"I didn't pay four million dollars for you to die on my rug, Silas. Stand up."
Elara Volkov didn't look back as she poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass. The clink of the decanter against the rim was the only sound in the office, save for the heavy, wet rasp of the man bleeding out behind her.
"Then you overpaid," Silas Thorne spat. The sound of him hitting the floor again—a dull thud of muscle and bone—made the ice in Elara's glass rattle. "I don't belong to anyone. Especially not a woman who smells like expensive perfume and cheap death."
Elara turned slowly. She looked down at him, her white silk suit a jarring contrast to the carnage he had become. She knelt, ignoring the way the blood soaked into her expensive fabric, and grabbed his chin with a gloved hand. She forced his head back until his eyes—burning like dying stars—met hers.
"In this city, everything belongs to me. The streets you walk on, the air you breathe, and the debt you owe the Foundry," she whispered, her voice a silk-wrapped blade. "You have two choices. You can go back into that pit and let the Goliath finish tearing the life out of you, or you can get up, put on a suit, and become the most dangerous thing this city has ever seen. My husband."
Silas let out a jagged, rattling laugh that sprayed red across Elara's cheek. She didn't flinch. "A husband? You're looking for a puppet to show off to your Council. You want a dog in a tuxedo."
"I want a wolf," Elara corrected, her grip tightening on his jaw. "I want a man who knows how to kill without a conscience, because the men I'm going to ask you to break... they don't deserve the mercy of a quick death. I am the Man for you, Silas, because I am the only one who can offer you the one thing you crave more than air."
"And what's that?"
"Revenge."
She let go of him, standing up and wiping the blood from her face with a silk handkerchief. She tossed a gold signet ring onto the floor. It spun, catching the light before coming to rest near his trembling hand.
"Put it on, or die. I have a gala to attend, and I'd prefer not to go alone."
The transition from the blood-stained basement to the opulence of the Volkov Estate was a blur of violence and vanity. Silas had been scrubbed, stitched, and poured into a black suit that cost more than most people made in a year. He stood in the center of Elara's dressing room, looking like a caged predator that had been forced into a cage of gold.
Elara stood before the mirror, fastening a choker of black diamonds around her neck. She watched him through the reflection. The bruises on his face only made him look more lethal, more grounded.
"The ring stays on the left hand," she said, her voice cool. "If anyone asks, we met in Paris. You're the son of a fallen military dynasty. You're quiet because you're grieving, not because you're a feral animal I bought at an auction."
Silas walked up behind her. He didn't stop until he was close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body. "You're playing a dangerous game, Elara. You brought a stranger into your house. You gave me access to your throat. What makes you think I won't finish what your enemies started?"
Elara turned around, her eyes locking onto his. She didn't back away. Instead, she reached out and adjusted his tie, her fingers lingering at the base of his neck. "Because you're a man of honor, Silas. Even a broken soldier has a code. And right now, your code says you owe me your life. I'm just here to collect the interest."
"You don't know anything about my code," he growled.
"I know enough," she said, tapping the Volkov crest on his finger. "I know that tattoo on your shoulder—the coordinates. I know they point to the forest where my father was executed. You weren't just in those pits by accident, were you? You were looking for me."
The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, charged with a new kind of electricity. Silas didn't deny it. He didn't move. He just stared at her, his gaze dropping to the pulse point jumping in her neck.
"Maybe I was," he admitted, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Maybe I wanted to see if the 'Ice Queen' was as cold as they said."
"And?"
"You're colder," he said, reaching out to brush a stray hair from her forehead. His touch was unexpected—a strange, rough tenderness that made Elara's breath hitch. "But even ice melts if you apply enough pressure."
"Don't test me, Silas," she warned, though she didn't pull away. "The Council is waiting. These are men who have killed their own brothers for a percentage of a drug route. They will look for any crack in our story. If they think for one second that you aren't mine—truly, obsessively mine—they will kill us both."
"Then let's give them a show," Silas said. He offered his arm, his expression shifting into a mask of cold, aristocratic boredom.
As they walked down the grand staircase toward the ballroom, the hum of hundreds of voices died away. The elite of the criminal underworld—men with blood on their hands and gold in their teeth—turned to look at the woman who ruled them. And more importantly, the man at her side.
The music was a haunting violin piece, something that sounded like a funeral march played at double speed. Elara felt the weight of a thousand eyes on her, but she kept her chin high. She was the Widow. She was the Ghost of the Volkov line.
"Elara," a voice boomed from the center of the room.
It was Lorenzo Moretti, the head of the Italian faction and the man most likely to lead a coup against her. He was an old man with a face like crumpled parchment and eyes that saw through everything. He walked toward them, flanked by his two sons—men Elara knew were itching to pull the trigger.
"We heard you found a husband," Lorenzo said, his gaze raking over Silas. "A bit sudden, isn't it? We expected a union that would... benefit the families. Not a nameless soldier from the dirt."
"Names are for people who need to prove who they are, Lorenzo," Elara replied, her voice carrying across the silent room. "Silas doesn't need a name. He has my name. And that should be enough for you."
Lorenzo stepped closer, sniffing the air. "He smells like a dog. A well-dressed dog, but a dog nonetheless."
Silas moved then. It was so fast that half the room didn't even see it. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply stepped into Lorenzo's space, his towering frame casting a shadow over the old man. He leaned down, whispering something into Lorenzo's ear that made the elder mobster's face go from pale to ashen.
Lorenzo stepped back, his hands trembling. He looked at Elara, then at Silas, with a new, terrified respect.
"My apologies," Lorenzo managed to choke out. "I... I didn't realize."
Elara's heart pounded. She had no idea what Silas had said, but the power shift was instantaneous. She leaned into Silas, playing the part of the devoted wife. "What did you say to him?" she whispered under the cover of the music.
"I told him I remembered him from the war," Silas replied, his eyes scanning the room for threats. "And that I still have the list of people he betrayed to the other side. Fear is a much better motivator than love, Elara. You should know that."
They moved through the crowd, a perfectly polished lie. But as the night wore on, Elara noticed a man standing by the balcony doors. He was dressed in a waiter's uniform, but he wasn't serving drinks. He was watching Silas.
When Silas caught the man's eye, he gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
Elara's blood turned to ice. She realized then that the "purchase" hadn't been her idea at all. Silas had wanted to be bought. He had baited her into the Foundry. He had led her right to him.
She pulled him toward a secluded alcove, her nails digging into his arm. "Who is he, Silas? The man by the door."
Silas didn't look. He just smiled—that dark, devastating smile that made her want to run and stay at the same time. "Just a friend, Elara. Someone who's helping me ensure that our 'marriage' is... permanent."
"You're working for someone," she hissed, her back against the wall as he moved in to block her from view. "Who? The feds? The Syndicate?"
Silas leaned in, his lips brushing hers. It wasn't a kiss of love; it was a kiss of war. "I'm working for me," he whispered against her mouth. "But don't worry, Boss. You're still the one in charge. For now."
Suddenly, the lights in the ballroom flickered and died. A scream pierced the darkness, followed by the deafening roar of an explosion from the floor below.
In the chaos, Silas's grip on her waist tightened until it hurt. He leaned into her ear, his voice calm amidst the screaming.
"The coup has started, Elara. If you want to live, you're going to have to do exactly what I say."
He pulled a gun from a holster she hadn't known he was wearing—hidden beneath the tuxedo she had bought him.
"Welcome to your wedding night," he said, as the first bullets began to fly through the darkness. "Try not to get blood on the white silk."