I would not rest until I got my revenge. Until I made her death count.
They killed her, and I would kill every last one of them for the pain it’d caused.
My fist clenched, shredding the cigarette to ashes as my enemy dined across the room. How could Liana sit there like the world was still turning when Lou was gone?
Shutting down my nightmare before it could stir to life, I focused on the present, downing the whiskey and relishing the burn in my throat.
I had a purpose, a goal that drove me forward. Revenge was within reach. No mistakes. No rash decisions. Day after day, week after week, year after year—each metaphorical step brought me closer to her.
Sofia Catalano Volkov.
The bitterness and hatred seeped into my cells and mixed with the ashes of those years spent in captivity. With the loss I felt when she was taken from me. The innocent young woman who watched me with golden eyes, promising warmth and happiness.
I rubbed my thigh absently, stroking the phantom pain that haunted me. It was always present, the result of cold, dark nights spent in that basement full of horror. Full of nightmares.
A flash of movement brought my attention back to the young woman with hair the color of warm wheat. It was identical to my Lou, but I knew it wasn’t her. Lia was a fraud, the faded version of Lou.
Yet I found myself unable to tear my gaze away. It fed my broken mind. My body healed after Alexei Nikolaev saved me, but my mind didn’t. Nobody came out of that shit sane. Fucking nobody.
I watched my enemy as she focused on her daughter, unaware of the ghost lurking in the shadows. If Sofia turned around, she’d spot me easily, but she was distracted by her greed. With plans of her own. Or maybe she was too confident.
They’d never see me coming.
I watched as she handed a piece of paper to her daughter, and disappointment washed over me. Liana was knee-deep in this shit now.
Lou had insisted on trying to get her twin out, sensing it’d be Liana’s downfall. She was right, except my and Lou’s downfall came first. Could I blame her twin? Fuck yes. She knew right from wrong, and she—along with her mother—signed their own death warrants.
Sofia Volkov apparently hadn’t learned anything, keeping her daughter in that world. She’d lost two daughters—her firstborn, Winter Volkov, who was kidnapped by the Irish and then later died in childbirth, and Louisa. She was about to lose the third one.
There was no forgiveness for the pain Lou had suffered. What they did to her in her final hours.
Her punishment for trying to run with me and loving me was death.
Giving my head a subtle shake, I decided not to follow that train of thought. Lou’s screams tattooed themselves onto my brain, haunting my dreams and plaguing my waking hours.
My lips curled in disgust as I studied Liana’s profile, her eyes scanning over the document before she handed it back to her mother. A terse nod and her mother extended her hand to Perez Cortes’s men for a handshake.
My eyes drifted to the piece of jewelry around my wrist—made of teeth dipped in silver and gold. It was Lou’s, once upon a time. Now it served as a reminder to finish the job—eliminate the people who’d hurt her.
Ivan Petrov and Sofia Volkov made me their ghost. Lou was mine.
It became my signature. I craved death, wanting to follow the shadow of my dead woman, but it wasn’t time yet. First, I’d make the world pay. Over the years, I’d wondered about the distinction between justice and vengeance, where one ended and the other began, but ultimately, I knew it was up to me to bring it all to an end.
My gaze flicked back to my bracelet, and memories of rare smiles and friendship dug a hole in my chest.
It was time to add more teeth to my collection.
Chapter 2Liana
The Godfather was the most expensive and elitist restaurant in Washington, D.C., located smack-dab in the heart of the city. You’d think the restaurant name would make it clear who ran it, but people flocked to it eagerly, ignorant to the fact that it was run by the mob families.
I hated this place.
Every single thing about it—the atmosphere, the criminals who frequented it, the corruption. That this restaurant was one of Perez Cortes’s favorites made me hate it even more. The fucker wasn’t here, but his presence was felt at the table.
Sinister. Deadly. Fateful.
He and his men were scum of the earth. It sickened me that my mother made deals with him. Even more, it sickened me that I sat at this table without slicing all their throats.
The ache in my wrist throbbed. Both hands on my lap under the table, I wrapped my fingers around it and massaged the tender skin while listening to my mother’s plan, clenching my jaw. They held a conversation in various codes related to their latest shipment that had just arrived into the city, full of young women destined to be forced into serving sick men.
Speaking freely in front of me, unaware I broke their codes years ago, I listened and memorized. I understood that “The Raven” meant the Canton Docks in Baltimore. “The Monument” was a prostitution ring led by the Tijuana cartel using the Port of Washington yacht club. Just like Cortes, the Tijuana cartel loved to use young girls as entertainment for their soldiers. Fucking sickos. And then there were the Marabella Mobster arrangements that negotiated for high-prized girls. The negotiation took place in Brazil, and its code name was “The Dock.” If only I could get coordinates for it so I could blow it all to pieces.
Locations were shared. Specifics like dates and times weren’t. Much to my dismay.
“The women are of the highest quality,” Mother stated coldly.
Bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down. One would think I’d be used to it by now. Instead, every fiber of my being fought against it. I sat there, listening to the men and my mother talk, and kept my expression blank while staring out the window. Happy people strolled by, unaware of the evil happening inside. Unaware of how empty I felt inside.
Ever since the day I lost something priceless.
My mother handed me a piece of paper. I took it with a steady hand, my eyes skimming over it. It was a bullshit agreement between Perez Cortes and my mother for the transport of drugs, alcohol, and other products. Translation: humans.
I used to hope Mother would get us out of the underworld, but that girl died a long time ago, right alongside my twin. My other half.
My chest twisted, the pain notched up in full. I’d been left with an aching heart and bitter truths. Guilt became the only constant in my life; grief, my penance. This was my misery—dark and poisonous—crawling under my flesh like a snake.
I fisted my hands in my lap, my nails cutting through my skin. The physical pain was better than the one in my heart. It was distracting. It was necessary. It coaxed me into someone I had to be.
“Liana.” My mother’s voice pulled me away from my self-pity and spiraling thoughts, only to find five sets of eyes on me.
“You look beautiful.” One of Perez’s men complimented me, bringing my attention to him and leading me to believe he’d repeated those words one too many times. His ogling agitated me, the urge to dig out his eyeballs consuming my every instinct. He viewed me like I was a piece of meat. I guess in a way I was. In this world, women were just that. Used to show off and abuse.
I refused to be either.
I shot to my feet, giving everyone at the table a full view of my outfit. I wore a sleeveless blue dress with straps that hugged my body above my torso like a second skin and fell to my knees in waves. My favorite pair of nude pumps gave me an extra three inches.
My mother wore a Valentino dress similar to mine underneath her signature fur coat. She refused to take that off even while seated at the restaurant because of what hid beneath it.
I barely held back a sneer at men who were too blind to see her arsenal.