crown of laurel leaves and a flowing gold gown that’s slit all the way up one thigh—is opulent and deliberate,baring tantalizing glimpses of the gold-dusted skin of her collarbones, her waist, her legs, clinging to her perfect tits and ass.

Her laugh cuts through the music, low and melodic, reaching deep into my chest, tightening something I hadn’t realized was loose.

She’s not just beautiful—she’s fucking exquisite.

She’s a distraction. One I don’t need tonight. Still, I find myself unable to look away as she descends the stairs.

At the halfway point, a drunk man stumbles into her, his bulk sending her off balance. Sabina teeters on her skyscraper heels. She reaches for the banister but finds nothing but air.

I’m there before she falls, catching her midair.

If I hadn’t been fast enough, she’d be bleeding on the floor right now. Rage surges. I want to grab the guy by the throat and beat the shit out of him.

I hitch her a little higher in my arms, breathing in the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin.

“Be careful, goddess,” I murmur, my voice pitched lower than normal to match my costume.

Her eyes meet mine, icy blue rimmed in dark lashes, some sort of gold and bronze sparkly eyeshadow making them look smoky and sexy.

“I wasn’t exactly planning to fall,” she says, her voice cool and even. Then, after a long moment, “You can put me down now, Batman.”

I do as she says, letting her body slide along mine as I set her on her feet. Her curves brush against me, and my body reacts instantly. It’s a fucking miracle I manage to set her down without pinning her against the nearest wall.

She winces, reaching down toward her ankle.

“You’re hurt,” I say, more a statement than a question. Without waiting for her protest, I scoop her back up into my arms.

She gasps, the sound stirring something primal in me, making me want to elicit her gasps in far more creative and personal ways.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she asks, her tone hovering between curiosity and suspicion.

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